Title: The Woman in White
Author: Collins, Wilkie
Language: English
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The Woman in White

by

Wilkie Collins



CONTENTS

First Epoch

  THE STORY BEGUN BY WALTER HARTRIGHT
  THE STORY CONTINUED BY VINCENT GILMORE
  THE STORY CONTINUED BY MARIAN HALCOMBE


Second Epoch

  THE STORY CONTINUED BY MARIAN HALCOMBE.
  THE STORY CONTINUED BY FREDERICK FAIRLIE, ESQ.
  THE STORY CONTINUED BY ELIZA MICHELSON
  THE STORY CONTINUED IN SEVERAL NARRATIVES

     THE NARRATIVE OF HESTER PINHORN
     THE NARRATIVE OF THE DOCTOR
     THE NARRATIVE OF JANE GOULD
     THE NARRATIVE OF THE TOMBSTONE
     THE NARRATIVE OF WALTER HARTRIGHT


Third Epoch

  THE STORY CONTINUED BY WALTER HARTRIGHT.
  THE STORY CONTINUED BY MRS. CATHERICK
  THE STORY CONTINUED BY WALTER HARTRIGHT
  THE STORY CONTINUED BY ISIDOR, OTTAVIO, BALDASSARE FOSCO
  THE STORY CONCLUDED BY WALTER HARTRIGHT



THE STORY BEGUN BY WALTER HARTRIGHT

(of Clement’s Inn, Teacher of Drawing)


This is the story of what a Woman’s patience can endure, and what a
Man’s resolution can achieve.

If the machinery of the Law could be depended on to fathom every case
of suspicion, and to conduct every process of inquiry, with moderate
assistance only from the lubricating influences of oil of gold, the
events which fill these pages might have claimed their share of the
public attention in a Court of Justice.

But the Law is still, in certain inevitable cases, the pre-engaged
servant of the long purse; and the story is left to be told, for the
first time, in this place. As the Judge might once have heard it, so
the Reader shall hear it now. No circumstance of importance, from the
beginning to the end of the disclosure, shall be related on hearsay
evidence. When the writer of these introductory lines (Walter Hartright
by name) happens to be more closely connected than others with the
incidents to be recorded, he will describe them in his own person. When
his experience fails, he will retire from the position of narrator; and
his task will be continued, from the point at which he has left it off,
by other persons who can speak to the circumstances under notice from
their own knowledge, just as clearly and positively as he has spoken
before them.

Thus, the story here presented will be told by more than one pen, as
the story of an offence against the laws is told in Court by more than
one witness—with the same object, in both cases, to present the truth
always in its most direct and most intelligible aspect; and to trace
the course of one complete series of events, by making the persons who
have been most closely connected with them, at each successive stage,
relate their own experience, word for word.

Let Walter Hartright, teacher of drawing, aged twenty-eight years, be
heard first.



II

It was the last day of July. The long hot summer was drawing to
a close; and we, the weary pilgrims of the London pavement, were
beginning to think of the cloud-shadows on the corn-fields, and the
autumn breezes on the sea-shore.

For my own poor part, the fading summer left me out of health, out
of spirits, and, if the truth must be told, out of money as well.
During the past year I had not managed my professional resources as
carefully as usual; and my extravagance now limited me to the prospect
of spending the autumn economically between my mother’s cottage at
Hampstead and my own chambers in town.

The evening, I remember, was still and cloudy; the London air was
at its heaviest; the distant hum of the street-traffic was at its
faintest; the small pulse of the life within me, and the great heart of
the city around me, seemed to be sinking in unison, languidly and more
languidly, with the sinking sun. I roused myself from the book which I
was dreaming over rather than reading, and left my chambers to meet the
cool night air in the suburbs. It was one of the two evenings in every
week which I was accustomed to spend with my mother and my sister. So I
turned my steps northward in the direction of Hampstead.

Events which I have yet to relate make it necessary to mention in this
place that my father had been dead some years at the period of which I
am now writing; and that my sister Sarah and I were the sole survivors
of a family of five children. My father was a drawing-master before
me. His exertions had made him highly successful in his profession;
and his affectionate anxiety to provide for the future of those who
were dependent on his labours had impelled him, from the time of his
marriage, to devote to the insuring of his life a much larger portion
of his income than most men consider it necessary to set aside for that
purpose. Thanks to his admirable prudence and self-denial my mother and
sister were left, after his death, as independent of the world as they
had been during his lifetime. I succeeded to his connection, and had
every reason to feel grateful for the prospect that awaited me at my
starting in life.

The quiet twilight was still trembling on the topmost ridges of the
heath; and the view of London below me had sunk into a black gulf in
the shadow of the cloudy night, when I stood before the gate of my
mother’s cottage. I had hardly rung the bell before the house door was
opened violently; my worthy Italian friend, Professor Pesca, appeared
in the servant’s place; and darted out joyously to receive me, with a
shrill foreign parody on an English cheer.

On his own account, and, I must be allowed to add, on mine also, the
Professor merits the honour of a formal introduction. Accident has made
him the starting-point of the strange family story which it is the
purpose of these pages to unfold.

I had first become acquainted with my Italian friend by meeting him
at certain great houses where he taught his own language and I taught
drawing. All I then knew of the history of his life was, that he had
once held a situation in the University of Padua; that he had left
Italy for political reasons (the nature of which he uniformly declined
to mention to any one); and that he had been for many years respectably
established in London as a teacher of languages.

Without being actually a dwarf—for he was perfectly well proportioned
from head to foot—Pesca was, I think, the smallest human being I
ever saw out of a show-room. Remarkable anywhere, by his personal
appearance, he was still further distinguished among the rank and
file of mankind by the harmless eccentricity of his character. The
ruling idea of his life appeared to be, that he was bound to show his
gratitude to the country which had afforded him an asylum and a means
of subsistence by doing his utmost to turn himself into an Englishman.
Not content with paying the nation in general the compliment of
invariably carrying an umbrella, and invariably wearing gaiters and a
white hat, the Professor further aspired to become an Englishman in his
habits and amusements, as well as in his personal appearance. Finding
us distinguished, as a nation, by our love of athletic exercises, the
little man, in the innocence of his heart, devoted himself impromptu
to all our English sports and pastimes whenever he had the opportunity
of joining them; firmly persuaded that he could adopt our national
amusements of the field by an effort of will precisely as he had
adopted our national gaiters and our national white hat.

I had seen him risk his limbs blindly at a fox-hunt and in a
cricket-field; and soon afterwards I saw him risk his life, just as
blindly, in the sea at Brighton.

We had met there accidentally, and were bathing together. If we had
been engaged in any exercise peculiar to my own nation I should, of
course, have looked after Pesca carefully; but as foreigners are
generally quite as well able to take care of themselves in the water
as Englishmen, it never occurred to me that the art of swimming might
merely add one more to the list of manly exercises which the Professor
believed that he could learn impromptu. Soon after we had both struck
out from shore, I stopped, finding my friend did not gain on me, and
turned round to look for him. To my horror and amazement, I saw nothing
between me and the beach but two little white arms which struggled
for an instant above the surface of the water, and then disappeared
from view. When I dived for him, the poor little man was lying quietly
coiled up at the bottom, in a hollow of shingle, looking by many
degrees smaller than I had ever seen him look before. During the few
minutes that elapsed while I was taking him in, the air revived him,
and he ascended the steps of the machine with my assistance. With the
partial recovery of his animation came the return of his wonderful
delusion on the subject of swimming. As soon as his chattering teeth
would let him speak, he smiled vacantly, and said he thought it must
have been the Cramp.

When he had thoroughly recovered himself, and had joined me on the
beach, his warm Southern nature broke through all artificial English
restraints in a moment. He overwhelmed me with the wildest expressions
of affection—exclaimed passionately, in his exaggerated Italian way,
that he would hold his life henceforth at my disposal—and declared
that he should never be happy again until he had found an opportunity
of proving his gratitude by rendering me some service which I might
remember, on my side, to the end of my days.

I did my best to stop the torrent of his tears and protestations by
persisting in treating the whole adventure as a good subject for a
joke; and succeeded at last, as I imagined, in lessening Pesca’s
overwhelming sense of obligation to me. Little did I think then—little
did I think afterwards when our pleasant holiday had drawn to an
end—that the opportunity of serving me for which my grateful companion
so ardently longed was soon to come; that he was eagerly to seize it on
the instant; and that by so doing he was to turn the whole current of
my existence into a new channel, and to alter me to myself almost past
recognition.

Yet so it was. If I had not dived for Professor Pesca when he lay under
water on his shingle bed, I should in all human probability never have
been connected with the story which these pages will relate—I should
never, perhaps, have heard even the name of the woman who has lived in
all my thoughts, who has possessed herself of all my energies, who has
become the one guiding influence that now directs the purpose of my
life.



III

Pesca’s face and manner, on the evening when we confronted each other
at my mother’s gate, were more than sufficient to inform me that
something extraordinary had happened. It was quite useless, however, to
ask him for an immediate explanation. I could only conjecture, while he
was dragging me in by both hands, that (knowing my habits) he had come
to the cottage to make sure of meeting me that night, and that he had
some news to tell of an unusually agreeable kind.

We both bounced into the parlour in a highly abrupt and undignified
manner. My mother sat by the open window laughing and fanning
herself. Pesca was one of her especial favourites and his wildest
eccentricities were always pardonable in her eyes. Poor dear soul!
from the first moment when she found out that the little Professor was
deeply and gratefully attached to her son, she opened her heart to
him unreservedly, and took all his puzzling foreign peculiarities for
granted, without so much as attempting to understand any one of them.

My sister Sarah, with all the advantages of youth, was, strangely
enough, less pliable. She did full justice to Pesca’s excellent
qualities of heart; but she could not accept him implicitly, as my
mother accepted him, for my sake. Her insular notions of propriety
rose in perpetual revolt against Pesca’s constitutional contempt for
appearances; and she was always more or less undisguisedly astonished
at her mother’s familiarity with the eccentric little foreigner. I
have observed, not only in my sister’s case, but in the instances of
others, that we of the young generation are nothing like so hearty
and so impulsive as some of our elders. I constantly see old people
flushed and excited by the prospect of some anticipated pleasure
which altogether fails to ruffle the tranquillity of their serene
grandchildren. Are we, I wonder, quite such genuine boys and girls now
as our seniors were in their time? Has the great advance in education
taken rather too long a stride; and are we in these modern days, just
the least trifle in the world too well brought up?

Without attempting to answer those questions decisively, I may at least
record that I never saw my mother and my sister together in Pesca’s
society, without finding my mother much the younger woman of the two.
On this occasion, for example, while the old lady was laughing heartily
over the boyish manner in which we tumbled into the parlour, Sarah
was perturbedly picking up the broken pieces of a teacup, which the
Professor had knocked off the table in his precipitate advance to meet
me at the door.

“I don’t know what would have happened, Walter,” said my mother, “if
you had delayed much longer. Pesca has been half mad with impatience,
and I have been half mad with curiosity. The Professor has brought some
wonderful news with him, in which he says you are concerned; and he
has cruelly refused to give us the smallest hint of it till his friend
Walter appeared.”

“Very provoking: it spoils the Set,” murmured Sarah to herself,
mournfully absorbed over the ruins of the broken cup.

While these words were being spoken, Pesca, happily and fussily
unconscious of the irreparable wrong which the crockery had suffered
at his hands, was dragging a large arm-chair to the opposite end of
the room, so as to command us all three, in the character of a public
speaker addressing an audience. Having turned the chair with its back
towards us, he jumped into it on his knees, and excitedly addressed his
small congregation of three from an impromptu pulpit.

“Now, my good dears,” began Pesca (who always said “good dears” when he
meant “worthy friends”), “listen to me. The time has come—I recite my
good news—I speak at last.”

“Hear, hear!” said my mother, humouring the joke.

“The next thing he will break, mamma,” whispered Sarah, “will be the
back of the best arm-chair.”

“I go back into my life, and I address myself to the noblest of created
beings,” continued Pesca, vehemently apostrophising my unworthy self
over the top rail of the chair. “Who found me dead at the bottom of the
sea (through Cramp); and who pulled me up to the top; and what did I
say when I got into my own life and my own clothes again?”

“Much more than was at all necessary,” I answered as doggedly as
possible; for the least encouragement in connection with this subject
invariably let loose the Professor’s emotions in a flood of tears.

“I said,” persisted Pesca, “that my life belonged to my dear friend,
Walter, for the rest of my days—and so it does. I said that I should
never be happy again till I had found the opportunity of doing a good
Something for Walter—and I have never been contented with myself till
this most blessed day. Now,” cried the enthusiastic little man at the
top of his voice, “the overflowing happiness bursts out of me at every
pore of my skin, like a perspiration; for on my faith, and soul, and
honour, the something is done at last, and the only word to say now
is—Right-all-right!”

It may be necessary to explain here that Pesca prided himself on being
a perfect Englishman in his language, as well as in his dress, manners,
and amusements. Having picked up a few of our most familiar colloquial
expressions, he scattered them about over his conversation whenever
they happened to occur to him, turning them, in his high relish for
their sound and his general ignorance of their sense, into compound
words and repetitions of his own, and always running them into each
other, as if they consisted of one long syllable.

“Among the fine London Houses where I teach the language of my
native country,” said the Professor, rushing into his long-deferred
explanation without another word of preface, “there is one, mighty
fine, in the big place called Portland. You all know where that is?
Yes, yes—course-of-course. The fine house, my good dears, has got
inside it a fine family. A Mamma, fair and fat; three young Misses,
fair and fat; two young Misters, fair and fat; and a Papa, the fairest
and the fattest of all, who is a mighty merchant, up to his eyes in
gold—a fine man once, but seeing that he has got a naked head and
two chins, fine no longer at the present time. Now mind! I teach the
sublime Dante to the young Misses, and ah!—my-soul-bless-my-soul!—it is
not in human language to say how the sublime Dante puzzles the pretty
heads of all three! No matter—all in good time—and the more lessons the
better for me. Now mind! Imagine to yourselves that I am teaching the
young Misses to-day, as usual. We are all four of us down together in
the Hell of Dante. At the Seventh Circle—but no matter for that: all
the Circles are alike to the three young Misses, fair and fat,—at the
Seventh Circle, nevertheless, my pupils are sticking fast; and I, to
set them going again, recite, explain, and blow myself up red-hot with
useless enthusiasm, when—a creak of boots in the passage outside, and
in comes the golden Papa, the mighty merchant with the naked head and
the two chins.—Ha! my good dears, I am closer than you think for to
the business, now. Have you been patient so far? or have you said to
yourselves, ‘Deuce-what-the-deuce! Pesca is long-winded to-night?’”

We declared that we were deeply interested. The Professor went on:

“In his hand, the golden Papa has a letter; and after he has made
his excuse for disturbing us in our Infernal Region with the common
mortal Business of the house, he addresses himself to the three young
Misses, and begins, as you English begin everything in this blessed
world that you have to say, with a great O. ‘O, my dears,’ says the
mighty merchant, ‘I have got here a letter from my friend, Mr.——‘(the
name has slipped out of my mind; but no matter; we shall come back
to that; yes, yes—right-all-right). So the Papa says, ‘I have got
a letter from my friend, the Mister; and he wants a recommend from
me, of a drawing-master, to go down to his house in the country.’
My-soul-bless-my-soul! when I heard the golden Papa say those words,
if I had been big enough to reach up to him, I should have put my arms
round his neck, and pressed him to my bosom in a long and grateful
hug! As it was, I only bounced upon my chair. My seat was on thorns,
and my soul was on fire to speak but I held my tongue, and let Papa
go on. ‘Perhaps you know,’ says this good man of money, twiddling
his friend’s letter this way and that, in his golden fingers and
thumbs, ‘perhaps you know, my dears, of a drawing-master that I can
recommend?’ The three young Misses all look at each other, and then
say (with the indispensable great O to begin) “O, dear no, Papa! But
here is Mr. Pesca——’ At the mention of myself I can hold no longer—the
thought of you, my good dears, mounts like blood to my head—I start
from my seat, as if a spike had grown up from the ground through the
bottom of my chair—I address myself to the mighty merchant, and I say
(English phrase) ‘Dear sir, I have the man! The first and foremost
drawing-master of the world! Recommend him by the post to-night,
and send him off, bag and baggage (English phrase again—ha!), send
him off, bag and baggage, by the train to-morrow!’ ‘Stop, stop,’
says Papa; ‘is he a foreigner, or an Englishman?’ ‘English to the
bone of his back,’ I answer. ‘Respectable?’ says Papa. ‘Sir,’ I say
(for this last question of his outrages me, and I have done being
familiar with him—) ‘Sir! the immortal fire of genius burns in this
Englishman’s bosom, and, what is more, his father had it before him!’
‘Never mind,’ says the golden barbarian of a Papa, ‘never mind about
his genius, Mr. Pesca. We don’t want genius in this country, unless
it is accompanied by respectability—and then we are very glad to have
it, very glad indeed. Can your friend produce testimonials—letters
that speak to his character?’ I wave my hand negligently. ‘Letters?’
I say. ‘Ha! my-soul-bless-my-soul! I should think so, indeed! Volumes
of letters and portfolios of testimonials, if you like!’ ‘One or two
will do,’ says this man of phlegm and money. ‘Let him send them to
me, with his name and address. And—stop, stop, Mr. Pesca—before you
go to your friend, you had better take a note.’ ‘Bank-note!’ I say,
indignantly. ‘No bank-note, if you please, till my brave Englishman has
earned it first.’ ‘Bank-note!’ says Papa, in a great surprise, ‘who
talked of bank-note? I mean a note of the terms—a memorandum of what
he is expected to do. Go on with your lesson, Mr. Pesca, and I will
give you the necessary extract from my friend’s letter.’ Down sits
the man of merchandise and money to his pen, ink, and paper; and down
I go once again into the Hell of Dante, with my three young Misses
after me. In ten minutes’ time the note is written, and the boots of
Papa are creaking themselves away in the passage outside. From that
moment, on my faith, and soul, and honour, I know nothing more! The
glorious thought that I have caught my opportunity at last, and that
my grateful service for my dearest friend in the world is as good as
done already, flies up into my head and makes me drunk. How I pull
my young Misses and myself out of our Infernal Region again, how my
other business is done afterwards, how my little bit of dinner slides
itself down my throat, I know no more than a man in the moon. Enough
for me, that here I am, with the mighty merchant’s note in my hand,
as large as life, as hot as fire, and as happy as a king! Ha! ha! ha!
right-right-right-all-right!” Here the Professor waved the memorandum
of terms over his head, and ended his long and voluble narrative with
his shrill Italian parody on an English cheer.

My mother rose the moment he had done, with flushed cheeks and
brightened eyes. She caught the little man warmly by both hands.

“My dear, good Pesca,” she said, “I never doubted your true affection
for Walter—but I am more than ever persuaded of it now!”

“I am sure we are very much obliged to Professor Pesca, for Walter’s
sake,” added Sarah. She half rose, while she spoke, as if to approach
the arm-chair, in her turn; but, observing that Pesca was rapturously
kissing my mother’s hands, looked serious, and resumed her seat. “If
the familiar little man treats my mother in that way, how will he
treat ME?” Faces sometimes tell truth; and that was unquestionably the
thought in Sarah’s mind, as she sat down again.

Although I myself was gratefully sensible of the kindness of Pesca’s
motives, my spirits were hardly so much elevated as they ought to have
been by the prospect of future employment now placed before me. When
the Professor had quite done with my mother’s hand, and when I had
warmly thanked him for his interference on my behalf, I asked to be
allowed to look at the note of terms which his respectable patron had
drawn up for my inspection.

Pesca handed me the paper, with a triumphant flourish of the hand.

“Read!” said the little man majestically. “I promise you my friend, the
writing of the golden Papa speaks with a tongue of trumpets for itself.”

The note of terms was plain, straightforward, and comprehensive, at any
rate. It informed me,

First, That Frederick Fairlie, Esquire, of Limmeridge House,
Cumberland, wanted to engage the services of a thoroughly competent
drawing-master, for a period of four months certain.

Secondly, That the duties which the master was expected to perform
would be of a twofold kind. He was to superintend the instruction of
two young ladies in the art of painting in water-colours; and he was to
devote his leisure time, afterwards, to the business of repairing and
mounting a valuable collection of drawings, which had been suffered to
fall into a condition of total neglect.

Thirdly, That the terms offered to the person who should undertake and
properly perform these duties were four guineas a week; that he was to
reside at Limmeridge House; and that he was to be treated there on the
footing of a gentleman.

Fourthly, and lastly, That no person need think of applying for this
situation unless he could furnish the most unexceptionable references
to character and abilities. The references were to be sent to Mr.
Fairlie’s friend in London, who was empowered to conclude all necessary
arrangements. These instructions were followed by the name and
address of Pesca’s employer in Portland Place—and there the note, or
memorandum, ended.

The prospect which this offer of an engagement held out was certainly
an attractive one. The employment was likely to be both easy and
agreeable; it was proposed to me at the autumn time of the year when I
was least occupied; and the terms, judging by my personal experience in
my profession, were surprisingly liberal. I knew this; I knew that I
ought to consider myself very fortunate if I succeeded in securing the
offered employment—and yet, no sooner had I read the memorandum than I
felt an inexplicable unwillingness within me to stir in the matter. I
had never in the whole of my previous experience found my duty and my
inclination so painfully and so unaccountably at variance as I found
them now.

“Oh, Walter, your father never had such a chance as this!” said my
mother, when she had read the note of terms and had handed it back to
me.

“Such distinguished people to know,” remarked Sarah, straightening
herself in the chair; “and on such gratifying terms of equality too!”

“Yes, yes; the terms, in every sense, are tempting enough,” I replied
impatiently. “But before I send in my testimonials, I should like a
little time to consider——”

“Consider!” exclaimed my mother. “Why, Walter, what is the matter with
you?”

“Consider!” echoed my sister. “What a very extraordinary thing to say,
under the circumstances!”

“Consider!” chimed in the Professor. “What is there to consider about?
Answer me this! Have you not been complaining of your health, and have
you not been longing for what you call a smack of the country breeze?
Well! there in your hand is the paper that offers you perpetual choking
mouthfuls of country breeze for four months’ time. Is it not so? Ha!
Again—you want money. Well! Is four golden guineas a week nothing?
My-soul-bless-my-soul! only give it to me—and my boots shall creak like
the golden Papa’s, with a sense of the overpowering richness of the
man who walks in them! Four guineas a week, and, more than that, the
charming society of two young misses! and, more than that, your bed,
your breakfast, your dinner, your gorging English teas and lunches
and drinks of foaming beer, all for nothing—why, Walter, my dear good
friend—deuce-what-the-deuce!—for the first time in my life I have not
eyes enough in my head to look, and wonder at you!”

Neither my mother’s evident astonishment at my behaviour, nor Pesca’s
fervid enumeration of the advantages offered to me by the new
employment, had any effect in shaking my unreasonable disinclination to
go to Limmeridge House. After starting all the petty objections that I
could think of to going to Cumberland, and after hearing them answered,
one after another, to my own complete discomfiture, I tried to set up a
last obstacle by asking what was to become of my pupils in London while
I was teaching Mr. Fairlie’s young ladies to sketch from nature. The
obvious answer to this was, that the greater part of them would be away
on their autumn travels, and that the few who remained at home might be
confided to the care of one of my brother drawing-masters, whose pupils
I had once taken off his hands under similar circumstances. My sister
reminded me that this gentleman had expressly placed his services at my
disposal, during the present season, in case I wished to leave town;
my mother seriously appealed to me not to let an idle caprice stand
in the way of my own interests and my own health; and Pesca piteously
entreated that I would not wound him to the heart by rejecting the
first grateful offer of service that he had been able to make to the
friend who had saved his life.

The evident sincerity and affection which inspired these remonstrances
would have influenced any man with an atom of good feeling in
his composition. Though I could not conquer my own unaccountable
perversity, I had at least virtue enough to be heartily ashamed of it,
and to end the discussion pleasantly by giving way, and promising to do
all that was wanted of me.

The rest of the evening passed merrily enough in humorous anticipations
of my coming life with the two young ladies in Cumberland. Pesca,
inspired by our national grog, which appeared to get into his head, in
the most marvellous manner, five minutes after it had gone down his
throat, asserted his claims to be considered a complete Englishman by
making a series of speeches in rapid succession, proposing my mother’s
health, my sister’s health, my health, and the healths, in mass, of
Mr. Fairlie and the two young Misses, pathetically returning thanks
himself, immediately afterwards, for the whole party. “A secret,
Walter,” said my little friend confidentially, as we walked home
together. “I am flushed by the recollection of my own eloquence. My
soul bursts itself with ambition. One of these days I go into your
noble Parliament. It is the dream of my whole life to be Honourable
Pesca, M.P.!”

The next morning I sent my testimonials to the Professor’s employer
in Portland Place. Three days passed, and I concluded, with secret
satisfaction, that my papers had not been found sufficiently explicit.
On the fourth day, however, an answer came. It announced that Mr.
Fairlie accepted my services, and requested me to start for Cumberland
immediately. All the necessary instructions for my journey were
carefully and clearly added in a postscript.

I made my arrangements, unwillingly enough, for leaving London early
the next day. Towards evening Pesca looked in, on his way to a
dinner-party, to bid me good-bye.

“I shall dry my tears in your absence,” said the Professor gaily, “with
this glorious thought. It is my auspicious hand that has given the
first push to your fortune in the world. Go, my friend! When your sun
shines in Cumberland (English proverb), in the name of heaven make your
hay. Marry one of the two young Misses; become Honourable Hartright,
M.P.; and when you are on the top of the ladder remember that Pesca, at
the bottom, has done it all!”

I tried to laugh with my little friend over his parting jest, but
my spirits were not to be commanded. Something jarred in me almost
painfully while he was speaking his light farewell words.

When I was left alone again nothing remained to be done but to walk to
the Hampstead cottage and bid my mother and Sarah good-bye.



IV

The heat had been painfully oppressive all day, and it was now a close
and sultry night.

My mother and sister had spoken so many last words, and had begged me
to wait another five minutes so many times, that it was nearly midnight
when the servant locked the garden-gate behind me. I walked forward
a few paces on the shortest way back to London, then stopped and
hesitated.

The moon was full and broad in the dark blue starless sky, and the
broken ground of the heath looked wild enough in the mysterious light
to be hundreds of miles away from the great city that lay beneath it.
The idea of descending any sooner than I could help into the heat and
gloom of London repelled me. The prospect of going to bed in my airless
chambers, and the prospect of gradual suffocation, seemed, in my
present restless frame of mind and body, to be one and the same thing.
I determined to stroll home in the purer air by the most roundabout
way I could take; to follow the white winding paths across the lonely
heath; and to approach London through its most open suburb by striking
into the Finchley Road, and so getting back, in the cool of the new
morning, by the western side of the Regent’s Park.

I wound my way down slowly over the heath, enjoying the divine
stillness of the scene, and admiring the soft alternations of light
and shade as they followed each other over the broken ground on
every side of me. So long as I was proceeding through this first and
prettiest part of my night walk my mind remained passively open to
the impressions produced by the view; and I thought but little on any
subject—indeed, so far as my own sensations were concerned, I can
hardly say that I thought at all.

But when I had left the heath and had turned into the by-road,
where there was less to see, the ideas naturally engendered by the
approaching change in my habits and occupations gradually drew more
and more of my attention exclusively to themselves. By the time I had
arrived at the end of the road I had become completely absorbed in my
own fanciful visions of Limmeridge House, of Mr. Fairlie, and of the
two ladies whose practice in the art of water-colour painting I was so
soon to superintend.

I had now arrived at that particular point of my walk where four roads
met—the road to Hampstead, along which I had returned, the road to
Finchley, the road to West End, and the road back to London. I had
mechanically turned in this latter direction, and was strolling along
the lonely high-road—idly wondering, I remember, what the Cumberland
young ladies would look like—when, in one moment, every drop of blood
in my body was brought to a stop by the touch of a hand laid lightly
and suddenly on my shoulder from behind me.

I turned on the instant, with my fingers tightening round the handle of
my stick.

There, in the middle of the broad bright high-road—there, as if it had
that moment sprung out of the earth or dropped from the heaven—stood
the figure of a solitary Woman, dressed from head to foot in white
garments, her face bent in grave inquiry on mine, her hand pointing to
the dark cloud over London, as I faced her.

I was far too seriously startled by the suddenness with which this
extraordinary apparition stood before me, in the dead of night and in
that lonely place, to ask what she wanted. The strange woman spoke
first.

“Is that the road to London?” she said.

I looked attentively at her, as she put that singular question to me.
It was then nearly one o’clock. All I could discern distinctly by the
moonlight was a colourless, youthful face, meagre and sharp to look
at about the cheeks and chin; large, grave, wistfully attentive eyes;
nervous, uncertain lips; and light hair of a pale, brownish-yellow
hue. There was nothing wild, nothing immodest in her manner: it was
quiet and self-controlled, a little melancholy and a little touched by
suspicion; not exactly the manner of a lady, and, at the same time,
not the manner of a woman in the humblest rank of life. The voice,
little as I had yet heard of it, had something curiously still and
mechanical in its tones, and the utterance was remarkably rapid. She
held a small bag in her hand: and her dress—bonnet, shawl, and gown all
of white—was, so far as I could guess, certainly not composed of very
delicate or very expensive materials. Her figure was slight, and rather
above the average height—her gait and actions free from the slightest
approach to extravagance. This was all that I could observe of her
in the dim light and under the perplexingly strange circumstances of
our meeting. What sort of a woman she was, and how she came to be out
alone in the high-road, an hour after midnight, I altogether failed to
guess. The one thing of which I felt certain was, that the grossest of
mankind could not have misconstrued her motive in speaking, even at
that suspiciously late hour and in that suspiciously lonely place.

“Did you hear me?” she said, still quietly and rapidly, and without
the least fretfulness or impatience. “I asked if that was the way to
London.”

“Yes,” I replied, “that is the way: it leads to St. John’s Wood and
the Regent’s Park. You must excuse my not answering you before. I was
rather startled by your sudden appearance in the road; and I am, even
now, quite unable to account for it.”

“You don’t suspect me of doing anything wrong, do you? I have done
nothing wrong. I have met with an accident—I am very unfortunate in
being here alone so late. Why do you suspect me of doing wrong?”

She spoke with unnecessary earnestness and agitation, and shrank back
from me several paces. I did my best to reassure her.

“Pray don’t suppose that I have any idea of suspecting you,” I said,
“or any other wish than to be of assistance to you, if I can. I only
wondered at your appearance in the road, because it seemed to me to be
empty the instant before I saw you.”

She turned, and pointed back to a place at the junction of the road to
London and the road to Hampstead, where there was a gap in the hedge.

“I heard you coming,” she said, “and hid there to see what sort of man
you were, before I risked speaking. I doubted and feared about it till
you passed; and then I was obliged to steal after you, and touch you.”

Steal after me and touch me? Why not call to me? Strange, to say the
least of it.

“May I trust you?” she asked. “You don’t think the worse of me because
I have met with an accident?” She stopped in confusion; shifted her bag
from one hand to the other; and sighed bitterly.

The loneliness and helplessness of the woman touched me. The natural
impulse to assist her and to spare her got the better of the judgment,
the caution, the worldly tact, which an older, wiser, and colder man
might have summoned to help him in this strange emergency.

“You may trust me for any harmless purpose,” I said. “If it troubles
you to explain your strange situation to me, don’t think of returning
to the subject again. I have no right to ask you for any explanations.
Tell me how I can help you; and if I can, I will.”

“You are very kind, and I am very, very thankful to have met you.” The
first touch of womanly tenderness that I had heard from her trembled in
her voice as she said the words; but no tears glistened in those large,
wistfully attentive eyes of hers, which were still fixed on me. “I have
only been in London once before,” she went on, more and more rapidly,
“and I know nothing about that side of it, yonder. Can I get a fly, or
a carriage of any kind? Is it too late? I don’t know. If you could show
me where to get a fly—and if you will only promise not to interfere
with me, and to let me leave you, when and how I please—I have a friend
in London who will be glad to receive me—I want nothing else—will you
promise?”

She looked anxiously up and down the road; shifted her bag again from
one hand to the other; repeated the words, “Will you promise?” and
looked hard in my face, with a pleading fear and confusion that it
troubled me to see.

What could I do? Here was a stranger utterly and helplessly at my
mercy—and that stranger a forlorn woman. No house was near; no one was
passing whom I could consult; and no earthly right existed on my part
to give me a power of control over her, even if I had known how to
exercise it. I trace these lines, self-distrustfully, with the shadows
of after-events darkening the very paper I write on; and still I say,
what could I do?

What I did do, was to try and gain time by questioning her. “Are you
sure that your friend in London will receive you at such a late hour as
this?” I said.

“Quite sure. Only say you will let me leave you when and how I
please—only say you won’t interfere with me. Will you promise?”

As she repeated the words for the third time, she came close to me and
laid her hand, with a sudden gentle stealthiness, on my bosom—a thin
hand; a cold hand (when I removed it with mine) even on that sultry
night. Remember that I was young; remember that the hand which touched
me was a woman’s.

“Will you promise?”

“Yes.”

One word! The little familiar word that is on everybody’s lips, every
hour in the day. Oh me! and I tremble, now, when I write it.

We set our faces towards London, and walked on together in the first
still hour of the new day—I, and this woman, whose name, whose
character, whose story, whose objects in life, whose very presence by
my side, at that moment, were fathomless mysteries to me. It was like
a dream. Was I Walter Hartright? Was this the well-known, uneventful
road, where holiday people strolled on Sundays? Had I really left,
little more than an hour since, the quiet, decent, conventionally
domestic atmosphere of my mother’s cottage? I was too bewildered—too
conscious also of a vague sense of something like self-reproach—to
speak to my strange companion for some minutes. It was her voice again
that first broke the silence between us.

“I want to ask you something,” she said suddenly. “Do you know many
people in London?”

“Yes, a great many.”

“Many men of rank and title?” There was an unmistakable tone of
suspicion in the strange question. I hesitated about answering it.

“Some,” I said, after a moment’s silence.

“Many”—she came to a full stop, and looked me searchingly in the
face—“many men of the rank of Baronet?”

Too much astonished to reply, I questioned her in my turn.

“Why do you ask?”

“Because I hope, for my own sake, there is one Baronet that you don’t
know.”

“Will you tell me his name?”

“I can’t—I daren’t—I forget myself when I mention it.” She spoke loudly
and almost fiercely, raised her clenched hand in the air, and shook it
passionately; then, on a sudden, controlled herself again, and added,
in tones lowered to a whisper “Tell me which of them YOU know.”

I could hardly refuse to humour her in such a trifle, and I mentioned
three names. Two, the names of fathers of families whose daughters I
taught; one, the name of a bachelor who had once taken me a cruise in
his yacht, to make sketches for him.

“Ah! you DON’T know him,” she said, with a sigh of relief. “Are you a
man of rank and title yourself?”

“Far from it. I am only a drawing-master.”

As the reply passed my lips—a little bitterly, perhaps—she took my arm
with the abruptness which characterised all her actions.

“Not a man of rank and title,” she repeated to herself. “Thank God! I
may trust HIM.”

I had hitherto contrived to master my curiosity out of consideration
for my companion; but it got the better of me now.

“I am afraid you have serious reason to complain of some man of rank
and title?” I said. “I am afraid the baronet, whose name you are
unwilling to mention to me, has done you some grievous wrong? Is he the
cause of your being out here at this strange time of night?”

“Don’t ask me: don’t make me talk of it,” she answered. “I’m not fit
now. I have been cruelly used and cruelly wronged. You will be kinder
than ever, if you will walk on fast, and not speak to me. I sadly want
to quiet myself, if I can.”

We moved forward again at a quick pace; and for half an hour, at least,
not a word passed on either side. From time to time, being forbidden to
make any more inquiries, I stole a look at her face. It was always the
same; the lips close shut, the brow frowning, the eyes looking straight
forward, eagerly and yet absently. We had reached the first houses, and
were close on the new Wesleyan college, before her set features relaxed
and she spoke once more.

“Do you live in London?” she said.

“Yes.” As I answered, it struck me that she might have formed some
intention of appealing to me for assistance or advice, and that I ought
to spare her a possible disappointment by warning her of my approaching
absence from home. So I added, “But to-morrow I shall be away from
London for some time. I am going into the country.”

“Where?” she asked. “North or south?”

“North—to Cumberland.”

“Cumberland!” she repeated the word tenderly. “Ah! I wish I was going
there too. I was once happy in Cumberland.”

I tried again to lift the veil that hung between this woman and me.

“Perhaps you were born,” I said, “in the beautiful Lake country.”

“No,” she answered. “I was born in Hampshire; but I once went to school
for a little while in Cumberland. Lakes? I don’t remember any lakes.
It’s Limmeridge village, and Limmeridge House, I should like to see
again.”

It was my turn now to stop suddenly. In the excited state of my
curiosity, at that moment, the chance reference to Mr. Fairlie’s place
of residence, on the lips of my strange companion, staggered me with
astonishment.

“Did you hear anybody calling after us?” she asked, looking up and down
the road affrightedly, the instant I stopped.

“No, no. I was only struck by the name of Limmeridge House. I heard it
mentioned by some Cumberland people a few days since.”

“Ah! not my people. Mrs. Fairlie is dead; and her husband is dead; and
their little girl may be married and gone away by this time. I can’t
say who lives at Limmeridge now. If any more are left there of that
name, I only know I love them for Mrs. Fairlie’s sake.”

She seemed about to say more; but while she was speaking, we came
within view of the turnpike, at the top of the Avenue Road. Her hand
tightened round my arm, and she looked anxiously at the gate before us.

“Is the turnpike man looking out?” she asked.

He was not looking out; no one else was near the place when we passed
through the gate. The sight of the gas-lamps and houses seemed to
agitate her, and to make her impatient.

“This is London,” she said. “Do you see any carriage I can get? I am
tired and frightened. I want to shut myself in and be driven away.”

I explained to her that we must walk a little further to get to a
cab-stand, unless we were fortunate enough to meet with an empty
vehicle; and then tried to resume the subject of Cumberland. It was
useless. That idea of shutting herself in, and being driven away,
had now got full possession of her mind. She could think and talk of
nothing else.

We had hardly proceeded a third of the way down the Avenue Road when I
saw a cab draw up at a house a few doors below us, on the opposite side
of the way. A gentleman got out and let himself in at the garden door.
I hailed the cab, as the driver mounted the box again. When we crossed
the road, my companion’s impatience increased to such an extent that
she almost forced me to run.

“It’s so late,” she said. “I am only in a hurry because it’s so late.”

“I can’t take you, sir, if you’re not going towards Tottenham Court
Road,” said the driver civilly, when I opened the cab door. “My horse
is dead beat, and I can’t get him no further than the stable.”

“Yes, yes. That will do for me. I’m going that way—I’m going that way.”
She spoke with breathless eagerness, and pressed by me into the cab.

I had assured myself that the man was sober as well as civil before
I let her enter the vehicle. And now, when she was seated inside, I
entreated her to let me see her set down safely at her destination.

“No, no, no,” she said vehemently. “I’m quite safe, and quite happy
now. If you are a gentleman, remember your promise. Let him drive on
till I stop him. Thank you—oh! thank you, thank you!”

My hand was on the cab door. She caught it in hers, kissed it, and
pushed it away. The cab drove off at the same moment—I started into
the road, with some vague idea of stopping it again, I hardly knew
why—hesitated from dread of frightening and distressing her—called,
at last, but not loudly enough to attract the driver’s attention. The
sound of the wheels grew fainter in the distance—the cab melted into
the black shadows on the road—the woman in white was gone.


Ten minutes or more had passed. I was still on the same side of the
way; now mechanically walking forward a few paces; now stopping again
absently. At one moment I found myself doubting the reality of my own
adventure; at another I was perplexed and distressed by an uneasy sense
of having done wrong, which yet left me confusedly ignorant of how
I could have done right. I hardly knew where I was going, or what I
meant to do next; I was conscious of nothing but the confusion of my
own thoughts, when I was abruptly recalled to myself—awakened, I might
almost say—by the sound of rapidly approaching wheels close behind me.

I was on the dark side of the road, in the thick shadow of some garden
trees, when I stopped to look round. On the opposite and lighter side
of the way, a short distance below me, a policeman was strolling along
in the direction of the Regent’s Park.

The carriage passed me—an open chaise driven by two men.

“Stop!” cried one. “There’s a policeman. Let’s ask him.”

The horse was instantly pulled up, a few yards beyond the dark place
where I stood.

“Policeman!” cried the first speaker. “Have you seen a woman pass this
way?”

“What sort of woman, sir?”

“A woman in a lavender-coloured gown——”

“No, no,” interposed the second man. “The clothes we gave her were
found on her bed. She must have gone away in the clothes she wore when
she came to us. In white, policeman. A woman in white.”

“I haven’t seen her, sir.”

“If you or any of your men meet with the woman, stop her, and send her
in careful keeping to that address. I’ll pay all expenses, and a fair
reward into the bargain.”

The policeman looked at the card that was handed down to him.

“Why are we to stop her, sir? What has she done?”

“Done! She has escaped from my Asylum. Don’t forget; a woman in white.
Drive on.”



V

“She has escaped from my Asylum!”

I cannot say with truth that the terrible inference which those words
suggested flashed upon me like a new revelation. Some of the strange
questions put to me by the woman in white, after my ill-considered
promise to leave her free to act as she pleased, had suggested the
conclusion either that she was naturally flighty and unsettled, or that
some recent shock of terror had disturbed the balance of her faculties.
But the idea of absolute insanity which we all associate with the very
name of an Asylum, had, I can honestly declare, never occurred to me,
in connection with her. I had seen nothing, in her language or her
actions, to justify it at the time; and even with the new light thrown
on her by the words which the stranger had addressed to the policeman,
I could see nothing to justify it now.

What had I done? Assisted the victim of the most horrible of all false
imprisonments to escape; or cast loose on the wide world of London an
unfortunate creature, whose actions it was my duty, and every man’s
duty, mercifully to control? I turned sick at heart when the question
occurred to me, and when I felt self-reproachfully that it was asked
too late.

In the disturbed state of my mind, it was useless to think of going to
bed, when I at last got back to my chambers in Clement’s Inn. Before
many hours elapsed it would be necessary to start on my journey to
Cumberland. I sat down and tried, first to sketch, then to read—but the
woman in white got between me and my pencil, between me and my book.
Had the forlorn creature come to any harm? That was my first thought,
though I shrank selfishly from confronting it. Other thoughts followed,
on which it was less harrowing to dwell. Where had she stopped the cab?
What had become of her now? Had she been traced and captured by the men
in the chaise? Or was she still capable of controlling her own actions;
and were we two following our widely parted roads towards one point in
the mysterious future, at which we were to meet once more?

It was a relief when the hour came to lock my door, to bid farewell
to London pursuits, London pupils, and London friends, and to be in
movement again towards new interests and a new life. Even the bustle
and confusion at the railway terminus, so wearisome and bewildering at
other times, roused me and did me good.


My travelling instructions directed me to go to Carlisle, and then to
diverge by a branch railway which ran in the direction of the coast.
As a misfortune to begin with, our engine broke down between Lancaster
and Carlisle. The delay occasioned by this accident caused me to be too
late for the branch train, by which I was to have gone on immediately.
I had to wait some hours; and when a later train finally deposited me
at the nearest station to Limmeridge House, it was past ten, and the
night was so dark that I could hardly see my way to the pony-chaise
which Mr. Fairlie had ordered to be in waiting for me.

The driver was evidently discomposed by the lateness of my arrival. He
was in that state of highly respectful sulkiness which is peculiar to
English servants. We drove away slowly through the darkness in perfect
silence. The roads were bad, and the dense obscurity of the night
increased the difficulty of getting over the ground quickly. It was,
by my watch, nearly an hour and a half from the time of our leaving
the station before I heard the sound of the sea in the distance, and
the crunch of our wheels on a smooth gravel drive. We had passed one
gate before entering the drive, and we passed another before we drew
up at the house. I was received by a solemn man-servant out of livery,
was informed that the family had retired for the night, and was then
led into a large and lofty room where my supper was awaiting me, in a
forlorn manner, at one extremity of a lonesome mahogany wilderness of
dining-table.

I was too tired and out of spirits to eat or drink much, especially
with the solemn servant waiting on me as elaborately as if a small
dinner party had arrived at the house instead of a solitary man. In
a quarter of an hour I was ready to be taken up to my bedchamber.
The solemn servant conducted me into a prettily furnished room—said,
“Breakfast at nine o’clock, sir”—looked all round him to see that
everything was in its proper place, and noiselessly withdrew.

“What shall I see in my dreams to-night?” I thought to myself, as I
put out the candle; “the woman in white? or the unknown inhabitants of
this Cumberland mansion?” It was a strange sensation to be sleeping in
the house, like a friend of the family, and yet not to know one of the
inmates, even by sight!



VI

When I rose the next morning and drew up my blind, the sea opened
before me joyously under the broad August sunlight, and the distant
coast of Scotland fringed the horizon with its lines of melting blue.

The view was such a surprise, and such a change to me, after my weary
London experience of brick and mortar landscape, that I seemed to burst
into a new life and a new set of thoughts the moment I looked at it.
A confused sensation of having suddenly lost my familiarity with the
past, without acquiring any additional clearness of idea in reference
to the present or the future, took possession of my mind. Circumstances
that were but a few days old faded back in my memory, as if they had
happened months and months since. Pesca’s quaint announcement of the
means by which he had procured me my present employment; the farewell
evening I had passed with my mother and sister; even my mysterious
adventure on the way home from Hampstead—had all become like events
which might have occurred at some former epoch of my existence.
Although the woman in white was still in my mind, the image of her
seemed to have grown dull and faint already.

A little before nine o’clock, I descended to the ground-floor of the
house. The solemn man-servant of the night before met me wandering
among the passages, and compassionately showed me the way to the
breakfast-room.

My first glance round me, as the man opened the door, disclosed a
well-furnished breakfast-table, standing in the middle of a long room,
with many windows in it. I looked from the table to the window farthest
from me, and saw a lady standing at it, with her back turned towards
me. The instant my eyes rested on her, I was struck by the rare beauty
of her form, and by the unaffected grace of her attitude. Her figure
was tall, yet not too tall; comely and well-developed, yet not fat; her
head set on her shoulders with an easy, pliant firmness; her waist,
perfection in the eyes of a man, for it occupied its natural place,
it filled out its natural circle, it was visibly and delightfully
undeformed by stays. She had not heard my entrance into the room; and
I allowed myself the luxury of admiring her for a few moments, before
I moved one of the chairs near me, as the least embarrassing means
of attracting her attention. She turned towards me immediately. The
easy elegance of every movement of her limbs and body as soon as she
began to advance from the far end of the room, set me in a flutter of
expectation to see her face clearly. She left the window—and I said to
myself, The lady is dark. She moved forward a few steps—and I said to
myself, The lady is young. She approached nearer—and I said to myself
(with a sense of surprise which words fail me to express), The lady is
ugly!

Never was the old conventional maxim, that Nature cannot err, more
flatly contradicted—never was the fair promise of a lovely figure more
strangely and startlingly belied by the face and head that crowned it.
The lady’s complexion was almost swarthy, and the dark down on her
upper lip was almost a moustache. She had a large, firm, masculine
mouth and jaw; prominent, piercing, resolute brown eyes; and thick,
coal-black hair, growing unusually low down on her forehead. Her
expression—bright, frank, and intelligent—appeared, while she was
silent, to be altogether wanting in those feminine attractions of
gentleness and pliability, without which the beauty of the handsomest
woman alive is beauty incomplete. To see such a face as this set on
shoulders that a sculptor would have longed to model—to be charmed
by the modest graces of action through which the symmetrical limbs
betrayed their beauty when they moved, and then to be almost repelled
by the masculine form and masculine look of the features in which the
perfectly shaped figure ended—was to feel a sensation oddly akin to the
helpless discomfort familiar to us all in sleep, when we recognise yet
cannot reconcile the anomalies and contradictions of a dream.

“Mr. Hartright?” said the lady interrogatively, her dark face lighting
up with a smile, and softening and growing womanly the moment she
began to speak. “We resigned all hope of you last night, and went to
bed as usual. Accept my apologies for our apparent want of attention;
and allow me to introduce myself as one of your pupils. Shall we shake
hands? I suppose we must come to it sooner or later—and why not sooner?”

These odd words of welcome were spoken in a clear, ringing, pleasant
voice. The offered hand—rather large, but beautifully formed—was given
to me with the easy, unaffected self-reliance of a highly-bred woman.
We sat down together at the breakfast-table in as cordial and customary
a manner as if we had known each other for years, and had met at
Limmeridge House to talk over old times by previous appointment.

“I hope you come here good-humouredly determined to make the best
of your position,” continued the lady. “You will have to begin this
morning by putting up with no other company at breakfast than mine. My
sister is in her own room, nursing that essentially feminine malady,
a slight headache; and her old governess, Mrs. Vesey, is charitably
attending on her with restorative tea. My uncle, Mr. Fairlie, never
joins us at any of our meals: he is an invalid, and keeps bachelor
state in his own apartments. There is nobody else in the house but me.
Two young ladies have been staying here, but they went away yesterday,
in despair; and no wonder. All through their visit (in consequence of
Mr. Fairlie’s invalid condition) we produced no such convenience in the
house as a flirtable, danceable, small-talkable creature of the male
sex; and the consequence was, we did nothing but quarrel, especially at
dinner-time. How can you expect four women to dine together alone every
day, and not quarrel? We are such fools, we can’t entertain each other
at table. You see I don’t think much of my own sex, Mr. Hartright—which
will you have, tea or coffee?—no woman does think much of her own sex,
although few of them confess it as freely as I do. Dear me, you look
puzzled. Why? Are you wondering what you will have for breakfast? or
are you surprised at my careless way of talking? In the first case, I
advise you, as a friend, to have nothing to do with that cold ham at
your elbow, and to wait till the omelette comes in. In the second case,
I will give you some tea to compose your spirits, and do all a woman
can (which is very little, by-the-bye) to hold my tongue.”

She handed me my cup of tea, laughing gaily. Her light flow of talk,
and her lively familiarity of manner with a total stranger, were
accompanied by an unaffected naturalness and an easy inborn confidence
in herself and her position, which would have secured her the respect
of the most audacious man breathing. While it was impossible to be
formal and reserved in her company, it was more than impossible to take
the faintest vestige of a liberty with her, even in thought. I felt
this instinctively, even while I caught the infection of her own bright
gaiety of spirits—even while I did my best to answer her in her own
frank, lively way.

“Yes, yes,” she said, when I had suggested the only explanation I
could offer, to account for my perplexed looks, “I understand. You
are such a perfect stranger in the house, that you are puzzled by
my familiar references to the worthy inhabitants. Natural enough: I
ought to have thought of it before. At any rate, I can set it right
now. Suppose I begin with myself, so as to get done with that part of
the subject as soon as possible? My name is Marian Halcombe; and I am
as inaccurate as women usually are, in calling Mr. Fairlie my uncle,
and Miss Fairlie my sister. My mother was twice married: the first
time to Mr. Halcombe, my father; the second time to Mr. Fairlie, my
half-sister’s father. Except that we are both orphans, we are in every
respect as unlike each other as possible. My father was a poor man, and
Miss Fairlie’s father was a rich man. I have got nothing, and she has
a fortune. I am dark and ugly, and she is fair and pretty. Everybody
thinks me crabbed and odd (with perfect justice); and everybody thinks
her sweet-tempered and charming (with more justice still). In short,
she is an angel; and I am—— Try some of that marmalade, Mr. Hartright,
and finish the sentence, in the name of female propriety, for yourself.
What am I to tell you about Mr. Fairlie? Upon my honour, I hardly
know. He is sure to send for you after breakfast, and you can study
him for yourself. In the meantime, I may inform you, first, that he
is the late Mr. Fairlie’s younger brother; secondly, that he is a
single man; and thirdly, that he is Miss Fairlie’s guardian. I won’t
live without her, and she can’t live without me; and that is how I
come to be at Limmeridge House. My sister and I are honestly fond of
each other; which, you will say, is perfectly unaccountable, under the
circumstances, and I quite agree with you—but so it is. You must please
both of us, Mr. Hartright, or please neither of us: and, what is still
more trying, you will be thrown entirely upon our society. Mrs. Vesey
is an excellent person, who possesses all the cardinal virtues, and
counts for nothing; and Mr. Fairlie is too great an invalid to be a
companion for anybody. I don’t know what is the matter with him, and
the doctors don’t know what is the matter with him, and he doesn’t know
himself what is the matter with him. We all say it’s on the nerves, and
we none of us know what we mean when we say it. However, I advise you
to humour his little peculiarities, when you see him to-day. Admire
his collection of coins, prints, and water-colour drawings, and you
will win his heart. Upon my word, if you can be contented with a quiet
country life, I don’t see why you should not get on very well here.
From breakfast to lunch, Mr. Fairlie’s drawings will occupy you. After
lunch, Miss Fairlie and I shoulder our sketch-books, and go out to
misrepresent Nature, under your directions. Drawing is her favourite
whim, mind, not mine. Women can’t draw—their minds are too flighty,
and their eyes are too inattentive. No matter—my sister likes it; so I
waste paint and spoil paper, for her sake, as composedly as any woman
in England. As for the evenings, I think we can help you through them.
Miss Fairlie plays delightfully. For my own poor part, I don’t know one
note of music from the other; but I can match you at chess, backgammon,
ecarte, and (with the inevitable female drawbacks) even at billiards as
well. What do you think of the programme? Can you reconcile yourself
to our quiet, regular life? or do you mean to be restless, and
secretly thirst for change and adventure, in the humdrum atmosphere of
Limmeridge House?”

She had run on thus far, in her gracefully bantering way, with no other
interruptions on my part than the unimportant replies which politeness
required of me. The turn of the expression, however, in her last
question, or rather the one chance word, “adventure,” lightly as it
fell from her lips, recalled my thoughts to my meeting with the woman
in white, and urged me to discover the connection which the stranger’s
own reference to Mrs. Fairlie informed me must once have existed
between the nameless fugitive from the Asylum, and the former mistress
of Limmeridge House.

“Even if I were the most restless of mankind,” I said, “I should be
in no danger of thirsting after adventures for some time to come. The
very night before I arrived at this house, I met with an adventure; and
the wonder and excitement of it, I can assure you, Miss Halcombe, will
last me for the whole term of my stay in Cumberland, if not for a much
longer period.”

“You don’t say so, Mr. Hartright! May I hear it?”

“You have a claim to hear it. The chief person in the adventure was a
total stranger to me, and may perhaps be a total stranger to you; but
she certainly mentioned the name of the late Mrs. Fairlie in terms of
the sincerest gratitude and regard.”

“Mentioned my mother’s name! You interest me indescribably. Pray go on.”

I at once related the circumstances under which I had met the woman in
white, exactly as they had occurred; and I repeated what she had said
to me about Mrs. Fairlie and Limmeridge House, word for word.

Miss Halcombe’s bright resolute eyes looked eagerly into mine, from
the beginning of the narrative to the end. Her face expressed vivid
interest and astonishment, but nothing more. She was evidently as far
from knowing of any clue to the mystery as I was myself.

“Are you quite sure of those words referring to my mother?” she asked.

“Quite sure,” I replied. “Whoever she may be, the woman was once at
school in the village of Limmeridge, was treated with especial kindness
by Mrs. Fairlie, and, in grateful remembrance of that kindness, feels
an affectionate interest in all surviving members of the family. She
knew that Mrs. Fairlie and her husband were both dead; and she spoke of
Miss Fairlie as if they had known each other when they were children.”

“You said, I think, that she denied belonging to this place?”

“Yes, she told me she came from Hampshire.”

“And you entirely failed to find out her name?”

“Entirely.”

“Very strange. I think you were quite justified, Mr. Hartright, in
giving the poor creature her liberty, for she seems to have done
nothing in your presence to show herself unfit to enjoy it. But I wish
you had been a little more resolute about finding out her name. We must
really clear up this mystery, in some way. You had better not speak of
it yet to Mr. Fairlie, or to my sister. They are both of them, I am
certain, quite as ignorant of who the woman is, and of what her past
history in connection with us can be, as I am myself. But they are
also, in widely different ways, rather nervous and sensitive; and you
would only fidget one and alarm the other to no purpose. As for myself,
I am all aflame with curiosity, and I devote my whole energies to the
business of discovery from this moment. When my mother came here, after
her second marriage, she certainly established the village school just
as it exists at the present time. But the old teachers are all dead,
or gone elsewhere; and no enlightenment is to be hoped for from that
quarter. The only other alternative I can think of——”

At this point we were interrupted by the entrance of the servant, with
a message from Mr. Fairlie, intimating that he would be glad to see me,
as soon as I had done breakfast.

“Wait in the hall,” said Miss Halcombe, answering the servant for me,
in her quick, ready way. “Mr. Hartright will come out directly. I was
about to say,” she went on, addressing me again, “that my sister and I
have a large collection of my mother’s letters, addressed to my father
and to hers. In the absence of any other means of getting information,
I will pass the morning in looking over my mother’s correspondence
with Mr. Fairlie. He was fond of London, and was constantly away from
his country home; and she was accustomed, at such times, to write and
report to him how things went on at Limmeridge. Her letters are full of
references to the school in which she took so strong an interest; and
I think it more than likely that I may have discovered something when
we meet again. The luncheon hour is two, Mr. Hartright. I shall have
the pleasure of introducing you to my sister by that time, and we will
occupy the afternoon in driving round the neighbourhood and showing you
all our pet points of view. Till two o’clock, then, farewell.”

She nodded to me with the lively grace, the delightful refinement of
familiarity, which characterised all that she did and all that she
said; and disappeared by a door at the lower end of the room. As soon
as she had left me, I turned my steps towards the hall, and followed
the servant, on my way, for the first time, to the presence of Mr.
Fairlie.



VII

My conductor led me upstairs into a passage which took us back to the
bedchamber in which I had slept during the past night; and opening the
door next to it, begged me to look in.

“I have my master’s orders to show you your own sitting-room, sir,”
said the man, “and to inquire if you approve of the situation and the
light.”

I must have been hard to please, indeed, if I had not approved of the
room, and of everything about it. The bow-window looked out on the
same lovely view which I had admired, in the morning, from my bedroom.
The furniture was the perfection of luxury and beauty; the table in
the centre was bright with gaily bound books, elegant conveniences for
writing, and beautiful flowers; the second table, near the window, was
covered with all the necessary materials for mounting water-colour
drawings, and had a little easel attached to it, which I could expand
or fold up at will; the walls were hung with gaily tinted chintz; and
the floor was spread with Indian matting in maize-colour and red. It
was the prettiest and most luxurious little sitting-room I had ever
seen; and I admired it with the warmest enthusiasm.

The solemn servant was far too highly trained to betray the slightest
satisfaction. He bowed with icy deference when my terms of eulogy were
all exhausted, and silently opened the door for me to go out into the
passage again.

We turned a corner, and entered a long second passage, ascended a short
flight of stairs at the end, crossed a small circular upper hall, and
stopped in front of a door covered with dark baize. The servant opened
this door, and led me on a few yards to a second; opened that also, and
disclosed two curtains of pale sea-green silk hanging before us; raised
one of them noiselessly; softly uttered the words, “Mr. Hartright,” and
left me.

I found myself in a large, lofty room, with a magnificent carved
ceiling, and with a carpet over the floor, so thick and soft that it
felt like piles of velvet under my feet. One side of the room was
occupied by a long book-case of some rare inlaid wood that was quite
new to me. It was not more than six feet high, and the top was adorned
with statuettes in marble, ranged at regular distances one from the
other. On the opposite side stood two antique cabinets; and between
them, and above them, hung a picture of the Virgin and Child, protected
by glass, and bearing Raphael’s name on the gilt tablet at the bottom
of the frame. On my right hand and on my left, as I stood inside the
door, were chiffoniers and little stands in buhl and marquetterie,
loaded with figures in Dresden china, with rare vases, ivory ornaments,
and toys and curiosities that sparkled at all points with gold, silver,
and precious stones. At the lower end of the room, opposite to me, the
windows were concealed and the sunlight was tempered by large blinds
of the same pale sea-green colour as the curtains over the door. The
light thus produced was deliciously soft, mysterious, and subdued; it
fell equally upon all the objects in the room; it helped to intensify
the deep silence, and the air of profound seclusion that possessed
the place; and it surrounded, with an appropriate halo of repose, the
solitary figure of the master of the house, leaning back, listlessly
composed, in a large easy-chair, with a reading-easel fastened on one
of its arms, and a little table on the other.

If a man’s personal appearance, when he is out of his dressing-room,
and when he has passed forty, can be accepted as a safe guide to his
time of life—which is more than doubtful—Mr. Fairlie’s age, when I saw
him, might have been reasonably computed at over fifty and under sixty
years. His beardless face was thin, worn, and transparently pale, but
not wrinkled; his nose was high and hooked; his eyes were of a dim
greyish blue, large, prominent, and rather red round the rims of the
eyelids; his hair was scanty, soft to look at, and of that light sandy
colour which is the last to disclose its own changes towards grey. He
was dressed in a dark frock-coat, of some substance much thinner than
cloth, and in waistcoat and trousers of spotless white. His feet were
effeminately small, and were clad in buff-coloured silk stockings,
and little womanish bronze-leather slippers. Two rings adorned his
white delicate hands, the value of which even my inexperienced
observation detected to be all but priceless. Upon the whole, he had
a frail, languidly-fretful, over-refined look—something singularly
and unpleasantly delicate in its association with a man, and, at the
same time, something which could by no possibility have looked natural
and appropriate if it had been transferred to the personal appearance
of a woman. My morning’s experience of Miss Halcombe had predisposed
me to be pleased with everybody in the house; but my sympathies shut
themselves up resolutely at the first sight of Mr. Fairlie.

On approaching nearer to him, I discovered that he was not so entirely
without occupation as I had at first supposed. Placed amid the other
rare and beautiful objects on a large round table near him, was a
dwarf cabinet in ebony and silver, containing coins of all shapes and
sizes, set out in little drawers lined with dark purple velvet. One of
these drawers lay on the small table attached to his chair; and near
it were some tiny jeweller’s brushes, a wash-leather “stump,” and a
little bottle of liquid, all waiting to be used in various ways for the
removal of any accidental impurities which might be discovered on the
coins. His frail white fingers were listlessly toying with something
which looked, to my uninstructed eyes, like a dirty pewter medal with
ragged edges, when I advanced within a respectful distance of his
chair, and stopped to make my bow.

“So glad to possess you at Limmeridge, Mr. Hartright,” he said in a
querulous, croaking voice, which combined, in anything but an agreeable
manner, a discordantly high tone with a drowsily languid utterance.
“Pray sit down. And don’t trouble yourself to move the chair, please.
In the wretched state of my nerves, movement of any kind is exquisitely
painful to me. Have you seen your studio? Will it do?”

“I have just come from seeing the room, Mr. Fairlie; and I assure you——”

He stopped me in the middle of the sentence, by closing his eyes,
and holding up one of his white hands imploringly. I paused in
astonishment; and the croaking voice honoured me with this explanation—

“Pray excuse me. But could you contrive to speak in a lower key? In the
wretched state of my nerves, loud sound of any kind is indescribable
torture to me. You will pardon an invalid? I only say to you what the
lamentable state of my health obliges me to say to everybody. Yes. And
you really like the room?”

“I could wish for nothing prettier and nothing more comfortable,” I
answered, dropping my voice, and beginning to discover already that Mr.
Fairlie’s selfish affectation and Mr. Fairlie’s wretched nerves meant
one and the same thing.

“So glad. You will find your position here, Mr. Hartright, properly
recognised. There is none of the horrid English barbarity of feeling
about the social position of an artist in this house. So much of
my early life has been passed abroad, that I have quite cast my
insular skin in that respect. I wish I could say the same of the
gentry—detestable word, but I suppose I must use it—of the gentry in
the neighbourhood. They are sad Goths in Art, Mr. Hartright. People,
I do assure you, who would have opened their eyes in astonishment, if
they had seen Charles the Fifth pick up Titian’s brush for him. Do you
mind putting this tray of coins back in the cabinet, and giving me the
next one to it? In the wretched state of my nerves, exertion of any
kind is unspeakably disagreeable to me. Yes. Thank you.”

As a practical commentary on the liberal social theory which he had
just favoured me by illustrating, Mr. Fairlie’s cool request rather
amused me. I put back one drawer and gave him the other, with all
possible politeness. He began trifling with the new set of coins and
the little brushes immediately; languidly looking at them and admiring
them all the time he was speaking to me.

“A thousand thanks and a thousand excuses. Do you like coins? Yes.
So glad we have another taste in common besides our taste for Art.
Now, about the pecuniary arrangements between us—do tell me—are they
satisfactory?”

“Most satisfactory, Mr. Fairlie.”

“So glad. And—what next? Ah! I remember. Yes. In reference to the
consideration which you are good enough to accept for giving me the
benefit of your accomplishments in art, my steward will wait on you at
the end of the first week, to ascertain your wishes. And—what next?
Curious, is it not? I had a great deal more to say: and I appear to
have quite forgotten it. Do you mind touching the bell? In that corner.
Yes. Thank you.”

I rang; and a new servant noiselessly made his appearance—a foreigner,
with a set smile and perfectly brushed hair—a valet every inch of him.

“Louis,” said Mr. Fairlie, dreamily dusting the tips of his fingers
with one of the tiny brushes for the coins, “I made some entries in
my tablettes this morning. Find my tablettes. A thousand pardons, Mr.
Hartright, I’m afraid I bore you.”

As he wearily closed his eyes again, before I could answer, and as he
did most assuredly bore me, I sat silent, and looked up at the Madonna
and Child by Raphael. In the meantime, the valet left the room, and
returned shortly with a little ivory book. Mr. Fairlie, after first
relieving himself by a gentle sigh, let the book drop open with one
hand, and held up the tiny brush with the other, as a sign to the
servant to wait for further orders.

“Yes. Just so!” said Mr. Fairlie, consulting the tablettes. “Louis,
take down that portfolio.” He pointed, as he spoke, to several
portfolios placed near the window, on mahogany stands. “No. Not the one
with the green back—that contains my Rembrandt etchings, Mr. Hartright.
Do you like etchings? Yes? So glad we have another taste in common.
The portfolio with the red back, Louis. Don’t drop it! You have no
idea of the tortures I should suffer, Mr. Hartright, if Louis dropped
that portfolio. Is it safe on the chair? Do YOU think it safe, Mr.
Hartright? Yes? So glad. Will you oblige me by looking at the drawings,
if you really think they are quite safe. Louis, go away. What an ass
you are. Don’t you see me holding the tablettes? Do you suppose I want
to hold them? Then why not relieve me of the tablettes without being
told? A thousand pardons, Mr. Hartright; servants are such asses, are
they not? Do tell me—what do you think of the drawings? They have come
from a sale in a shocking state—I thought they smelt of horrid dealers’
and brokers’ fingers when I looked at them last. CAN you undertake
them?”

Although my nerves were not delicate enough to detect the odour of
plebeian fingers which had offended Mr. Fairlie’s nostrils, my taste
was sufficiently educated to enable me to appreciate the value of the
drawings, while I turned them over. They were, for the most part,
really fine specimens of English water-colour art; and they had
deserved much better treatment at the hands of their former possessor
than they appeared to have received.

“The drawings,” I answered, “require careful straining and mounting;
and, in my opinion, they are well worth——”

“I beg your pardon,” interposed Mr. Fairlie. “Do you mind my closing my
eyes while you speak? Even this light is too much for them. Yes?”

“I was about to say that the drawings are well worth all the time and
trouble——”

Mr. Fairlie suddenly opened his eyes again, and rolled them with an
expression of helpless alarm in the direction of the window.

“I entreat you to excuse me, Mr. Hartright,” he said in a feeble
flutter. “But surely I hear some horrid children in the garden—my
private garden—below?”

“I can’t say, Mr. Fairlie. I heard nothing myself.”

“Oblige me—you have been so very good in humouring my poor
nerves—oblige me by lifting up a corner of the blind. Don’t let the sun
in on me, Mr. Hartright! Have you got the blind up? Yes? Then will you
be so very kind as to look into the garden and make quite sure?”

I complied with this new request. The garden was carefully walled in,
all round. Not a human creature, large or small, appeared in any part
of the sacred seclusion. I reported that gratifying fact to Mr. Fairlie.

“A thousand thanks. My fancy, I suppose. There are no children, thank
Heaven, in the house; but the servants (persons born without nerves)
will encourage the children from the village. Such brats—oh, dear me,
such brats! Shall I confess it, Mr. Hartright?—I sadly want a reform
in the construction of children. Nature’s only idea seems to be to
make them machines for the production of incessant noise. Surely our
delightful Raffaello’s conception is infinitely preferable?”

He pointed to the picture of the Madonna, the upper part of which
represented the conventional cherubs of Italian Art, celestially
provided with sitting accommodation for their chins, on balloons of
buff-coloured cloud.

“Quite a model family!” said Mr. Fairlie, leering at the cherubs. “Such
nice round faces, and such nice soft wings, and—nothing else. No dirty
little legs to run about on, and no noisy little lungs to scream with.
How immeasurably superior to the existing construction! I will close
my eyes again, if you will allow me. And you really can manage the
drawings? So glad. Is there anything else to settle? if there is, I
think I have forgotten it. Shall we ring for Louis again?”

Being, by this time, quite as anxious, on my side, as Mr. Fairlie
evidently was on his, to bring the interview to a speedy conclusion, I
thought I would try to render the summoning of the servant unnecessary,
by offering the requisite suggestion on my own responsibility.

“The only point, Mr. Fairlie, that remains to be discussed,” I said,
“refers, I think, to the instruction in sketching which I am engaged to
communicate to the two young ladies.”

“Ah! just so,” said Mr. Fairlie. “I wish I felt strong enough to go
into that part of the arrangement—but I don’t. The ladies who profit by
your kind services, Mr. Hartright, must settle, and decide, and so on,
for themselves. My niece is fond of your charming art. She knows just
enough about it to be conscious of her own sad defects. Please take
pains with her. Yes. Is there anything else? No. We quite understand
each other—don’t we? I have no right to detain you any longer from your
delightful pursuit—have I? So pleasant to have settled everything—such
a sensible relief to have done business. Do you mind ringing for Louis
to carry the portfolio to your own room?”

“I will carry it there myself, Mr. Fairlie, if you will allow me.”

“Will you really? Are you strong enough? How nice to be so strong!
Are you sure you won’t drop it? So glad to possess you at Limmeridge,
Mr. Hartright. I am such a sufferer that I hardly dare hope to enjoy
much of your society. Would you mind taking great pains not to let the
doors bang, and not to drop the portfolio? Thank you. Gently with the
curtains, please—the slightest noise from them goes through me like a
knife. Yes. GOOD morning!”

When the sea-green curtains were closed, and when the two baize doors
were shut behind me, I stopped for a moment in the little circular hall
beyond, and drew a long, luxurious breath of relief. It was like coming
to the surface of the water after deep diving, to find myself once more
on the outside of Mr. Fairlie’s room.

As soon as I was comfortably established for the morning in my pretty
little studio, the first resolution at which I arrived was to turn my
steps no more in the direction of the apartments occupied by the master
of the house, except in the very improbable event of his honouring me
with a special invitation to pay him another visit. Having settled
this satisfactory plan of future conduct in reference to Mr. Fairlie,
I soon recovered the serenity of temper of which my employer’s haughty
familiarity and impudent politeness had, for the moment, deprived me.
The remaining hours of the morning passed away pleasantly enough, in
looking over the drawings, arranging them in sets, trimming their
ragged edges, and accomplishing the other necessary preparations in
anticipation of the business of mounting them. I ought, perhaps, to
have made more progress than this; but, as the luncheon-time drew near,
I grew restless and unsettled, and felt unable to fix my attention on
work, even though that work was only of the humble manual kind.

At two o’clock I descended again to the breakfast-room, a little
anxiously. Expectations of some interest were connected with my
approaching reappearance in that part of the house. My introduction
to Miss Fairlie was now close at hand; and, if Miss Halcombe’s search
through her mother’s letters had produced the result which she
anticipated, the time had come for clearing up the mystery of the woman
in white.



VIII

When I entered the room, I found Miss Halcombe and an elderly lady
seated at the luncheon-table.

The elderly lady, when I was presented to her, proved to be Miss
Fairlie’s former governess, Mrs. Vesey, who had been briefly described
to me by my lively companion at the breakfast-table, as possessed
of “all the cardinal virtues, and counting for nothing.” I can do
little more than offer my humble testimony to the truthfulness of
Miss Halcombe’s sketch of the old lady’s character. Mrs. Vesey looked
the personification of human composure and female amiability. A calm
enjoyment of a calm existence beamed in drowsy smiles on her plump,
placid face. Some of us rush through life, and some of us saunter
through life. Mrs. Vesey SAT through life. Sat in the house, early and
late; sat in the garden; sat in unexpected window-seats in passages;
sat (on a camp-stool) when her friends tried to take her out walking;
sat before she looked at anything, before she talked of anything,
before she answered Yes, or No, to the commonest question—always with
the same serene smile on her lips, the same vacantly-attentive turn
of the head, the same snugly-comfortable position of her hands and
arms, under every possible change of domestic circumstances. A mild, a
compliant, an unutterably tranquil and harmless old lady, who never by
any chance suggested the idea that she had been actually alive since
the hour of her birth. Nature has so much to do in this world, and is
engaged in generating such a vast variety of co-existent productions,
that she must surely be now and then too flurried and confused to
distinguish between the different processes that she is carrying on at
the same time. Starting from this point of view, it will always remain
my private persuasion that Nature was absorbed in making cabbages when
Mrs. Vesey was born, and that the good lady suffered the consequences
of a vegetable preoccupation in the mind of the Mother of us all.

“Now, Mrs. Vesey,” said Miss Halcombe, looking brighter, sharper, and
readier than ever, by contrast with the undemonstrative old lady at her
side, “what will you have? A cutlet?”

Mrs. Vesey crossed her dimpled hands on the edge of the table, smiled
placidly, and said, “Yes, dear.”

“What is that opposite Mr. Hartright? Boiled chicken, is it not? I
thought you liked boiled chicken better than cutlet, Mrs. Vesey?”

Mrs. Vesey took her dimpled hands off the edge of the table and crossed
them on her lap instead; nodded contemplatively at the boiled chicken,
and said, “Yes, dear.”

“Well, but which will you have, to-day? Shall Mr. Hartright give you
some chicken? or shall I give you some cutlet?”

Mrs. Vesey put one of her dimpled hands back again on the edge of the
table; hesitated drowsily, and said, “Which you please, dear.”

“Mercy on me! it’s a question for your taste, my good lady, not for
mine. Suppose you have a little of both? and suppose you begin with the
chicken, because Mr. Hartright looks devoured by anxiety to carve for
you.”

Mrs. Vesey put the other dimpled hand back on the edge of the table;
brightened dimly one moment; went out again the next; bowed obediently,
and said, “If you please, sir.”

Surely a mild, a compliant, an unutterably tranquil and harmless old
lady! But enough, perhaps, for the present, of Mrs. Vesey.


All this time, there were no signs of Miss Fairlie. We finished our
luncheon; and still she never appeared. Miss Halcombe, whose quick eye
nothing escaped, noticed the looks that I cast, from time to time, in
the direction of the door.

“I understand you, Mr. Hartright,” she said; “you are wondering what
has become of your other pupil. She has been downstairs, and has got
over her headache; but has not sufficiently recovered her appetite to
join us at lunch. If you will put yourself under my charge, I think I
can undertake to find her somewhere in the garden.”

She took up a parasol lying on a chair near her, and led the way out,
by a long window at the bottom of the room, which opened on to the
lawn. It is almost unnecessary to say that we left Mrs. Vesey still
seated at the table, with her dimpled hands still crossed on the
edge of it; apparently settled in that position for the rest of the
afternoon.

As we crossed the lawn, Miss Halcombe looked at me significantly, and
shook her head.

“That mysterious adventure of yours,” she said, “still remains involved
in its own appropriate midnight darkness. I have been all the morning
looking over my mother’s letters, and I have made no discoveries yet.
However, don’t despair, Mr. Hartright. This is a matter of curiosity;
and you have got a woman for your ally. Under such conditions success
is certain, sooner or later. The letters are not exhausted. I have
three packets still left, and you may confidently rely on my spending
the whole evening over them.”

Here, then, was one of my anticipations of the morning still
unfulfilled. I began to wonder, next, whether my introduction to Miss
Fairlie would disappoint the expectations that I had been forming of
her since breakfast-time.

“And how did you get on with Mr. Fairlie?” inquired Miss Halcombe, as
we left the lawn and turned into a shrubbery. “Was he particularly
nervous this morning? Never mind considering about your answer, Mr.
Hartright. The mere fact of your being obliged to consider is enough
for me. I see in your face that he WAS particularly nervous; and, as
I am amiably unwilling to throw you into the same condition, I ask no
more.”

We turned off into a winding path while she was speaking, and
approached a pretty summer-house, built of wood, in the form of a
miniature Swiss chalet. The one room of the summer-house, as we
ascended the steps of the door, was occupied by a young lady. She was
standing near a rustic table, looking out at the inland view of moor
and hill presented by a gap in the trees, and absently turning over
the leaves of a little sketch-book that lay at her side. This was Miss
Fairlie.

How can I describe her? How can I separate her from my own sensations,
and from all that has happened in the later time? How can I see her
again as she looked when my eyes first rested on her—as she should
look, now, to the eyes that are about to see her in these pages?

The water-colour drawing that I made of Laura Fairlie, at an after
period, in the place and attitude in which I first saw her, lies on my
desk while I write. I look at it, and there dawns upon me brightly,
from the dark greenish-brown background of the summer-house, a light,
youthful figure, clothed in a simple muslin dress, the pattern of it
formed by broad alternate stripes of delicate blue and white. A scarf
of the same material sits crisply and closely round her shoulders, and
a little straw hat of the natural colour, plainly and sparingly trimmed
with ribbon to match the gown, covers her head, and throws its soft
pearly shadow over the upper part of her face. Her hair is of so faint
and pale a brown—not flaxen, and yet almost as light; not golden, and
yet almost as glossy—that it nearly melts, here and there, into the
shadow of the hat. It is plainly parted and drawn back over her ears,
and the line of it ripples naturally as it crosses her forehead. The
eyebrows are rather darker than the hair; and the eyes are of that
soft, limpid, turquoise blue, so often sung by the poets, so seldom
seen in real life. Lovely eyes in colour, lovely eyes in form—large
and tender and quietly thoughtful—but beautiful above all things in
the clear truthfulness of look that dwells in their inmost depths, and
shines through all their changes of expression with the light of a
purer and a better world. The charm—most gently and yet most distinctly
expressed—which they shed over the whole face, so covers and transforms
its little natural human blemishes elsewhere, that it is difficult
to estimate the relative merits and defects of the other features.
It is hard to see that the lower part of the face is too delicately
refined away towards the chin to be in full and fair proportion with
the upper part; that the nose, in escaping the aquiline bend (always
hard and cruel in a woman, no matter how abstractedly perfect it may
be), has erred a little in the other extreme, and has missed the ideal
straightness of line; and that the sweet, sensitive lips are subject
to a slight nervous contraction, when she smiles, which draws them
upward a little at one corner, towards the cheek. It might be possible
to note these blemishes in another woman’s face but it is not easy
to dwell on them in hers, so subtly are they connected with all that
is individual and characteristic in her expression, and so closely
does the expression depend for its full play and life, in every other
feature, on the moving impulse of the eyes.

Does my poor portrait of her, my fond, patient labour of long and
happy days, show me these things? Ah, how few of them are in the dim
mechanical drawing, and how many in the mind with which I regard it!
A fair, delicate girl, in a pretty light dress, trifling with the
leaves of a sketch-book, while she looks up from it with truthful,
innocent blue eyes—that is all the drawing can say; all, perhaps, that
even the deeper reach of thought and pen can say in their language,
either. The woman who first gives life, light, and form to our shadowy
conceptions of beauty, fills a void in our spiritual nature that has
remained unknown to us till she appeared. Sympathies that lie too deep
for words, too deep almost for thoughts, are touched, at such times, by
other charms than those which the senses feel and which the resources
of expression can realise. The mystery which underlies the beauty of
women is never raised above the reach of all expression until it has
claimed kindred with the deeper mystery in our own souls. Then, and
then only, has it passed beyond the narrow region on which light falls,
in this world, from the pencil and the pen.

Think of her as you thought of the first woman who quickened the pulses
within you that the rest of her sex had no art to stir. Let the kind,
candid blue eyes meet yours, as they met mine, with the one matchless
look which we both remember so well. Let her voice speak the music that
you once loved best, attuned as sweetly to your ear as to mine. Let her
footstep, as she comes and goes, in these pages, be like that other
footstep to whose airy fall your own heart once beat time. Take her as
the visionary nursling of your own fancy; and she will grow upon you,
all the more clearly, as the living woman who dwells in mine.

Among the sensations that crowded on me, when my eyes first looked upon
her—familiar sensations which we all know, which spring to life in most
of our hearts, die again in so many, and renew their bright existence
in so few—there was one that troubled and perplexed me: one that seemed
strangely inconsistent and unaccountably out of place in Miss Fairlie’s
presence.

Mingling with the vivid impression produced by the charm of her fair
face and head, her sweet expression, and her winning simplicity of
manner, was another impression, which, in a shadowy way, suggested to
me the idea of something wanting. At one time it seemed like something
wanting in HER: at another, like something wanting in myself, which
hindered me from understanding her as I ought. The impression was
always strongest in the most contradictory manner, when she looked
at me; or, in other words, when I was most conscious of the harmony
and charm of her face, and yet, at the same time, most troubled by
the sense of an incompleteness which it was impossible to discover.
Something wanting, something wanting—and where it was, and what it was,
I could not say.

The effect of this curious caprice of fancy (as I thought it then) was
not of a nature to set me at my ease, during a first interview with
Miss Fairlie. The few kind words of welcome which she spoke found me
hardly self-possessed enough to thank her in the customary phrases of
reply. Observing my hesitation, and no doubt attributing it, naturally
enough, to some momentary shyness on my part, Miss Halcombe took the
business of talking, as easily and readily as usual, into her own hands.

“Look there, Mr. Hartright,” she said, pointing to the sketch-book on
the table, and to the little delicate wandering hand that was still
trifling with it. “Surely you will acknowledge that your model pupil
is found at last? The moment she hears that you are in the house, she
seizes her inestimable sketch-book, looks universal Nature straight in
the face, and longs to begin!”

Miss Fairlie laughed with a ready good-humour, which broke out as
brightly as if it had been part of the sunshine above us, over her
lovely face.

“I must not take credit to myself where no credit is due,” she said,
her clear, truthful blue eyes looking alternately at Miss Halcombe and
at me. “Fond as I am of drawing, I am so conscious of my own ignorance
that I am more afraid than anxious to begin. Now I know you are here,
Mr. Hartright, I find myself looking over my sketches, as I used to
look over my lessons when I was a little girl, and when I was sadly
afraid that I should turn out not fit to be heard.”

She made the confession very prettily and simply, and, with quaint,
childish earnestness, drew the sketch-book away close to her own side
of the table. Miss Halcombe cut the knot of the little embarrassment
forthwith, in her resolute, downright way.

“Good, bad, or indifferent,” she said, “the pupil’s sketches must
pass through the fiery ordeal of the master’s judgment—and there’s an
end of it. Suppose we take them with us in the carriage, Laura, and
let Mr. Hartright see them, for the first time, under circumstances
of perpetual jolting and interruption? If we can only confuse him
all through the drive, between Nature as it is, when he looks up at
the view, and Nature as it is not when he looks down again at our
sketch-books, we shall drive him into the last desperate refuge of
paying us compliments, and shall slip through his professional fingers
with our pet feathers of vanity all unruffled.”

“I hope Mr. Hartright will pay ME no compliments,” said Miss Fairlie,
as we all left the summer-house.

“May I venture to inquire why you express that hope?” I asked.

“Because I shall believe all that you say to me,” she answered simply.

In those few words she unconsciously gave me the key to her whole
character: to that generous trust in others which, in her nature,
grew innocently out of the sense of her own truth. I only knew it
intuitively then. I know it by experience now.

We merely waited to rouse good Mrs. Vesey from the place which she
still occupied at the deserted luncheon-table, before we entered the
open carriage for our promised drive. The old lady and Miss Halcombe
occupied the back seat, and Miss Fairlie and I sat together in front,
with the sketch-book open between us, fairly exhibited at last to my
professional eyes. All serious criticism on the drawings, even if I
had been disposed to volunteer it, was rendered impossible by Miss
Halcombe’s lively resolution to see nothing but the ridiculous side
of the Fine Arts, as practised by herself, her sister, and ladies in
general. I can remember the conversation that passed far more easily
than the sketches that I mechanically looked over. That part of the
talk, especially, in which Miss Fairlie took any share, is still as
vividly impressed on my memory as if I had heard it only a few hours
ago.

Yes! let me acknowledge that on this first day I let the charm of her
presence lure me from the recollection of myself and my position. The
most trifling of the questions that she put to me, on the subject of
using her pencil and mixing her colours; the slightest alterations
of expression in the lovely eyes that looked into mine with such an
earnest desire to learn all that I could teach, and to discover all
that I could show, attracted more of my attention than the finest view
we passed through, or the grandest changes of light and shade, as they
flowed into each other over the waving moorland and the level beach.
At any time, and under any circumstances of human interest, is it not
strange to see how little real hold the objects of the natural world
amid which we live can gain on our hearts and minds? We go to Nature
for comfort in trouble, and sympathy in joy, only in books. Admiration
of those beauties of the inanimate world, which modern poetry so
largely and so eloquently describes, is not, even in the best of us,
one of the original instincts of our nature. As children, we none of
us possess it. No uninstructed man or woman possesses it. Those whose
lives are most exclusively passed amid the ever-changing wonders of
sea and land are also those who are most universally insensible to
every aspect of Nature not directly associated with the human interest
of their calling. Our capacity of appreciating the beauties of the
earth we live on is, in truth, one of the civilised accomplishments
which we all learn as an Art; and, more, that very capacity is rarely
practised by any of us except when our minds are most indolent and
most unoccupied. How much share have the attractions of Nature ever
had in the pleasurable or painful interests and emotions of ourselves
or our friends? What space do they ever occupy in the thousand little
narratives of personal experience which pass every day by word of
mouth from one of us to the other? All that our minds can compass, all
that our hearts can learn, can be accomplished with equal certainty,
equal profit, and equal satisfaction to ourselves, in the poorest as
in the richest prospect that the face of the earth can show. There is
surely a reason for this want of inborn sympathy between the creature
and the creation around it, a reason which may perhaps be found in
the widely-differing destinies of man and his earthly sphere. The
grandest mountain prospect that the eye can range over is appointed to
annihilation. The smallest human interest that the pure heart can feel
is appointed to immortality.

We had been out nearly three hours, when the carriage again passed
through the gates of Limmeridge House.

On our way back I had let the ladies settle for themselves the first
point of view which they were to sketch, under my instructions, on the
afternoon of the next day. When they withdrew to dress for dinner, and
when I was alone again in my little sitting-room, my spirits seemed to
leave me on a sudden. I felt ill at ease and dissatisfied with myself,
I hardly knew why. Perhaps I was now conscious for the first time of
having enjoyed our drive too much in the character of a guest, and
too little in the character of a drawing-master. Perhaps that strange
sense of something wanting, either in Miss Fairlie or in myself, which
had perplexed me when I was first introduced to her, haunted me still.
Anyhow, it was a relief to my spirits when the dinner-hour called me
out of my solitude, and took me back to the society of the ladies of
the house.

I was struck, on entering the drawing-room, by the curious contrast,
rather in material than in colour, of the dresses which they now wore.
While Mrs. Vesey and Miss Halcombe were richly clad (each in the manner
most becoming to her age), the first in silver-grey, and the second
in that delicate primrose-yellow colour which matches so well with a
dark complexion and black hair, Miss Fairlie was unpretendingly and
almost poorly dressed in plain white muslin. It was spotlessly pure:
it was beautifully put on; but still it was the sort of dress which
the wife or daughter of a poor man might have worn, and it made her,
so far as externals went, look less affluent in circumstances than her
own governess. At a later period, when I learnt to know more of Miss
Fairlie’s character, I discovered that this curious contrast, on the
wrong side, was due to her natural delicacy of feeling and natural
intensity of aversion to the slightest personal display of her own
wealth. Neither Mrs. Vesey nor Miss Halcombe could ever induce her to
let the advantage in dress desert the two ladies who were poor, to lean
to the side of the one lady who was rich.

When the dinner was over we returned together to the drawing-room.
Although Mr. Fairlie (emulating the magnificent condescension of the
monarch who had picked up Titian’s brush for him) had instructed his
butler to consult my wishes in relation to the wine that I might
prefer after dinner, I was resolute enough to resist the temptation
of sitting in solitary grandeur among bottles of my own choosing, and
sensible enough to ask the ladies’ permission to leave the table with
them habitually, on the civilised foreign plan, during the period of my
residence at Limmeridge House.

The drawing-room, to which we had now withdrawn for the rest of the
evening, was on the ground-floor, and was of the same shape and size as
the breakfast-room. Large glass doors at the lower end opened on to a
terrace, beautifully ornamented along its whole length with a profusion
of flowers. The soft, hazy twilight was just shading leaf and blossom
alike into harmony with its own sober hues as we entered the room, and
the sweet evening scent of the flowers met us with its fragrant welcome
through the open glass doors. Good Mrs. Vesey (always the first of
the party to sit down) took possession of an arm-chair in a corner,
and dozed off comfortably to sleep. At my request Miss Fairlie placed
herself at the piano. As I followed her to a seat near the instrument,
I saw Miss Halcombe retire into a recess of one of the side windows, to
proceed with the search through her mother’s letters by the last quiet
rays of the evening light.

How vividly that peaceful home-picture of the drawing-room comes
back to me while I write! From the place where I sat I could see
Miss Halcombe’s graceful figure, half of it in soft light, half in
mysterious shadow, bending intently over the letters in her lap; while,
nearer to me, the fair profile of the player at the piano was just
delicately defined against the faintly-deepening background of the
inner wall of the room. Outside, on the terrace, the clustering flowers
and long grasses and creepers waved so gently in the light evening air,
that the sound of their rustling never reached us. The sky was without
a cloud, and the dawning mystery of moonlight began to tremble already
in the region of the eastern heaven. The sense of peace and seclusion
soothed all thought and feeling into a rapt, unearthly repose; and the
balmy quiet, that deepened ever with the deepening light, seemed to
hover over us with a gentler influence still, when there stole upon it
from the piano the heavenly tenderness of the music of Mozart. It was
an evening of sights and sounds never to forget.

We all sat silent in the places we had chosen—Mrs. Vesey still
sleeping, Miss Fairlie still playing, Miss Halcombe still reading—till
the light failed us. By this time the moon had stolen round to the
terrace, and soft, mysterious rays of light were slanting already
across the lower end of the room. The change from the twilight
obscurity was so beautiful that we banished the lamps, by common
consent, when the servant brought them in, and kept the large room
unlighted, except by the glimmer of the two candles at the piano.

For half an hour more the music still went on. After that the beauty of
the moonlight view on the terrace tempted Miss Fairlie out to look at
it, and I followed her. When the candles at the piano had been lighted
Miss Halcombe had changed her place, so as to continue her examination
of the letters by their assistance. We left her, on a low chair, at one
side of the instrument, so absorbed over her reading that she did not
seem to notice when we moved.

We had been out on the terrace together, just in front of the glass
doors, hardly so long as five minutes, I should think; and Miss Fairlie
was, by my advice, just tying her white handkerchief over her head
as a precaution against the night air—when I heard Miss Halcombe’s
voice—low, eager, and altered from its natural lively tone—pronounce my
name.

“Mr. Hartright,” she said, “will you come here for a minute? I want to
speak to you.”

I entered the room again immediately. The piano stood about half-way
down along the inner wall. On the side of the instrument farthest from
the terrace Miss Halcombe was sitting with the letters scattered on her
lap, and with one in her hand selected from them, and held close to the
candle. On the side nearest to the terrace there stood a low ottoman,
on which I took my place. In this position I was not far from the glass
doors, and I could see Miss Fairlie plainly, as she passed and repassed
the opening on to the terrace, walking slowly from end to end of it in
the full radiance of the moon.

“I want you to listen while I read the concluding passages in this
letter,” said Miss Halcombe. “Tell me if you think they throw any
light upon your strange adventure on the road to London. The letter
is addressed by my mother to her second husband, Mr. Fairlie, and the
date refers to a period of between eleven and twelve years since. At
that time Mr. and Mrs. Fairlie, and my half-sister Laura, had been
living for years in this house; and I was away from them completing my
education at a school in Paris.”

She looked and spoke earnestly, and, as I thought, a little uneasily
as well. At the moment when she raised the letter to the candle before
beginning to read it, Miss Fairlie passed us on the terrace, looked in
for a moment, and seeing that we were engaged, slowly walked on.

Miss Halcombe began to read as follows:—


“‘You will be tired, my dear Philip, of hearing perpetually about my
schools and my scholars. Lay the blame, pray, on the dull uniformity of
life at Limmeridge, and not on me. Besides, this time I have something
really interesting to tell you about a new scholar.

“‘You know old Mrs. Kempe at the village shop. Well, after years of
ailing, the doctor has at last given her up, and she is dying slowly
day by day. Her only living relation, a sister, arrived last week to
take care of her. This sister comes all the way from Hampshire—her name
is Mrs. Catherick. Four days ago Mrs. Catherick came here to see me,
and brought her only child with her, a sweet little girl about a year
older than our darling Laura——’”


As the last sentence fell from the reader’s lips, Miss Fairlie passed
us on the terrace once more. She was softly singing to herself one of
the melodies which she had been playing earlier in the evening. Miss
Halcombe waited till she had passed out of sight again, and then went
on with the letter—


“‘Mrs. Catherick is a decent, well-behaved, respectable woman;
middle-aged, and with the remains of having been moderately, only
moderately, nice-looking. There is something in her manner and in her
appearance, however, which I can’t make out. She is reserved about
herself to the point of downright secrecy, and there is a look in her
face—I can’t describe it—which suggests to me that she has something on
her mind. She is altogether what you would call a walking mystery. Her
errand at Limmeridge House, however, was simple enough. When she left
Hampshire to nurse her sister, Mrs. Kempe, through her last illness,
she had been obliged to bring her daughter with her, through having no
one at home to take care of the little girl. Mrs. Kempe may die in a
week’s time, or may linger on for months; and Mrs. Catherick’s object
was to ask me to let her daughter, Anne, have the benefit of attending
my school, subject to the condition of her being removed from it to go
home again with her mother, after Mrs. Kempe’s death. I consented at
once, and when Laura and I went out for our walk, we took the little
girl (who is just eleven years old) to the school that very day.’”


Once more Miss Fairlie’s figure, bright and soft in its snowy muslin
dress—her face prettily framed by the white folds of the handkerchief
which she had tied under her chin—passed by us in the moonlight. Once
more Miss Halcombe waited till she was out of sight, and then went on—


“‘I have taken a violent fancy, Philip, to my new scholar, for a reason
which I mean to keep till the last for the sake of surprising you.
Her mother having told me as little about the child as she told me of
herself, I was left to discover (which I did on the first day when we
tried her at lessons) that the poor little thing’s intellect is not
developed as it ought to be at her age. Seeing this I had her up to the
house the next day, and privately arranged with the doctor to come and
watch her and question her, and tell me what he thought. His opinion is
that she will grow out of it. But he says her careful bringing-up at
school is a matter of great importance just now, because her unusual
slowness in acquiring ideas implies an unusual tenacity in keeping
them, when they are once received into her mind. Now, my love, you must
not imagine, in your off-hand way, that I have been attaching myself
to an idiot. This poor little Anne Catherick is a sweet, affectionate,
grateful girl, and says the quaintest, prettiest things (as you
shall judge by an instance), in the most oddly sudden, surprised,
half-frightened way. Although she is dressed very neatly, her clothes
show a sad want of taste in colour and pattern. So I arranged,
yesterday, that some of our darling Laura’s old white frocks and white
hats should be altered for Anne Catherick, explaining to her that
little girls of her complexion looked neater and better all in white
than in anything else. She hesitated and seemed puzzled for a minute,
then flushed up, and appeared to understand. Her little hand clasped
mine suddenly. She kissed it, Philip, and said (oh, so earnestly!), “I
will always wear white as long as I live. It will help me to remember
you, ma’am, and to think that I am pleasing you still, when I go away
and see you no more.” This is only one specimen of the quaint things
she says so prettily. Poor little soul! She shall have a stock of white
frocks, made with good deep tucks, to let out for her as she grows——’”


Miss Halcombe paused, and looked at me across the piano.

“Did the forlorn woman whom you met in the high-road seem young?” she
asked. “Young enough to be two- or three-and-twenty?”

“Yes, Miss Halcombe, as young as that.”

“And she was strangely dressed, from head to foot, all in white?”

“All in white.”

While the answer was passing my lips Miss Fairlie glided into view on
the terrace for the third time. Instead of proceeding on her walk,
she stopped, with her back turned towards us, and, leaning on the
balustrade of the terrace, looked down into the garden beyond. My eyes
fixed upon the white gleam of her muslin gown and head-dress in the
moonlight, and a sensation, for which I can find no name—a sensation
that quickened my pulse, and raised a fluttering at my heart—began to
steal over me.

“All in white?” Miss Halcombe repeated. “The most important sentences
in the letter, Mr. Hartright, are those at the end, which I will
read to you immediately. But I can’t help dwelling a little upon the
coincidence of the white costume of the woman you met, and the white
frocks which produced that strange answer from my mother’s little
scholar. The doctor may have been wrong when he discovered the child’s
defects of intellect, and predicted that she would ‘grow out of them.’
She may never have grown out of them, and the old grateful fancy about
dressing in white, which was a serious feeling to the girl, may be a
serious feeling to the woman still.”

I said a few words in answer—I hardly know what. All my attention was
concentrated on the white gleam of Miss Fairlie’s muslin dress.

“Listen to the last sentences of the letter,” said Miss Halcombe. “I
think they will surprise you.”

As she raised the letter to the light of the candle, Miss Fairlie
turned from the balustrade, looked doubtfully up and down the terrace,
advanced a step towards the glass doors, and then stopped, facing us.

Meanwhile Miss Halcombe read me the last sentences to which she had
referred—


“‘And now, my love, seeing that I am at the end of my paper, now for
the real reason, the surprising reason, for my fondness for little Anne
Catherick. My dear Philip, although she is not half so pretty, she is,
nevertheless, by one of those extraordinary caprices of accidental
resemblance which one sometimes sees, the living likeness, in her hair,
her complexion, the colour of her eyes, and the shape of her face——’”


I started up from the ottoman before Miss Halcombe could pronounce the
next words. A thrill of the same feeling which ran through me when the
touch was laid upon my shoulder on the lonely high-road chilled me
again.

There stood Miss Fairlie, a white figure, alone in the moonlight;
in her attitude, in the turn of her head, in her complexion, in the
shape of her face, the living image, at that distance and under those
circumstances, of the woman in white! The doubt which had troubled my
mind for hours and hours past flashed into conviction in an instant.
That “something wanting” was my own recognition of the ominous likeness
between the fugitive from the asylum and my pupil at Limmeridge House.

“You see it!” said Miss Halcombe. She dropped the useless letter, and
her eyes flashed as they met mine. “You see it now, as my mother saw it
eleven years since!”

“I see it—more unwillingly than I can say. To associate that forlorn,
friendless, lost woman, even by an accidental likeness only, with
Miss Fairlie, seems like casting a shadow on the future of the bright
creature who stands looking at us now. Let me lose the impression again
as soon as possible. Call her in, out of the dreary moonlight—pray call
her in!”

“Mr. Hartright, you surprise me. Whatever women may be, I thought that
men, in the nineteenth century, were above superstition.”

“Pray call her in!”

“Hush, hush! She is coming of her own accord. Say nothing in her
presence. Let this discovery of the likeness be kept a secret between
you and me. Come in, Laura, come in, and wake Mrs. Vesey with the
piano. Mr. Hartright is petitioning for some more music, and he wants
it, this time, of the lightest and liveliest kind.”



IX

So ended my eventful first day at Limmeridge House.

Miss Halcombe and I kept our secret. After the discovery of the
likeness no fresh light seemed destined to break over the mystery
of the woman in white. At the first safe opportunity Miss Halcombe
cautiously led her half-sister to speak of their mother, of old
times, and of Anne Catherick. Miss Fairlie’s recollections of the
little scholar at Limmeridge were, however, only of the most vague
and general kind. She remembered the likeness between herself and her
mother’s favourite pupil, as something which had been supposed to
exist in past times; but she did not refer to the gift of the white
dresses, or to the singular form of words in which the child had
artlessly expressed her gratitude for them. She remembered that Anne
had remained at Limmeridge for a few months only, and had then left
it to go back to her home in Hampshire; but she could not say whether
the mother and daughter had ever returned, or had ever been heard
of afterwards. No further search, on Miss Halcombe’s part, through
the few letters of Mrs. Fairlie’s writing which she had left unread,
assisted in clearing up the uncertainties still left to perplex us. We
had identified the unhappy woman whom I had met in the night-time with
Anne Catherick—we had made some advance, at least, towards connecting
the probably defective condition of the poor creature’s intellect
with the peculiarity of her being dressed all in white, and with the
continuance, in her maturer years, of her childish gratitude towards
Mrs. Fairlie—and there, so far as we knew at that time, our discoveries
had ended.


The days passed on, the weeks passed on, and the track of the golden
autumn wound its bright way visibly through the green summer of the
trees. Peaceful, fast-flowing, happy time! my story glides by you now
as swiftly as you once glided by me. Of all the treasures of enjoyment
that you poured so freely into my heart, how much is left me that has
purpose and value enough to be written on this page? Nothing but the
saddest of all confessions that a man can make—the confession of his
own folly.

The secret which that confession discloses should be told with little
effort, for it has indirectly escaped me already. The poor weak words,
which have failed to describe Miss Fairlie, have succeeded in betraying
the sensations she awakened in me. It is so with us all. Our words are
giants when they do us an injury, and dwarfs when they do us a service.

I loved her.

Ah! how well I know all the sadness and all the mockery that is
contained in those three words. I can sigh over my mournful confession
with the tenderest woman who reads it and pities me. I can laugh at
it as bitterly as the hardest man who tosses it from him in contempt.
I loved her! Feel for me, or despise me, I confess it with the same
immovable resolution to own the truth.

Was there no excuse for me? There was some excuse to be found, surely,
in the conditions under which my term of hired service was passed at
Limmeridge House.

My morning hours succeeded each other calmly in the quiet and seclusion
of my own room. I had just work enough to do, in mounting my employer’s
drawings, to keep my hands and eyes pleasurably employed, while my
mind was left free to enjoy the dangerous luxury of its own unbridled
thoughts. A perilous solitude, for it lasted long enough to enervate,
not long enough to fortify me. A perilous solitude, for it was followed
by afternoons and evenings spent, day after day and week after week
alone in the society of two women, one of whom possessed all the
accomplishments of grace, wit, and high-breeding, the other all the
charms of beauty, gentleness, and simple truth, that can purify and
subdue the heart of man. Not a day passed, in that dangerous intimacy
of teacher and pupil, in which my hand was not close to Miss Fairlie’s;
my cheek, as we bent together over her sketch-book, almost touching
hers. The more attentively she watched every movement of my brush, the
more closely I was breathing the perfume of her hair, and the warm
fragrance of her breath. It was part of my service to live in the very
light of her eyes—at one time to be bending over her, so close to her
bosom as to tremble at the thought of touching it; at another, to feel
her bending over me, bending so close to see what I was about, that her
voice sank low when she spoke to me, and her ribbons brushed my cheek
in the wind before she could draw them back.

The evenings which followed the sketching excursions of the afternoon
varied, rather than checked, these innocent, these inevitable
familiarities. My natural fondness for the music which she played with
such tender feeling, such delicate womanly taste, and her natural
enjoyment of giving me back, by the practice of her art, the pleasure
which I had offered to her by the practice of mine, only wove another
tie which drew us closer and closer to one another. The accidents of
conversation; the simple habits which regulated even such a little
thing as the position of our places at table; the play of Miss
Halcombe’s ever-ready raillery, always directed against my anxiety as
teacher, while it sparkled over her enthusiasm as pupil; the harmless
expression of poor Mrs. Vesey’s drowsy approval, which connected Miss
Fairlie and me as two model young people who never disturbed her—every
one of these trifles, and many more, combined to fold us together in
the same domestic atmosphere, and to lead us both insensibly to the
same hopeless end.

I should have remembered my position, and have put myself secretly on
my guard. I did so, but not till it was too late. All the discretion,
all the experience, which had availed me with other women, and secured
me against other temptations, failed me with her. It had been my
profession, for years past, to be in this close contact with young
girls of all ages, and of all orders of beauty. I had accepted the
position as part of my calling in life; I had trained myself to leave
all the sympathies natural to my age in my employer’s outer hall, as
coolly as I left my umbrella there before I went upstairs. I had long
since learnt to understand, composedly and as a matter of course,
that my situation in life was considered a guarantee against any of
my female pupils feeling more than the most ordinary interest in me,
and that I was admitted among beautiful and captivating women much
as a harmless domestic animal is admitted among them. This guardian
experience I had gained early; this guardian experience had sternly
and strictly guided me straight along my own poor narrow path, without
once letting me stray aside, to the right hand or to the left. And
now I and my trusty talisman were parted for the first time. Yes, my
hardly-earned self-control was as completely lost to me as if I had
never possessed it; lost to me, as it is lost every day to other men,
in other critical situations, where women are concerned. I know, now,
that I should have questioned myself from the first. I should have
asked why any room in the house was better than home to me when she
entered it, and barren as a desert when she went out again—why I always
noticed and remembered the little changes in her dress that I had
noticed and remembered in no other woman’s before—why I saw her, heard
her, and touched her (when we shook hands at night and morning) as I
had never seen, heard, and touched any other woman in my life? I should
have looked into my own heart, and found this new growth springing up
there, and plucked it out while it was young. Why was this easiest,
simplest work of self-culture always too much for me? The explanation
has been written already in the three words that were many enough, and
plain enough, for my confession. I loved her.

The days passed, the weeks passed; it was approaching the third month
of my stay in Cumberland. The delicious monotony of life in our calm
seclusion flowed on with me, like a smooth stream with a swimmer who
glides down the current. All memory of the past, all thought of the
future, all sense of the falseness and hopelessness of my own position,
lay hushed within me into deceitful rest. Lulled by the Syren-song that
my own heart sung to me, with eyes shut to all sight, and ears closed
to all sound of danger, I drifted nearer and nearer to the fatal rocks.
The warning that aroused me at last, and startled me into sudden,
self-accusing consciousness of my own weakness, was the plainest, the
truest, the kindest of all warnings, for it came silently from HER.

We had parted one night as usual. No word had fallen from my lips, at
that time or at any time before it, that could betray me, or startle
her into sudden knowledge of the truth. But when we met again in the
morning, a change had come over her—a change that told me all.

I shrank then—I shrink still—from invading the innermost sanctuary of
her heart, and laying it open to others, as I have laid open my own.
Let it be enough to say that the time when she first surprised my
secret was, I firmly believe, the time when she first surprised her
own, and the time, also, when she changed towards me in the interval of
one night. Her nature, too truthful to deceive others, was too noble to
deceive itself. When the doubt that I had hushed asleep first laid its
weary weight on her heart, the true face owned all, and said, in its
own frank, simple language—I am sorry for him; I am sorry for myself.

It said this, and more, which I could not then interpret. I understood
but too well the change in her manner, to greater kindness and
quicker readiness in interpreting all my wishes, before others—to
constraint and sadness, and nervous anxiety to absorb herself in the
first occupation she could seize on, whenever we happened to be left
together alone. I understood why the sweet sensitive lips smiled so
rarely and so restrainedly now, and why the clear blue eyes looked at
me, sometimes with the pity of an angel, sometimes with the innocent
perplexity of a child. But the change meant more than this. There
was a coldness in her hand, there was an unnatural immobility in her
face, there was in all her movements the mute expression of constant
fear and clinging self-reproach. The sensations that I could trace to
herself and to me, the unacknowledged sensations that we were feeling
in common, were not these. There were certain elements of the change in
her that were still secretly drawing us together, and others that were,
as secretly, beginning to drive us apart.

In my doubt and perplexity, in my vague suspicion of something hidden
which I was left to find by my own unaided efforts, I examined Miss
Halcombe’s looks and manner for enlightenment. Living in such intimacy
as ours, no serious alteration could take place in any one of us which
did not sympathetically affect the others. The change in Miss Fairlie
was reflected in her half-sister. Although not a word escaped Miss
Halcombe which hinted at an altered state of feeling towards myself,
her penetrating eyes had contracted a new habit of always watching me.
Sometimes the look was like suppressed anger, sometimes like suppressed
dread, sometimes like neither—like nothing, in short, which I could
understand. A week elapsed, leaving us all three still in this position
of secret constraint towards one another. My situation, aggravated by
the sense of my own miserable weakness and forgetfulness of myself,
now too late awakened in me, was becoming intolerable. I felt that I
must cast off the oppression under which I was living, at once and for
ever—yet how to act for the best, or what to say first, was more than I
could tell.

From this position of helplessness and humiliation I was rescued
by Miss Halcombe. Her lips told me the bitter, the necessary, the
unexpected truth; her hearty kindness sustained me under the shock of
hearing it; her sense and courage turned to its right use an event
which threatened the worst that could happen, to me and to others, in
Limmeridge House.



X

It was on a Thursday in the week, and nearly at the end of the third
month of my sojourn in Cumberland.

In the morning, when I went down into the breakfast-room at the usual
hour, Miss Halcombe, for the first time since I had known her, was
absent from her customary place at the table.

Miss Fairlie was out on the lawn. She bowed to me, but did not come in.
Not a word had dropped from my lips, or from hers, that could unsettle
either of us—and yet the same unacknowledged sense of embarrassment
made us shrink alike from meeting one another alone. She waited on
the lawn, and I waited in the breakfast-room, till Mrs. Vesey or Miss
Halcombe came in. How quickly I should have joined her: how readily we
should have shaken hands, and glided into our customary talk, only a
fortnight ago.

In a few minutes Miss Halcombe entered. She had a preoccupied look, and
she made her apologies for being late rather absently.

“I have been detained,” she said, “by a consultation with Mr. Fairlie
on a domestic matter which he wished to speak to me about.”

Miss Fairlie came in from the garden, and the usual morning greeting
passed between us. Her hand struck colder to mine than ever. She did
not look at me, and she was very pale. Even Mrs. Vesey noticed it when
she entered the room a moment after.

“I suppose it is the change in the wind,” said the old lady. “The
winter is coming—ah, my love, the winter is coming soon!”

In her heart and in mine it had come already!

Our morning meal—once so full of pleasant good-humoured discussion of
the plans for the day—was short and silent. Miss Fairlie seemed to
feel the oppression of the long pauses in the conversation, and looked
appealingly to her sister to fill them up. Miss Halcombe, after once
or twice hesitating and checking herself, in a most uncharacteristic
manner, spoke at last.

“I have seen your uncle this morning, Laura,” she said. “He thinks the
purple room is the one that ought to be got ready, and he confirms what
I told you. Monday is the day—not Tuesday.”

While these words were being spoken Miss Fairlie looked down at the
table beneath her. Her fingers moved nervously among the crumbs that
were scattered on the cloth. The paleness on her cheeks spread to her
lips, and the lips themselves trembled visibly. I was not the only
person present who noticed this. Miss Halcombe saw it, too, and at once
set us the example of rising from table.

Mrs. Vesey and Miss Fairlie left the room together. The kind sorrowful
blue eyes looked at me, for a moment, with the prescient sadness of
a coming and a long farewell. I felt the answering pang in my own
heart—the pang that told me I must lose her soon, and love her the more
unchangeably for the loss.

I turned towards the garden when the door had closed on her. Miss
Halcombe was standing with her hat in her hand, and her shawl over her
arm, by the large window that led out to the lawn, and was looking at
me attentively.

“Have you any leisure time to spare,” she asked, “before you begin to
work in your own room?”

“Certainly, Miss Halcombe. I have always time at your service.”

“I want to say a word to you in private, Mr. Hartright. Get your hat
and come out into the garden. We are not likely to be disturbed there
at this hour in the morning.”

As we stepped out on to the lawn, one of the under-gardeners—a mere
lad—passed us on his way to the house, with a letter in his hand. Miss
Halcombe stopped him.

“Is that letter for me?” she asked.

“Nay, miss; it’s just said to be for Miss Fairlie,” answered the lad,
holding out the letter as he spoke.

Miss Halcombe took it from him and looked at the address.

“A strange handwriting,” she said to herself. “Who can Laura’s
correspondent be? Where did you get this?” she continued, addressing
the gardener.

“Well, miss,” said the lad, “I just got it from a woman.”

“What woman?”

“A woman well stricken in age.”

“Oh, an old woman. Any one you knew?”

“I canna’ tak’ it on mysel’ to say that she was other than a stranger
to me.”

“Which way did she go?”

“That gate,” said the under-gardener, turning with great deliberation
towards the south, and embracing the whole of that part of England with
one comprehensive sweep of his arm.

“Curious,” said Miss Halcombe; “I suppose it must be a begging-letter.
There,” she added, handing the letter back to the lad, “take it to the
house, and give it to one of the servants. And now, Mr. Hartright, if
you have no objection, let us walk this way.”

She led me across the lawn, along the same path by which I had followed
her on the day after my arrival at Limmeridge.

At the little summer-house, in which Laura Fairlie and I had first seen
each other, she stopped, and broke the silence which she had steadily
maintained while we were walking together.

“What I have to say to you I can say here.”

With those words she entered the summer-house, took one of the chairs
at the little round table inside, and signed to me to take the other. I
suspected what was coming when she spoke to me in the breakfast-room; I
felt certain of it now.

“Mr. Hartright,” she said, “I am going to begin by making a frank
avowal to you. I am going to say—without phrase-making, which I detest,
or paying compliments, which I heartily despise—that I have come,
in the course of your residence with us, to feel a strong friendly
regard for you. I was predisposed in your favour when you first told
me of your conduct towards that unhappy woman whom you met under such
remarkable circumstances. Your management of the affair might not have
been prudent, but it showed the self-control, the delicacy, and the
compassion of a man who was naturally a gentleman. It made me expect
good things from you, and you have not disappointed my expectations.”

She paused—but held up her hand at the same time, as a sign that she
awaited no answer from me before she proceeded. When I entered the
summer-house, no thought was in me of the woman in white. But now,
Miss Halcombe’s own words had put the memory of my adventure back in
my mind. It remained there throughout the interview—remained, and not
without a result.

“As your friend,” she proceeded, “I am going to tell you, at once, in
my own plain, blunt, downright language, that I have discovered your
secret—without help or hint, mind, from any one else. Mr. Hartright,
you have thoughtlessly allowed yourself to form an attachment—a serious
and devoted attachment I am afraid—to my sister Laura. I don’t put
you to the pain of confessing it in so many words, because I see and
know that you are too honest to deny it. I don’t even blame you—I
pity you for opening your heart to a hopeless affection. You have not
attempted to take any underhand advantage—you have not spoken to my
sister in secret. You are guilty of weakness and want of attention to
your own best interests, but of nothing worse. If you had acted, in any
single respect, less delicately and less modestly, I should have told
you to leave the house without an instant’s notice, or an instant’s
consultation of anybody. As it is, I blame the misfortune of your years
and your position—I don’t blame YOU. Shake hands—I have given you pain;
I am going to give you more, but there is no help for it—shake hands
with your friend, Marian Halcombe, first.”

The sudden kindness—the warm, high-minded, fearless sympathy which met
me on such mercifully equal terms, which appealed with such delicate
and generous abruptness straight to my heart, my honour, and my
courage, overcame me in an instant. I tried to look at her when she
took my hand, but my eyes were dim. I tried to thank her, but my voice
failed me.

“Listen to me,” she said, considerately avoiding all notice of my loss
of self-control. “Listen to me, and let us get it over at once. It is
a real true relief to me that I am not obliged, in what I have now to
say, to enter into the question—the hard and cruel question as I think
it—of social inequalities. Circumstances which will try you to the
quick, spare me the ungracious necessity of paining a man who has lived
in friendly intimacy under the same roof with myself by any humiliating
reference to matters of rank and station. You must leave Limmeridge
House, Mr. Hartright, before more harm is done. It is my duty to say
that to you; and it would be equally my duty to say it, under precisely
the same serious necessity, if you were the representative of the
oldest and wealthiest family in England. You must leave us, not because
you are a teacher of drawing——”

She waited a moment, turned her face full on me, and reaching across
the table, laid her hand firmly on my arm.

“Not because you are a teacher of drawing,” she repeated, “but because
Laura Fairlie is engaged to be married.”

The last word went like a bullet to my heart. My arm lost all sensation
of the hand that grasped it. I never moved and never spoke. The
sharp autumn breeze that scattered the dead leaves at our feet came
as cold to me, on a sudden, as if my own mad hopes were dead leaves
too, whirled away by the wind like the rest. Hopes! Betrothed, or not
betrothed, she was equally far from me. Would other men have remembered
that in my place? Not if they had loved her as I did.

The pang passed, and nothing but the dull numbing pain of it remained.
I felt Miss Halcombe’s hand again, tightening its hold on my arm—I
raised my head and looked at her. Her large black eyes were rooted on
me, watching the white change on my face, which I felt, and which she
saw.

“Crush it!” she said. “Here, where you first saw her, crush it! Don’t
shrink under it like a woman. Tear it out; trample it under foot like a
man!”

The suppressed vehemence with which she spoke, the strength which her
will—concentrated in the look she fixed on me, and in the hold on my
arm that she had not yet relinquished—communicated to mine, steadied
me. We both waited for a minute in silence. At the end of that time
I had justified her generous faith in my manhood—I had, outwardly at
least, recovered my self-control.

“Are you yourself again?”

“Enough myself, Miss Halcombe, to ask your pardon and hers. Enough
myself to be guided by your advice, and to prove my gratitude in that
way, if I can prove it in no other.”

“You have proved it already,” she answered, “by those words. Mr.
Hartright, concealment is at an end between us. I cannot affect to
hide from you what my sister has unconsciously shown to me. You must
leave us for her sake, as well as for your own. Your presence here,
your necessary intimacy with us, harmless as it has been, God knows, in
all other respects, has unsteadied her and made her wretched. I, who
love her better than my own life—I, who have learnt to believe in that
pure, noble, innocent nature as I believe in my religion—know but too
well the secret misery of self-reproach that she has been suffering
since the first shadow of a feeling disloyal to her marriage engagement
entered her heart in spite of her. I don’t say—it would be useless to
attempt to say it after what has happened—that her engagement has ever
had a strong hold on her affections. It is an engagement of honour, not
of love; her father sanctioned it on his deathbed, two years since; she
herself neither welcomed it nor shrank from it—she was content to make
it. Till you came here she was in the position of hundreds of other
women, who marry men without being greatly attracted to them or greatly
repelled by them, and who learn to love them (when they don’t learn
to hate!) after marriage, instead of before. I hope more earnestly
than words can say—and you should have the self-sacrificing courage
to hope too—that the new thoughts and feelings which have disturbed
the old calmness and the old content have not taken root too deeply to
be ever removed. Your absence (if I had less belief in your honour,
and your courage, and your sense, I should not trust to them as I am
trusting now) your absence will help my efforts, and time will help us
all three. It is something to know that my first confidence in you was
not all misplaced. It is something to know that you will not be less
honest, less manly, less considerate towards the pupil whose relation
to yourself you have had the misfortune to forget, than towards the
stranger and the outcast whose appeal to you was not made in vain.”

Again the chance reference to the woman in white! Was there no
possibility of speaking of Miss Fairlie and of me without raising the
memory of Anne Catherick, and setting her between us like a fatality
that it was hopeless to avoid?

“Tell me what apology I can make to Mr. Fairlie for breaking my
engagement,” I said. “Tell me when to go after that apology is
accepted. I promise implicit obedience to you and to your advice.”

“Time is every way of importance,” she answered. “You heard me refer
this morning to Monday next, and to the necessity of setting the purple
room in order. The visitor whom we expect on Monday——”

I could not wait for her to be more explicit. Knowing what I knew now,
the memory of Miss Fairlie’s look and manner at the breakfast-table
told me that the expected visitor at Limmeridge House was her future
husband. I tried to force it back; but something rose within me at that
moment stronger than my own will, and I interrupted Miss Halcombe.

“Let me go to-day,” I said bitterly. “The sooner the better.”

“No, not to-day,” she replied. “The only reason you can assign to Mr.
Fairlie for your departure, before the end of your engagement, must
be that an unforeseen necessity compels you to ask his permission
to return at once to London. You must wait till to-morrow to tell
him that, at the time when the post comes in, because he will then
understand the sudden change in your plans, by associating it with
the arrival of a letter from London. It is miserable and sickening
to descend to deceit, even of the most harmless kind—but I know Mr.
Fairlie, and if you once excite his suspicions that you are trifling
with him, he will refuse to release you. Speak to him on Friday
morning: occupy yourself afterwards (for the sake of your own interests
with your employer) in leaving your unfinished work in as little
confusion as possible, and quit this place on Saturday. It will be time
enough then, Mr. Hartright, for you, and for all of us.”

Before I could assure her that she might depend on my acting in
the strictest accordance with her wishes, we were both startled by
advancing footsteps in the shrubbery. Some one was coming from the
house to seek for us! I felt the blood rush into my cheeks and then
leave them again. Could the third person who was fast approaching us,
at such a time and under such circumstances, be Miss Fairlie?

It was a relief—so sadly, so hopelessly was my position towards her
changed already—it was absolutely a relief to me, when the person who
had disturbed us appeared at the entrance of the summer-house, and
proved to be only Miss Fairlie’s maid.

“Could I speak to you for a moment, miss?” said the girl, in rather a
flurried, unsettled manner.

Miss Halcombe descended the steps into the shrubbery, and walked aside
a few paces with the maid.

Left by myself, my mind reverted, with a sense of forlorn wretchedness
which it is not in any words that I can find to describe, to my
approaching return to the solitude and the despair of my lonely
London home. Thoughts of my kind old mother, and of my sister,
who had rejoiced with her so innocently over my prospects in
Cumberland—thoughts whose long banishment from my heart it was now my
shame and my reproach to realise for the first time—came back to me
with the loving mournfulness of old, neglected friends. My mother and
my sister, what would they feel when I returned to them from my broken
engagement, with the confession of my miserable secret—they who had
parted from me so hopefully on that last happy night in the Hampstead
cottage!

Anne Catherick again! Even the memory of the farewell evening with my
mother and my sister could not return to me now unconnected with that
other memory of the moonlight walk back to London. What did it mean?
Were that woman and I to meet once more? It was possible, at the least.
Did she know that I lived in London? Yes; I had told her so, either
before or after that strange question of hers, when she had asked me so
distrustfully if I knew many men of the rank of Baronet. Either before
or after—my mind was not calm enough, then, to remember which.

A few minutes elapsed before Miss Halcombe dismissed the maid and came
back to me. She, too, looked flurried and unsettled now.

“We have arranged all that is necessary, Mr. Hartright,” she said. “We
have understood each other, as friends should, and we may go back at
once to the house. To tell you the truth, I am uneasy about Laura. She
has sent to say she wants to see me directly, and the maid reports that
her mistress is apparently very much agitated by a letter that she has
received this morning—the same letter, no doubt, which I sent on to the
house before we came here.”

We retraced our steps together hastily along the shrubbery path.
Although Miss Halcombe had ended all that she thought it necessary to
say on her side, I had not ended all that I wanted to say on mine.
From the moment when I had discovered that the expected visitor at
Limmeridge was Miss Fairlie’s future husband, I had felt a bitter
curiosity, a burning envious eagerness, to know who he was. It was
possible that a future opportunity of putting the question might not
easily offer, so I risked asking it on our way back to the house.

“Now that you are kind enough to tell me we have understood each
other, Miss Halcombe,” I said, “now that you are sure of my gratitude
for your forbearance and my obedience to your wishes, may I venture
to ask who”—(I hesitated—I had forced myself to think of him, but it
was harder still to speak of him, as her promised husband)—“who the
gentleman engaged to Miss Fairlie is?”

Her mind was evidently occupied with the message she had received from
her sister. She answered in a hasty, absent way—

“A gentleman of large property in Hampshire.”

Hampshire! Anne Catherick’s native place. Again, and yet again, the
woman in white. There WAS a fatality in it.

“And his name?” I said, as quietly and indifferently as I could.

“Sir Percival Glyde.”

SIR—Sir Percival! Anne Catherick’s question—that suspicious question
about the men of the rank of Baronet whom I might happen to know—had
hardly been dismissed from my mind by Miss Halcombe’s return to me in
the summer-house, before it was recalled again by her own answer. I
stopped suddenly, and looked at her.

“Sir Percival Glyde,” she repeated, imagining that I had not heard her
former reply.

“Knight, or Baronet?” I asked, with an agitation that I could hide no
longer.

She paused for a moment, and then answered, rather coldly—

“Baronet, of course.”



XI

Not a word more was said, on either side, as we walked back to the
house. Miss Halcombe hastened immediately to her sister’s room, and I
withdrew to my studio to set in order all of Mr. Fairlie’s drawings
that I had not yet mounted and restored before I resigned them to the
care of other hands. Thoughts that I had hitherto restrained, thoughts
that made my position harder than ever to endure, crowded on me now
that I was alone.

She was engaged to be married, and her future husband was Sir Percival
Glyde. A man of the rank of Baronet, and the owner of property in
Hampshire.

There were hundreds of baronets in England, and dozens of landowners
in Hampshire. Judging by the ordinary rules of evidence, I had not the
shadow of a reason, thus far, for connecting Sir Percival Glyde with
the suspicious words of inquiry that had been spoken to me by the woman
in white. And yet, I did connect him with them. Was it because he had
now become associated in my mind with Miss Fairlie, Miss Fairlie being,
in her turn, associated with Anne Catherick, since the night when I had
discovered the ominous likeness between them? Had the events of the
morning so unnerved me already that I was at the mercy of any delusion
which common chances and common coincidences might suggest to my
imagination? Impossible to say. I could only feel that what had passed
between Miss Halcombe and myself, on our way from the summer-house,
had affected me very strangely. The foreboding of some undiscoverable
danger lying hid from us all in the darkness of the future was strong
on me. The doubt whether I was not linked already to a chain of events
which even my approaching departure from Cumberland would be powerless
to snap asunder—the doubt whether we any of us saw the end as the end
would really be—gathered more and more darkly over my mind. Poignant
as it was, the sense of suffering caused by the miserable end of my
brief, presumptuous love seemed to be blunted and deadened by the still
stronger sense of something obscurely impending, something invisibly
threatening, that Time was holding over our heads.

I had been engaged with the drawings little more than half an hour,
when there was a knock at the door. It opened, on my answering; and, to
my surprise, Miss Halcombe entered the room.

Her manner was angry and agitated. She caught up a chair for herself
before I could give her one, and sat down in it, close at my side.

“Mr. Hartright,” she said, “I had hoped that all painful subjects of
conversation were exhausted between us, for to-day at least. But it is
not to be so. There is some underhand villainy at work to frighten my
sister about her approaching marriage. You saw me send the gardener on
to the house, with a letter addressed, in a strange handwriting, to
Miss Fairlie?”

“Certainly.”

“The letter is an anonymous letter—a vile attempt to injure Sir
Percival Glyde in my sister’s estimation. It has so agitated and
alarmed her that I have had the greatest possible difficulty in
composing her spirits sufficiently to allow me to leave her room and
come here. I know this is a family matter on which I ought not to
consult you, and in which you can feel no concern or interest——”

“I beg your pardon, Miss Halcombe. I feel the strongest possible
concern and interest in anything that affects Miss Fairlie’s happiness
or yours.”

“I am glad to hear you say so. You are the only person in the house, or
out of it, who can advise me. Mr. Fairlie, in his state of health and
with his horror of difficulties and mysteries of all kinds, is not to
be thought of. The clergyman is a good, weak man, who knows nothing out
of the routine of his duties; and our neighbours are just the sort of
comfortable, jog-trot acquaintances whom one cannot disturb in times
of trouble and danger. What I want to know is this: ought I at once to
take such steps as I can to discover the writer of the letter? or ought
I to wait, and apply to Mr. Fairlie’s legal adviser to-morrow? It is a
question—perhaps a very important one—of gaining or losing a day. Tell
me what you think, Mr. Hartright. If necessity had not already obliged
me to take you into my confidence under very delicate circumstances,
even my helpless situation would, perhaps, be no excuse for me. But as
things are I cannot surely be wrong, after all that has passed between
us, in forgetting that you are a friend of only three months’ standing.”

She gave me the letter. It began abruptly, without any preliminary form
of address, as follows—


“Do you believe in dreams? I hope, for your own sake, that you do. See
what Scripture says about dreams and their fulfilment (Genesis xl. 8,
xli. 25; Daniel iv. 18-25), and take the warning I send you before it
is too late.

“Last night I dreamed about you, Miss Fairlie. I dreamed that I was
standing inside the communion rails of a church—I on one side of the
altar-table, and the clergyman, with his surplice and his prayer-book,
on the other.

“After a time there walked towards us, down the aisle of the church, a
man and a woman, coming to be married. You were the woman. You looked
so pretty and innocent in your beautiful white silk dress, and your
long white lace veil, that my heart felt for you, and the tears came
into my eyes.

“They were tears of pity, young lady, that heaven blesses and instead
of falling from my eyes like the everyday tears that we all of us shed,
they turned into two rays of light which slanted nearer and nearer to
the man standing at the altar with you, till they touched his breast.
The two rays sprang in arches like two rainbows between me and him. I
looked along them, and I saw down into his inmost heart.

“The outside of the man you were marrying was fair enough to see. He
was neither tall nor short—he was a little below the middle size. A
light, active, high-spirited man—about five-and-forty years old, to
look at. He had a pale face, and was bald over the forehead, but had
dark hair on the rest of his head. His beard was shaven on his chin,
but was let to grow, of a fine rich brown, on his cheeks and his upper
lip. His eyes were brown too, and very bright; his nose straight and
handsome and delicate enough to have done for a woman’s. His hands the
same. He was troubled from time to time with a dry hacking cough, and
when he put up his white right hand to his mouth, he showed the red
scar of an old wound across the back of it. Have I dreamt of the right
man? You know best, Miss Fairlie; and you can say if I was deceived or
not. Read next, what I saw beneath the outside—I entreat you, read, and
profit.

“I looked along the two rays of light, and I saw down into his inmost
heart. It was black as night, and on it were written, in the red
flaming letters which are the handwriting of the fallen angel, ‘Without
pity and without remorse. He has strewn with misery the paths of
others, and he will live to strew with misery the path of this woman by
his side.’ I read that, and then the rays of light shifted and pointed
over his shoulder; and there, behind him, stood a fiend laughing. And
the rays of light shifted once more, and pointed over your shoulder;
and there behind you, stood an angel weeping. And the rays of light
shifted for the third time, and pointed straight between you and that
man. They widened and widened, thrusting you both asunder, one from the
other. And the clergyman looked for the marriage-service in vain: it
was gone out of the book, and he shut up the leaves, and put it from
him in despair. And I woke with my eyes full of tears and my heart
beating—for I believe in dreams.

“Believe too, Miss Fairlie—I beg of you, for your own sake, believe as
I do. Joseph and Daniel, and others in Scripture, believed in dreams.
Inquire into the past life of that man with the scar on his hand,
before you say the words that make you his miserable wife. I don’t give
you this warning on my account, but on yours. I have an interest in
your well-being that will live as long as I draw breath. Your mother’s
daughter has a tender place in my heart—for your mother was my first,
my best, my only friend.”


There the extraordinary letter ended, without signature of any sort.

The handwriting afforded no prospect of a clue. It was traced on ruled
lines, in the cramped, conventional, copy-book character technically
termed “small hand.” It was feeble and faint, and defaced by blots, but
had otherwise nothing to distinguish it.

“That is not an illiterate letter,” said Miss Halcombe, “and at the
same time, it is surely too incoherent to be the letter of an educated
person in the higher ranks of life. The reference to the bridal dress
and veil, and other little expressions, seem to point to it as the
production of some woman. What do you think, Mr. Hartright?”

“I think so too. It seems to me to be not only the letter of a woman,
but of a woman whose mind must be——”

“Deranged?” suggested Miss Halcombe. “It struck me in that light too.”

I did not answer. While I was speaking, my eyes rested on the last
sentence of the letter: “Your mother’s daughter has a tender place in
my heart—for your mother was my first, my best, my only friend.” Those
words and the doubt which had just escaped me as to the sanity of the
writer of the letter, acting together on my mind, suggested an idea,
which I was literally afraid to express openly, or even to encourage
secretly. I began to doubt whether my own faculties were not in danger
of losing their balance. It seemed almost like a monomania to be
tracing back everything strange that happened, everything unexpected
that was said, always to the same hidden source and the same sinister
influence. I resolved, this time, in defence of my own courage and my
own sense, to come to no decision that plain fact did not warrant, and
to turn my back resolutely on everything that tempted me in the shape
of surmise.

“If we have any chance of tracing the person who has written this,” I
said, returning the letter to Miss Halcombe, “there can be no harm in
seizing our opportunity the moment it offers. I think we ought to speak
to the gardener again about the elderly woman who gave him the letter,
and then to continue our inquiries in the village. But first let me
ask a question. You mentioned just now the alternative of consulting
Mr. Fairlie’s legal adviser to-morrow. Is there no possibility of
communicating with him earlier? Why not to-day?”

“I can only explain,” replied Miss Halcombe, “by entering into certain
particulars, connected with my sister’s marriage-engagement, which I
did not think it necessary or desirable to mention to you this morning.
One of Sir Percival Glyde’s objects in coming here on Monday, is to
fix the period of his marriage, which has hitherto been left quite
unsettled. He is anxious that the event should take place before the
end of the year.”

“Does Miss Fairlie know of that wish?” I asked eagerly.

“She has no suspicion of it, and after what has happened, I shall not
take the responsibility upon myself of enlightening her. Sir Percival
has only mentioned his views to Mr. Fairlie, who has told me himself
that he is ready and anxious, as Laura’s guardian, to forward them.
He has written to London, to the family solicitor, Mr. Gilmore. Mr.
Gilmore happens to be away in Glasgow on business, and he has replied
by proposing to stop at Limmeridge House on his way back to town. He
will arrive to-morrow, and will stay with us a few days, so as to allow
Sir Percival time to plead his own cause. If he succeeds, Mr. Gilmore
will then return to London, taking with him his instructions for my
sister’s marriage-settlement. You understand now, Mr. Hartright, why
I speak of waiting to take legal advice until to-morrow? Mr. Gilmore
is the old and tried friend of two generations of Fairlies, and we can
trust him, as we could trust no one else.”

The marriage-settlement! The mere hearing of those two words stung
me with a jealous despair that was poison to my higher and better
instincts. I began to think—it is hard to confess this, but I must
suppress nothing from beginning to end of the terrible story that I now
stand committed to reveal—I began to think, with a hateful eagerness
of hope, of the vague charges against Sir Percival Glyde which the
anonymous letter contained. What if those wild accusations rested on
a foundation of truth? What if their truth could be proved before
the fatal words of consent were spoken, and the marriage-settlement
was drawn? I have tried to think since, that the feeling which then
animated me began and ended in pure devotion to Miss Fairlie’s
interests, but I have never succeeded in deceiving myself into
believing it, and I must not now attempt to deceive others. The feeling
began and ended in reckless, vindictive, hopeless hatred of the man who
was to marry her.

“If we are to find out anything,” I said, speaking under the new
influence which was now directing me, “we had better not let another
minute slip by us unemployed. I can only suggest, once more, the
propriety of questioning the gardener a second time, and of inquiring
in the village immediately afterwards.”

“I think I may be of help to you in both cases,” said Miss Halcombe,
rising. “Let us go, Mr. Hartright, at once, and do the best we can
together.”

I had the door in my hand to open it for her—but I stopped, on a
sudden, to ask an important question before we set forth.

“One of the paragraphs of the anonymous letter,” I said, “contains some
sentences of minute personal description. Sir Percival Glyde’s name is
not mentioned, I know—but does that description at all resemble him?”

“Accurately—even in stating his age to be forty-five——”

Forty-five; and she was not yet twenty-one! Men of his age married
wives of her age every day—and experience had shown those marriages to
be often the happiest ones. I knew that—and yet even the mention of
his age, when I contrasted it with hers, added to my blind hatred and
distrust of him.

“Accurately,” Miss Halcombe continued, “even to the scar on his right
hand, which is the scar of a wound that he received years since when he
was travelling in Italy. There can be no doubt that every peculiarity
of his personal appearance is thoroughly well known to the writer of
the letter.”

“Even a cough that he is troubled with is mentioned, if I remember
right?”

“Yes, and mentioned correctly. He treats it lightly himself, though it
sometimes makes his friends anxious about him.”

“I suppose no whispers have ever been heard against his character?”

“Mr. Hartright! I hope you are not unjust enough to let that infamous
letter influence you?”

I felt the blood rush into my cheeks, for I knew that it HAD influenced
me.

“I hope not,” I answered confusedly. “Perhaps I had no right to ask the
question.”

“I am not sorry you asked it,” she said, “for it enables me to do
justice to Sir Percival’s reputation. Not a whisper, Mr. Hartright, has
ever reached me, or my family, against him. He has fought successfully
two contested elections, and has come out of the ordeal unscathed.
A man who can do that, in England, is a man whose character is
established.”

I opened the door for her in silence, and followed her out. She had
not convinced me. If the recording angel had come down from heaven to
confirm her, and had opened his book to my mortal eyes, the recording
angel would not have convinced me.

We found the gardener at work as usual. No amount of questioning could
extract a single answer of any importance from the lad’s impenetrable
stupidity. The woman who had given him the letter was an elderly woman;
she had not spoken a word to him, and she had gone away towards the
south in a great hurry. That was all the gardener could tell us.

The village lay southward of the house. So to the village we went next.



XII

Our inquiries at Limmeridge were patiently pursued in all directions,
and among all sorts and conditions of people. But nothing came of
them. Three of the villagers did certainly assure us that they had
seen the woman, but as they were quite unable to describe her, and
quite incapable of agreeing about the exact direction in which she was
proceeding when they last saw her, these three bright exceptions to the
general rule of total ignorance afforded no more real assistance to us
than the mass of their unhelpful and unobservant neighbours.

The course of our useless investigations brought us, in time, to the
end of the village at which the schools established by Mrs. Fairlie
were situated. As we passed the side of the building appropriated to
the use of the boys, I suggested the propriety of making a last inquiry
of the schoolmaster, whom we might presume to be, in virtue of his
office, the most intelligent man in the place.

“I am afraid the schoolmaster must have been occupied with his
scholars,” said Miss Halcombe, “just at the time when the woman passed
through the village and returned again. However, we can but try.”

We entered the playground enclosure, and walked by the schoolroom
window to get round to the door, which was situated at the back of the
building. I stopped for a moment at the window and looked in.

The schoolmaster was sitting at his high desk, with his back to me,
apparently haranguing the pupils, who were all gathered together in
front of him, with one exception. The one exception was a sturdy
white-headed boy, standing apart from all the rest on a stool in a
corner—a forlorn little Crusoe, isolated in his own desert island of
solitary penal disgrace.

The door, when we got round to it, was ajar, and the school-master’s
voice reached us plainly, as we both stopped for a minute under the
porch.

“Now, boys,” said the voice, “mind what I tell you. If I hear another
word spoken about ghosts in this school, it will be the worse for all
of you. There are no such things as ghosts, and therefore any boy who
believes in ghosts believes in what can’t possibly be; and a boy who
belongs to Limmeridge School, and believes in what can’t possibly be,
sets up his back against reason and discipline, and must be punished
accordingly. You all see Jacob Postlethwaite standing up on the stool
there in disgrace. He has been punished, not because he said he saw a
ghost last night, but because he is too impudent and too obstinate to
listen to reason, and because he persists in saying he saw the ghost
after I have told him that no such thing can possibly be. If nothing
else will do, I mean to cane the ghost out of Jacob Postlethwaite, and
if the thing spreads among any of the rest of you, I mean to go a step
farther, and cane the ghost out of the whole school.”

“We seem to have chosen an awkward moment for our visit,” said Miss
Halcombe, pushing open the door at the end of the schoolmaster’s
address, and leading the way in.

Our appearance produced a strong sensation among the boys. They
appeared to think that we had arrived for the express purpose of seeing
Jacob Postlethwaite caned.

“Go home all of you to dinner,” said the schoolmaster, “except Jacob.
Jacob must stop where he is; and the ghost may bring him his dinner, if
the ghost pleases.”

Jacob’s fortitude deserted him at the double disappearance of his
schoolfellows and his prospect of dinner. He took his hands out of
his pockets, looked hard at his knuckles, raised them with great
deliberation to his eyes, and when they got there, ground them round
and round slowly, accompanying the action by short spasms of sniffing,
which followed each other at regular intervals—the nasal minute guns of
juvenile distress.

“We came here to ask you a question, Mr. Dempster,” said Miss Halcombe,
addressing the schoolmaster; “and we little expected to find you
occupied in exorcising a ghost. What does it all mean? What has really
happened?”

“That wicked boy has been frightening the whole school, Miss Halcombe,
by declaring that he saw a ghost yesterday evening,” answered the
master; “and he still persists in his absurd story, in spite of all
that I can say to him.”

“Most extraordinary,” said Miss Halcombe, “I should not have thought it
possible that any of the boys had imagination enough to see a ghost.
This is a new accession indeed to the hard labour of forming the
youthful mind at Limmeridge, and I heartily wish you well through it,
Mr. Dempster. In the meantime, let me explain why you see me here, and
what it is I want.”

She then put the same question to the schoolmaster which we had asked
already of almost every one else in the village. It was met by the same
discouraging answer. Mr. Dempster had not set eyes on the stranger of
whom we were in search.

“We may as well return to the house, Mr. Hartright,” said Miss
Halcombe; “the information we want is evidently not to be found.”

She had bowed to Mr. Dempster, and was about to leave the schoolroom,
when the forlorn position of Jacob Postlethwaite, piteously sniffing on
the stool of penitence, attracted her attention as she passed him, and
made her stop good-humouredly to speak a word to the little prisoner
before she opened the door.

“You foolish boy,” she said, “why don’t you beg Mr. Dempster’s pardon,
and hold your tongue about the ghost?”

“Eh!—but I saw t’ ghaist,” persisted Jacob Postlethwaite, with a stare
of terror and a burst of tears.

“Stuff and nonsense! You saw nothing of the kind. Ghost indeed! What
ghost——”

“I beg your pardon, Miss Halcombe,” interposed the schoolmaster a
little uneasily—“but I think you had better not question the boy. The
obstinate folly of his story is beyond all belief; and you might lead
him into ignorantly——”

“Ignorantly what?” inquired Miss Halcombe sharply.

“Ignorantly shocking your feelings,” said Mr. Dempster, looking very
much discomposed.

“Upon my word, Mr. Dempster, you pay my feelings a great compliment in
thinking them weak enough to be shocked by such an urchin as that!” She
turned with an air of satirical defiance to little Jacob, and began
to question him directly. “Come!” she said, “I mean to know all about
this. You naughty boy, when did you see the ghost?”

“Yestere’en, at the gloaming,” replied Jacob.

“Oh! you saw it yesterday evening, in the twilight? And what was it
like?”

“Arl in white—as a ghaist should be,” answered the ghost-seer, with a
confidence beyond his years.

“And where was it?”

“Away yander, in t’ kirkyard—where a ghaist ought to be.”

“As a ‘ghaist’ should be—where a ‘ghaist’ ought to be—why, you little
fool, you talk as if the manners and customs of ghosts had been
familiar to you from your infancy! You have got your story at your
fingers’ ends, at any rate. I suppose I shall hear next that you can
actually tell me whose ghost it was?”

“Eh! but I just can,” replied Jacob, nodding his head with an air of
gloomy triumph.

Mr. Dempster had already tried several times to speak while Miss
Halcombe was examining his pupil, and he now interposed resolutely
enough to make himself heard.

“Excuse me, Miss Halcombe,” he said, “if I venture to say that you are
only encouraging the boy by asking him these questions.”

“I will merely ask one more, Mr. Dempster, and then I shall be quite
satisfied. Well,” she continued, turning to the boy, “and whose ghost
was it?”

“T’ ghaist of Mistress Fairlie,” answered Jacob in a whisper.

The effect which this extraordinary reply produced on Miss Halcombe
fully justified the anxiety which the schoolmaster had shown to prevent
her from hearing it. Her face crimsoned with indignation—she turned
upon little Jacob with an angry suddenness which terrified him into a
fresh burst of tears—opened her lips to speak to him—then controlled
herself, and addressed the master instead of the boy.

“It is useless,” she said, “to hold such a child as that responsible
for what he says. I have little doubt that the idea has been put into
his head by others. If there are people in this village, Mr. Dempster,
who have forgotten the respect and gratitude due from every soul in
it to my mother’s memory, I will find them out, and if I have any
influence with Mr. Fairlie, they shall suffer for it.”

“I hope—indeed, I am sure, Miss Halcombe—that you are mistaken,” said
the schoolmaster. “The matter begins and ends with the boy’s own
perversity and folly. He saw, or thought he saw, a woman in white,
yesterday evening, as he was passing the churchyard; and the figure,
real or fancied, was standing by the marble cross, which he and every
one else in Limmeridge knows to be the monument over Mrs. Fairlie’s
grave. These two circumstances are surely sufficient to have suggested
to the boy himself the answer which has so naturally shocked you?”

Although Miss Halcombe did not seem to be convinced, she evidently felt
that the schoolmaster’s statement of the case was too sensible to be
openly combated. She merely replied by thanking him for his attention,
and by promising to see him again when her doubts were satisfied. This
said, she bowed, and led the way out of the schoolroom.

Throughout the whole of this strange scene I had stood apart, listening
attentively, and drawing my own conclusions. As soon as we were alone
again, Miss Halcombe asked me if I had formed any opinion on what I had
heard.

“A very strong opinion,” I answered; “the boy’s story, as I believe,
has a foundation in fact. I confess I am anxious to see the monument
over Mrs. Fairlie’s grave, and to examine the ground about it.”

“You shall see the grave.”

She paused after making that reply, and reflected a little as we
walked on. “What has happened in the schoolroom,” she resumed, “has so
completely distracted my attention from the subject of the letter, that
I feel a little bewildered when I try to return to it. Must we give up
all idea of making any further inquiries, and wait to place the thing
in Mr. Gilmore’s hands to-morrow?”

“By no means, Miss Halcombe. What has happened in the schoolroom
encourages me to persevere in the investigation.”

“Why does it encourage you?”

“Because it strengthens a suspicion I felt when you gave me the letter
to read.”

“I suppose you had your reasons, Mr. Hartright, for concealing that
suspicion from me till this moment?”

“I was afraid to encourage it in myself. I thought it was utterly
preposterous—I distrusted it as the result of some perversity in my own
imagination. But I can do so no longer. Not only the boy’s own answers
to your questions, but even a chance expression that dropped from the
schoolmaster’s lips in explaining his story, have forced the idea
back into my mind. Events may yet prove that idea to be a delusion,
Miss Halcombe; but the belief is strong in me, at this moment, that
the fancied ghost in the churchyard, and the writer of the anonymous
letter, are one and the same person.”

She stopped, turned pale, and looked me eagerly in the face.

“What person?”

“The schoolmaster unconsciously told you. When he spoke of the figure
that the boy saw in the churchyard he called it ‘a woman in white.’”

“Not Anne Catherick?”

“Yes, Anne Catherick.”

She put her hand through my arm and leaned on it heavily.

“I don’t know why,” she said in low tones, “but there is something in
this suspicion of yours that seems to startle and unnerve me. I feel——”
She stopped, and tried to laugh it off. “Mr. Hartright,” she went on,
“I will show you the grave, and then go back at once to the house. I
had better not leave Laura too long alone. I had better go back and sit
with her.”

We were close to the churchyard when she spoke. The church, a dreary
building of grey stone, was situated in a little valley, so as to be
sheltered from the bleak winds blowing over the moorland all round
it. The burial-ground advanced, from the side of the church, a little
way up the slope of the hill. It was surrounded by a rough, low stone
wall, and was bare and open to the sky, except at one extremity, where
a brook trickled down the stony hill-side, and a clump of dwarf trees
threw their narrow shadows over the short, meagre grass. Just beyond
the brook and the trees, and not far from one of the three stone stiles
which afforded entrance, at various points, to the churchyard, rose the
white marble cross that distinguished Mrs. Fairlie’s grave from the
humbler monuments scattered about it.

“I need go no farther with you,” said Miss Halcombe, pointing to the
grave. “You will let me know if you find anything to confirm the idea
you have just mentioned to me. Let us meet again at the house.”

She left me. I descended at once to the churchyard, and crossed the
stile which led directly to Mrs. Fairlie’s grave.

The grass about it was too short, and the ground too hard, to show any
marks of footsteps. Disappointed thus far, I next looked attentively
at the cross, and at the square block of marble below it, on which the
inscription was cut.

The natural whiteness of the cross was a little clouded, here and
there, by weather stains, and rather more than one half of the square
block beneath it, on the side which bore the inscription, was in the
same condition. The other half, however, attracted my attention at
once by its singular freedom from stain or impurity of any kind. I
looked closer, and saw that it had been cleaned—recently cleaned, in a
downward direction from top to bottom. The boundary line between the
part that had been cleaned and the part that had not was traceable
wherever the inscription left a blank space of marble—sharply traceable
as a line that had been produced by artificial means. Who had begun the
cleansing of the marble, and who had left it unfinished?

I looked about me, wondering how the question was to be solved. No
sign of a habitation could be discerned from the point at which I was
standing—the burial-ground was left in the lonely possession of the
dead. I returned to the church, and walked round it till I came to the
back of the building; then crossed the boundary wall beyond, by another
of the stone stiles, and found myself at the head of a path leading
down into a deserted stone quarry. Against one side of the quarry a
little two-room cottage was built, and just outside the door an old
woman was engaged in washing.

I walked up to her, and entered into conversation about the church
and burial-ground. She was ready enough to talk, and almost the first
words she said informed me that her husband filled the two offices of
clerk and sexton. I said a few words next in praise of Mrs. Fairlie’s
monument. The old woman shook her head, and told me I had not seen it
at its best. It was her husband’s business to look after it, but he
had been so ailing and weak for months and months past, that he had
hardly been able to crawl into church on Sundays to do his duty, and
the monument had been neglected in consequence. He was getting a little
better now, and in a week or ten days’ time he hoped to be strong
enough to set to work and clean it.

This information—extracted from a long rambling answer in the broadest
Cumberland dialect—told me all that I most wanted to know. I gave the
poor woman a trifle, and returned at once to Limmeridge House.

The partial cleansing of the monument had evidently been accomplished
by a strange hand. Connecting what I had discovered, thus far, with
what I had suspected after hearing the story of the ghost seen at
twilight, I wanted nothing more to confirm my resolution to watch
Mrs. Fairlie’s grave, in secret, that evening, returning to it at
sunset, and waiting within sight of it till the night fell. The work of
cleansing the monument had been left unfinished, and the person by whom
it had been begun might return to complete it.

On getting back to the house I informed Miss Halcombe of what I
intended to do. She looked surprised and uneasy while I was explaining
my purpose, but she made no positive objection to the execution of it.
She only said, “I hope it may end well.”

Just as she was leaving me again, I stopped her to inquire, as calmly
as I could, after Miss Fairlie’s health. She was in better spirits,
and Miss Halcombe hoped she might be induced to take a little walking
exercise while the afternoon sun lasted.

I returned to my own room to resume setting the drawings in order. It
was necessary to do this, and doubly necessary to keep my mind employed
on anything that would help to distract my attention from myself, and
from the hopeless future that lay before me. From time to time I paused
in my work to look out of window and watch the sky as the sun sank
nearer and nearer to the horizon. On one of those occasions I saw a
figure on the broad gravel walk under my window. It was Miss Fairlie.

I had not seen her since the morning, and I had hardly spoken to her
then. Another day at Limmeridge was all that remained to me, and after
that day my eyes might never look on her again. This thought was enough
to hold me at the window. I had sufficient consideration for her to
arrange the blind so that she might not see me if she looked up, but I
had no strength to resist the temptation of letting my eyes, at least,
follow her as far as they could on her walk.

She was dressed in a brown cloak, with a plain black silk gown under
it. On her head was the same simple straw hat which she had worn on
the morning when we first met. A veil was attached to it now which hid
her face from me. By her side trotted a little Italian greyhound, the
pet companion of all her walks, smartly dressed in a scarlet cloth
wrapper, to keep the sharp air from his delicate skin. She did not seem
to notice the dog. She walked straight forward, with her head drooping
a little, and her arms folded in her cloak. The dead leaves, which
had whirled in the wind before me when I had heard of her marriage
engagement in the morning, whirled in the wind before her, and rose and
fell and scattered themselves at her feet as she walked on in the pale
waning sunlight. The dog shivered and trembled, and pressed against her
dress impatiently for notice and encouragement. But she never heeded
him. She walked on, farther and farther away from me, with the dead
leaves whirling about her on the path—walked on, till my aching eyes
could see her no more, and I was left alone again with my own heavy
heart.

In another hour’s time I had done my work, and the sunset was at hand.
I got my hat and coat in the hall, and slipped out of the house without
meeting any one.

The clouds were wild in the western heaven, and the wind blew chill
from the sea. Far as the shore was, the sound of the surf swept over
the intervening moorland, and beat drearily in my ears when I entered
the churchyard. Not a living creature was in sight. The place looked
lonelier than ever as I chose my position, and waited and watched, with
my eyes on the white cross that rose over Mrs. Fairlie’s grave.



XIII

The exposed situation of the churchyard had obliged me to be cautious
in choosing the position that I was to occupy.

The main entrance to the church was on the side next to the
burial-ground, and the door was screened by a porch walled in on either
side. After some little hesitation, caused by natural reluctance to
conceal myself, indispensable as that concealment was to the object
in view, I had resolved on entering the porch. A loophole window was
pierced in each of its side walls. Through one of these windows I
could see Mrs. Fairlie’s grave. The other looked towards the stone
quarry in which the sexton’s cottage was built. Before me, fronting the
porch entrance, was a patch of bare burial-ground, a line of low stone
wall, and a strip of lonely brown hill, with the sunset clouds sailing
heavily over it before the strong, steady wind. No living creature was
visible or audible—no bird flew by me, no dog barked from the sexton’s
cottage. The pauses in the dull beating of the surf were filled up by
the dreary rustling of the dwarf trees near the grave, and the cold
faint bubble of the brook over its stony bed. A dreary scene and a
dreary hour. My spirits sank fast as I counted out the minutes of the
evening in my hiding-place under the church porch.

It was not twilight yet—the light of the setting sun still lingered in
the heavens, and little more than the first half-hour of my solitary
watch had elapsed—when I heard footsteps and a voice. The footsteps
were approaching from the other side of the church, and the voice was a
woman’s.

“Don’t you fret, my dear, about the letter,” said the voice. “I gave it
to the lad quite safe, and the lad he took it from me without a word.
He went his way and I went mine, and not a living soul followed me
afterwards—that I’ll warrant.”

These words strung up my attention to a pitch of expectation that was
almost painful. There was a pause of silence, but the footsteps still
advanced. In another moment two persons, both women, passed within my
range of view from the porch window. They were walking straight towards
the grave; and therefore they had their backs turned towards me.

One of the women was dressed in a bonnet and shawl. The other wore a
long travelling-cloak of a dark-blue colour, with the hood drawn over
her head. A few inches of her gown were visible below the cloak. My
heart beat fast as I noted the colour—it was white.

After advancing about half-way between the church and the grave they
stopped, and the woman in the cloak turned her head towards her
companion. But her side face, which a bonnet might now have allowed me
to see, was hidden by the heavy, projecting edge of the hood.

“Mind you keep that comfortable warm cloak on,” said the same voice
which I had already heard—the voice of the woman in the shawl. “Mrs.
Todd is right about your looking too particular, yesterday, all in
white. I’ll walk about a little while you’re here, churchyards being
not at all in my way, whatever they may be in yours. Finish what you
want to do before I come back, and let us be sure and get home again
before night.”

With those words she turned about, and retracing her steps, advanced
with her face towards me. It was the face of an elderly woman, brown,
rugged, and healthy, with nothing dishonest or suspicious in the look
of it. Close to the church she stopped to pull her shawl closer round
her.

“Queer,” she said to herself, “always queer, with her whims and her
ways, ever since I can remember her. Harmless, though—as harmless, poor
soul, as a little child.”

She sighed—looked about the burial-ground nervously—shook her head, as
if the dreary prospect by no means pleased her, and disappeared round
the corner of the church.

I doubted for a moment whether I ought to follow and speak to her or
not. My intense anxiety to find myself face to face with her companion
helped me to decide in the negative. I could ensure seeing the woman in
the shawl by waiting near the churchyard until she came back—although
it seemed more than doubtful whether she could give me the information
of which I was in search. The person who had delivered the letter was
of little consequence. The person who had written it was the one centre
of interest, and the one source of information, and that person I now
felt convinced was before me in the churchyard.

While these ideas were passing through my mind I saw the woman in
the cloak approach close to the grave, and stand looking at it for a
little while. She then glanced all round her, and taking a white linen
cloth or handkerchief from under her cloak, turned aside towards the
brook. The little stream ran into the churchyard under a tiny archway
in the bottom of the wall, and ran out again, after a winding course
of a few dozen yards, under a similar opening. She dipped the cloth in
the water, and returned to the grave. I saw her kiss the white cross,
then kneel down before the inscription, and apply her wet cloth to the
cleansing of it.

After considering how I could show myself with the least possible
chance of frightening her, I resolved to cross the wall before me, to
skirt round it outside, and to enter the churchyard again by the stile
near the grave, in order that she might see me as I approached. She was
so absorbed over her employment that she did not hear me coming until
I had stepped over the stile. Then she looked up, started to her feet
with a faint cry, and stood facing me in speechless and motionless
terror.

“Don’t be frightened,” I said. “Surely you remember me?”

I stopped while I spoke—then advanced a few steps gently—then stopped
again—and so approached by little and little till I was close to her.
If there had been any doubt still left in my mind, it must have been
now set at rest. There, speaking affrightedly for itself—there was the
same face confronting me over Mrs. Fairlie’s grave which had first
looked into mine on the high-road by night.

“You remember me?” I said. “We met very late, and I helped you to find
the way to London. Surely you have not forgotten that?”

Her features relaxed, and she drew a heavy breath of relief. I saw the
new life of recognition stirring slowly under the death-like stillness
which fear had set on her face.

“Don’t attempt to speak to me just yet,” I went on. “Take time to
recover yourself—take time to feel quite certain that I am a friend.”

“You are very kind to me,” she murmured. “As kind now as you were then.”

She stopped, and I kept silence on my side. I was not granting time
for composure to her only, I was gaining time also for myself. Under
the wan wild evening light, that woman and I were met together again,
a grave between us, the dead about us, the lonesome hills closing us
round on every side. The time, the place, the circumstances under
which we now stood face to face in the evening stillness of that
dreary valley—the lifelong interests which might hang suspended on the
next chance words that passed between us—the sense that, for aught I
knew to the contrary, the whole future of Laura Fairlie’s life might
be determined, for good or for evil, by my winning or losing the
confidence of the forlorn creature who stood trembling by her mother’s
grave—all threatened to shake the steadiness and the self-control on
which every inch of the progress I might yet make now depended. I tried
hard, as I felt this, to possess myself of all my resources; I did my
utmost to turn the few moments for reflection to the best account.

“Are you calmer now?” I said, as soon as I thought it time to speak
again. “Can you talk to me without feeling frightened, and without
forgetting that I am a friend?”

“How did you come here?” she asked, without noticing what I had just
said to her.

“Don’t you remember my telling you, when we last met, that I was going
to Cumberland? I have been in Cumberland ever since—I have been staying
all the time at Limmeridge House.”

“At Limmeridge House!” Her pale face brightened as she repeated the
words, her wandering eyes fixed on me with a sudden interest. “Ah, how
happy you must have been!” she said, looking at me eagerly, without a
shadow of its former distrust left in her expression.

I took advantage of her newly-aroused confidence in me to observe
her face, with an attention and a curiosity which I had hitherto
restrained myself from showing, for caution’s sake. I looked at her,
with my mind full of that other lovely face which had so ominously
recalled her to my memory on the terrace by moonlight. I had seen Anne
Catherick’s likeness in Miss Fairlie. I now saw Miss Fairlie’s likeness
in Anne Catherick—saw it all the more clearly because the points of
dissimilarity between the two were presented to me as well as the
points of resemblance. In the general outline of the countenance and
general proportion of the features—in the colour of the hair and in
the little nervous uncertainty about the lips—in the height and size
of the figure, and the carriage of the head and body, the likeness
appeared even more startling than I had ever felt it to be yet. But
there the resemblance ended, and the dissimilarity, in details, began.
The delicate beauty of Miss Fairlie’s complexion, the transparent
clearness of her eyes, the smooth purity of her skin, the tender bloom
of colour on her lips, were all missing from the worn weary face that
was now turned towards mine. Although I hated myself even for thinking
such a thing, still, while I looked at the woman before me, the idea
would force itself into my mind that one sad change, in the future, was
all that was wanting to make the likeness complete, which I now saw
to be so imperfect in detail. If ever sorrow and suffering set their
profaning marks on the youth and beauty of Miss Fairlie’s face, then,
and then only, Anne Catherick and she would be the twin-sisters of
chance resemblance, the living reflections of one another.

I shuddered at the thought. There was something horrible in the blind
unreasoning distrust of the future which the mere passage of it through
my mind seemed to imply. It was a welcome interruption to be roused by
feeling Anne Catherick’s hand laid on my shoulder. The touch was as
stealthy and as sudden as that other touch which had petrified me from
head to foot on the night when we first met.

“You are looking at me, and you are thinking of something,” she said,
with her strange breathless rapidity of utterance. “What is it?”

“Nothing extraordinary,” I answered. “I was only wondering how you came
here.”

“I came with a friend who is very good to me. I have only been here two
days.”

“And you found your way to this place yesterday?”

“How do you know that?”

“I only guessed it.”

She turned from me, and knelt down before the inscription once more.

“Where should I go if not here?” she said. “The friend who was better
than a mother to me is the only friend I have to visit at Limmeridge.
Oh, it makes my heart ache to see a stain on her tomb! It ought to be
kept white as snow, for her sake. I was tempted to begin cleaning it
yesterday, and I can’t help coming back to go on with it to-day. Is
there anything wrong in that? I hope not. Surely nothing can be wrong
that I do for Mrs. Fairlie’s sake?”

The old grateful sense of her benefactress’s kindness was evidently the
ruling idea still in the poor creature’s mind—the narrow mind which had
but too plainly opened to no other lasting impression since that first
impression of her younger and happier days. I saw that my best chance
of winning her confidence lay in encouraging her to proceed with the
artless employment which she had come into the burial-ground to pursue.
She resumed it at once, on my telling her she might do so, touching
the hard marble as tenderly as if it had been a sentient thing, and
whispering the words of the inscription to herself, over and over
again, as if the lost days of her girlhood had returned and she was
patiently learning her lesson once more at Mrs. Fairlie’s knees.

“Should you wonder very much,” I said, preparing the way as cautiously
as I could for the questions that were to come, “if I owned that it is
a satisfaction to me, as well as a surprise, to see you here? I felt
very uneasy about you after you left me in the cab.”

She looked up quickly and suspiciously.

“Uneasy,” she repeated. “Why?”

“A strange thing happened after we parted that night. Two men overtook
me in a chaise. They did not see where I was standing, but they stopped
near me, and spoke to a policeman on the other side of the way.”

She instantly suspended her employment. The hand holding the damp cloth
with which she had been cleaning the inscription dropped to her side.
The other hand grasped the marble cross at the head of the grave.
Her face turned towards me slowly, with the blank look of terror set
rigidly on it once more. I went on at all hazards—it was too late now
to draw back.

“The two men spoke to the policeman,” I said, “and asked him if he had
seen you. He had not seen you; and then one of the men spoke again, and
said you had escaped from his Asylum.”

She sprang to her feet as if my last words had set the pursuers on her
track.

“Stop! and hear the end,” I cried. “Stop! and you shall know how I
befriended you. A word from me would have told the men which way you
had gone—and I never spoke that word. I helped your escape—I made it
safe and certain. Think, try to think. Try to understand what I tell
you.”

My manner seemed to influence her more than my words. She made an
effort to grasp the new idea. Her hands shifted the damp cloth
hesitatingly from one to the other, exactly as they had shifted the
little travelling-bag on the night when I first saw her. Slowly the
purpose of my words seemed to force its way through the confusion and
agitation of her mind. Slowly her features relaxed, and her eyes looked
at me with their expression gaining in curiosity what it was fast
losing in fear.

“YOU don’t think I ought to be back in the Asylum, do you?” she said.

“Certainly not. I am glad you escaped from it—I am glad I helped you.”

“Yes, yes, you did help me indeed; you helped me at the hard part,” she
went on a little vacantly. “It was easy to escape, or I should not have
got away. They never suspected me as they suspected the others. I was
so quiet, and so obedient, and so easily frightened. The finding London
was the hard part, and there you helped me. Did I thank you at the
time? I thank you now very kindly.”

“Was the Asylum far from where you met me? Come! show that you believe
me to be your friend, and tell me where it was.”

She mentioned the place—a private Asylum, as its situation informed me;
a private Asylum not very far from the spot where I had seen her—and
then, with evident suspicion of the use to which I might put her
answer, anxiously repeated her former inquiry, “You don’t think I ought
to be taken back, do you?”

“Once again, I am glad you escaped—I am glad you prospered well after
you left me,” I answered. “You said you had a friend in London to go
to. Did you find the friend?”

“Yes. It was very late, but there was a girl up at needle-work in the
house, and she helped me to rouse Mrs. Clements. Mrs. Clements is my
friend. A good, kind woman, but not like Mrs. Fairlie. Ah no, nobody is
like Mrs. Fairlie!”

“Is Mrs. Clements an old friend of yours? Have you known her a long
time?”

“Yes, she was a neighbour of ours once, at home, in Hampshire, and
liked me, and took care of me when I was a little girl. Years ago, when
she went away from us, she wrote down in my Prayer-book for me where
she was going to live in London, and she said, ‘If you are ever in
trouble, Anne, come to me. I have no husband alive to say me nay, and
no children to look after, and I will take care of you.’ Kind words,
were they not? I suppose I remember them because they were kind. It’s
little enough I remember besides—little enough, little enough!”

“Had you no father or mother to take care of you?”

“Father?—I never saw him—I never heard mother speak of him. Father? Ah,
dear! he is dead, I suppose.”

“And your mother?”

“I don’t get on well with her. We are a trouble and a fear to each
other.”

A trouble and a fear to each other! At those words the suspicion
crossed my mind, for the first time, that her mother might be the
person who had placed her under restraint.

“Don’t ask me about mother,” she went on. “I’d rather talk of Mrs.
Clements. Mrs. Clements is like you, she doesn’t think that I ought to
be back in the Asylum, and she is as glad as you are that I escaped
from it. She cried over my misfortune, and said it must be kept secret
from everybody.”

Her “misfortune.” In what sense was she using that word? In a sense
which might explain her motive in writing the anonymous letter? In
a sense which might show it to be the too common and too customary
motive that has led many a woman to interpose anonymous hindrances to
the marriage of the man who has ruined her? I resolved to attempt the
clearing up of this doubt before more words passed between us on either
side.

“What misfortune?” I asked.

“The misfortune of my being shut up,” she answered, with every
appearance of feeling surprised at my question. “What other misfortune
could there be?”

I determined to persist, as delicately and forbearingly as possible. It
was of very great importance that I should be absolutely sure of every
step in the investigation which I now gained in advance.

“There is another misfortune,” I said, “to which a woman may be liable,
and by which she may suffer lifelong sorrow and shame.”

“What is it?” she asked eagerly.

“The misfortune of believing too innocently in her own virtue, and in
the faith and honour of the man she loves,” I answered.

She looked up at me with the artless bewilderment of a child. Not the
slightest confusion or change of colour—not the faintest trace of any
secret consciousness of shame struggling to the surface appeared in her
face—that face which betrayed every other emotion with such transparent
clearness. No words that ever were spoken could have assured me,
as her look and manner now assured me, that the motive which I had
assigned for her writing the letter and sending it to Miss Fairlie was
plainly and distinctly the wrong one. That doubt, at any rate, was
now set at rest; but the very removal of it opened a new prospect of
uncertainty. The letter, as I knew from positive testimony, pointed at
Sir Percival Glyde, though it did not name him. She must have had some
strong motive, originating in some deep sense of injury, for secretly
denouncing him to Miss Fairlie in such terms as she had employed, and
that motive was unquestionably not to be traced to the loss of her
innocence and her character. Whatever wrong he might have inflicted on
her was not of that nature. Of what nature could it be?

“I don’t understand you,” she said, after evidently trying hard, and
trying in vain, to discover the meaning of the words I had last said to
her.

“Never mind,” I answered. “Let us go on with what we were talking
about. Tell me how long you stayed with Mrs. Clements in London, and
how you came here.”

“How long?” she repeated. “I stayed with Mrs. Clements till we both
came to this place, two days ago.”

“You are living in the village, then?” I said. “It is strange I should
not have heard of you, though you have only been here two days.”

“No, no, not in the village. Three miles away at a farm. Do you know
the farm? They call it Todd’s Corner.”

I remembered the place perfectly—we had often passed by it in our
drives. It was one of the oldest farms in the neighbourhood, situated
in a solitary, sheltered spot, inland at the junction of two hills.

“They are relations of Mrs. Clements at Todd’s Corner,” she went on,
“and they had often asked her to go and see them. She said she would
go, and take me with her, for the quiet and the fresh air. It was
very kind, was it not? I would have gone anywhere to be quiet, and
safe, and out of the way. But when I heard that Todd’s Corner was near
Limmeridge—oh! I was so happy I would have walked all the way barefoot
to get there, and see the schools and the village and Limmeridge House
again. They are very good people at Todd’s Corner. I hope I shall stay
there a long time. There is only one thing I don’t like about them, and
don’t like about Mrs. Clements——”

“What is it?”

“They will tease me about dressing all in white—they say it looks so
particular. How do they know? Mrs. Fairlie knew best. Mrs. Fairlie
would never have made me wear this ugly blue cloak! Ah! she was fond of
white in her lifetime, and here is white stone about her grave—and I am
making it whiter for her sake. She often wore white herself, and she
always dressed her little daughter in white. Is Miss Fairlie well and
happy? Does she wear white now, as she used when she was a girl?”

Her voice sank when she put the questions about Miss Fairlie, and she
turned her head farther and farther away from me. I thought I detected,
in the alteration of her manner, an uneasy consciousness of the risk
she had run in sending the anonymous letter, and I instantly determined
so to frame my answer as to surprise her into owning it.

“Miss Fairlie was not very well or very happy this morning,” I said.

She murmured a few words, but they were spoken so confusedly, and in
such a low tone, that I could not even guess at what they meant.

“Did you ask me why Miss Fairlie was neither well nor happy this
morning?” I continued.

“No,” she said quickly and eagerly—“oh no, I never asked that.”

“I will tell you without your asking,” I went on. “Miss Fairlie has
received your letter.”

She had been down on her knees for some little time past, carefully
removing the last weather-stains left about the inscription while we
were speaking together. The first sentence of the words I had just
addressed to her made her pause in her occupation, and turn slowly
without rising from her knees, so as to face me. The second sentence
literally petrified her. The cloth she had been holding dropped from
her hands—her lips fell apart—all the little colour that there was
naturally in her face left it in an instant.

“How do you know?” she said faintly. “Who showed it to you?” The blood
rushed back into her face—rushed overwhelmingly, as the sense rushed
upon her mind that her own words had betrayed her. She struck her hands
together in despair. “I never wrote it,” she gasped affrightedly; “I
know nothing about it!”

“Yes,” I said, “you wrote it, and you know about it. It was wrong to
send such a letter, it was wrong to frighten Miss Fairlie. If you had
anything to say that it was right and necessary for her to hear, you
should have gone yourself to Limmeridge House—you should have spoken to
the young lady with your own lips.”

She crouched down over the flat stone of the grave, till her face was
hidden on it, and made no reply.

“Miss Fairlie will be as good and kind to you as her mother was, if you
mean well,” I went on. “Miss Fairlie will keep your secret, and not let
you come to any harm. Will you see her to-morrow at the farm? Will you
meet her in the garden at Limmeridge House?”

“Oh, if I could die, and be hidden and at rest with YOU!” Her lips
murmured the words close on the grave-stone, murmured them in tones of
passionate endearment, to the dead remains beneath. “You know how I
love your child, for your sake! Oh, Mrs. Fairlie! Mrs. Fairlie! tell
me how to save her. Be my darling and my mother once more, and tell me
what to do for the best.”

I heard her lips kissing the stone—I saw her hands beating on it
passionately. The sound and the sight deeply affected me. I stooped
down, and took the poor helpless hands tenderly in mine, and tried to
soothe her.

It was useless. She snatched her hands from me, and never moved her
face from the stone. Seeing the urgent necessity of quieting her at
any hazard and by any means, I appealed to the only anxiety that she
appeared to feel, in connection with me and with my opinion of her—the
anxiety to convince me of her fitness to be mistress of her own actions.

“Come, come,” I said gently. “Try to compose yourself, or you will make
me alter my opinion of you. Don’t let me think that the person who put
you in the Asylum might have had some excuse——”

The next words died away on my lips. The instant I risked that chance
reference to the person who had put her in the Asylum she sprang up on
her knees. A most extraordinary and startling change passed over her.
Her face, at all ordinary times so touching to look at, in its nervous
sensitiveness, weakness, and uncertainty, became suddenly darkened by
an expression of maniacally intense hatred and fear, which communicated
a wild, unnatural force to every feature. Her eyes dilated in the dim
evening light, like the eyes of a wild animal. She caught up the cloth
that had fallen at her side, as if it had been a living creature that
she could kill, and crushed it in both her hands with such convulsive
strength, that the few drops of moisture left in it trickled down on
the stone beneath her.

“Talk of something else,” she said, whispering through her teeth. “I
shall lose myself if you talk of that.”

Every vestige of the gentler thoughts which had filled her mind hardly
a minute since seemed to be swept from it now. It was evident that the
impression left by Mrs. Fairlie’s kindness was not, as I had supposed,
the only strong impression on her memory. With the grateful remembrance
of her school-days at Limmeridge, there existed the vindictive
remembrance of the wrong inflicted on her by her confinement in the
Asylum. Who had done that wrong? Could it really be her mother?

It was hard to give up pursuing the inquiry to that final point, but
I forced myself to abandon all idea of continuing it. Seeing her as
I saw her now, it would have been cruel to think of anything but the
necessity and the humanity of restoring her composure.

“I will talk of nothing to distress you,” I said soothingly.

“You want something,” she answered sharply and suspiciously. “Don’t
look at me like that. Speak to me—tell me what you want.”

“I only want you to quiet yourself, and when you are calmer, to think
over what I have said.”

“Said?” She paused—twisted the cloth in her hands, backwards and
forwards, and whispered to herself, “What is it he said?” She turned
again towards me, and shook her head impatiently. “Why don’t you help
me?” she asked, with angry suddenness.

“Yes, yes,” I said, “I will help you, and you will soon remember. I ask
you to see Miss Fairlie to-morrow and to tell her the truth about the
letter.”

“Ah! Miss Fairlie—Fairlie—Fairlie——”

The mere utterance of the loved familiar name seemed to quiet her. Her
face softened and grew like itself again.

“You need have no fear of Miss Fairlie,” I continued, “and no fear of
getting into trouble through the letter. She knows so much about it
already, that you will have no difficulty in telling her all. There can
be little necessity for concealment where there is hardly anything left
to conceal. You mention no names in the letter; but Miss Fairlie knows
that the person you write of is Sir Percival Glyde——”

The instant I pronounced that name she started to her feet, and a
scream burst from her that rang through the churchyard, and made my
heart leap in me with the terror of it. The dark deformity of the
expression which had just left her face lowered on it once more, with
doubled and trebled intensity. The shriek at the name, the reiterated
look of hatred and fear that instantly followed, told all. Not even a
last doubt now remained. Her mother was guiltless of imprisoning her in
the Asylum. A man had shut her up—and that man was Sir Percival Glyde.

The scream had reached other ears than mine. On one side I heard the
door of the sexton’s cottage open; on the other I heard the voice of
her companion, the woman in the shawl, the woman whom she had spoken of
as Mrs. Clements.

“I’m coming! I’m coming!” cried the voice from behind the clump of
dwarf trees.

In a moment more Mrs. Clements hurried into view.

“Who are you?” she cried, facing me resolutely as she set her foot on
the stile. “How dare you frighten a poor helpless woman like that?”

She was at Anne Catherick’s side, and had put one arm around her,
before I could answer. “What is it, my dear?” she said. “What has he
done to you?”

“Nothing,” the poor creature answered. “Nothing. I’m only frightened.”

Mrs. Clements turned on me with a fearless indignation, for which I
respected her.

“I should be heartily ashamed of myself if I deserved that angry look,”
I said. “But I do not deserve it. I have unfortunately startled her
without intending it. This is not the first time she has seen me. Ask
her yourself, and she will tell you that I am incapable of willingly
harming her or any woman.”

I spoke distinctly, so that Anne Catherick might hear and understand
me, and I saw that the words and their meaning had reached her.

“Yes, yes,” she said—“he was good to me once—he helped me——” She
whispered the rest into her friend’s ear.

“Strange, indeed!” said Mrs. Clements, with a look of perplexity. “It
makes all the difference, though. I’m sorry I spoke so rough to you,
sir; but you must own that appearances looked suspicious to a stranger.
It’s more my fault than yours, for humouring her whims, and letting her
be alone in such a place as this. Come, my dear—come home now.”

I thought the good woman looked a little uneasy at the prospect of the
walk back, and I offered to go with them until they were both within
sight of home. Mrs. Clements thanked me civilly, and declined. She said
they were sure to meet some of the farm-labourers as soon as they got
to the moor.

“Try to forgive me,” I said, when Anne Catherick took her friend’s
arm to go away. Innocent as I had been of any intention to terrify
and agitate her, my heart smote me as I looked at the poor, pale,
frightened face.

“I will try,” she answered. “But you know too much—I’m afraid you’ll
always frighten me now.”

Mrs. Clements glanced at me, and shook her head pityingly.

“Good-night, sir,” she said. “You couldn’t help it, I know; but I wish
it was me you had frightened, and not her.”

They moved away a few steps. I thought they had left me, but Anne
suddenly stopped, and separated herself from her friend.

“Wait a little,” she said. “I must say good-bye.”

She returned to the grave, rested both hands tenderly on the marble
cross, and kissed it.

“I’m better now,” she sighed, looking up at me quietly. “I forgive you.”

She joined her companion again, and they left the burial-ground. I saw
them stop near the church and speak to the sexton’s wife, who had come
from the cottage, and had waited, watching us from a distance. Then
they went on again up the path that led to the moor. I looked after
Anne Catherick as she disappeared, till all trace of her had faded in
the twilight—looked as anxiously and sorrowfully as if that was the
last I was to see in this weary world of the woman in white.



XIV

Half an hour later I was back at the house, and was informing Miss
Halcombe of all that had happened.

She listened to me from beginning to end with a steady, silent
attention, which, in a woman of her temperament and disposition, was
the strongest proof that could be offered of the serious manner in
which my narrative affected her.

“My mind misgives me,” was all she said when I had done. “My mind
misgives me sadly about the future.”

“The future may depend,” I suggested, “on the use we make of the
present. It is not improbable that Anne Catherick may speak more
readily and unreservedly to a woman than she has spoken to me. If Miss
Fairlie——”

“Not to be thought of for a moment,” interposed Miss Halcombe, in her
most decided manner.

“Let me suggest, then,” I continued, “that you should see Anne
Catherick yourself, and do all you can to win her confidence. For my
own part, I shrink from the idea of alarming the poor creature a second
time, as I have most unhappily alarmed her already. Do you see any
objection to accompanying me to the farmhouse to-morrow?”

“None whatever. I will go anywhere and do anything to serve Laura’s
interests. What did you say the place was called?”

“You must know it well. It is called Todd’s Corner.”

“Certainly. Todd’s Corner is one of Mr. Fairlie’s farms. Our dairymaid
here is the farmer’s second daughter. She goes backwards and forwards
constantly between this house and her father’s farm, and she may have
heard or seen something which it may be useful to us to know. Shall I
ascertain, at once, if the girl is downstairs?”

She rang the bell, and sent the servant with his message. He returned,
and announced that the dairymaid was then at the farm. She had not been
there for the last three days, and the housekeeper had given her leave
to go home for an hour or two that evening.

“I can speak to her to-morrow,” said Miss Halcombe, when the servant
had left the room again. “In the meantime, let me thoroughly understand
the object to be gained by my interview with Anne Catherick. Is there
no doubt in your mind that the person who confined her in the Asylum
was Sir Percival Glyde?”

“There is not the shadow of a doubt. The only mystery that remains is
the mystery of his MOTIVE. Looking to the great difference between his
station in life and hers, which seems to preclude all idea of the most
distant relationship between them, it is of the last importance—even
assuming that she really required to be placed under restraint—to know
why HE should have been the person to assume the serious responsibility
of shutting her up——”

“In a private Asylum, I think you said?”

“Yes, in a private Asylum, where a sum of money, which no poor person
could afford to give, must have been paid for her maintenance as a
patient.”

“I see where the doubt lies, Mr. Hartright, and I promise you that
it shall be set at rest, whether Anne Catherick assists us to-morrow
or not. Sir Percival Glyde shall not be long in this house without
satisfying Mr. Gilmore, and satisfying me. My sister’s future is my
dearest care in life, and I have influence enough over her to give me
some power, where her marriage is concerned, in the disposal of it.”

We parted for the night.


After breakfast the next morning, an obstacle, which the events of the
evening before had put out of my memory, interposed to prevent our
proceeding immediately to the farm. This was my last day at Limmeridge
House, and it was necessary, as soon as the post came in, to follow
Miss Halcombe’s advice, and to ask Mr. Fairlie’s permission to shorten
my engagement by a month, in consideration of an unforeseen necessity
for my return to London.

Fortunately for the probability of this excuse, so far as appearances
were concerned, the post brought me two letters from London friends
that morning. I took them away at once to my own room, and sent the
servant with a message to Mr. Fairlie, requesting to know when I could
see him on a matter of business.

I awaited the man’s return, free from the slightest feeling of anxiety
about the manner in which his master might receive my application.
With Mr. Fairlie’s leave or without it, I must go. The consciousness
of having now taken the first step on the dreary journey which was
henceforth to separate my life from Miss Fairlie’s seemed to have
blunted my sensibility to every consideration connected with myself. I
had done with my poor man’s touchy pride—I had done with all my little
artist vanities. No insolence of Mr. Fairlie’s, if he chose to be
insolent, could wound me now.

The servant returned with a message for which I was not unprepared.
Mr. Fairlie regretted that the state of his health, on that particular
morning, was such as to preclude all hope of his having the pleasure of
receiving me. He begged, therefore, that I would accept his apologies,
and kindly communicate what I had to say in the form of a letter.
Similar messages to this had reached me, at various intervals, during
my three months’ residence in the house. Throughout the whole of that
period Mr. Fairlie had been rejoiced to “possess” me, but had never
been well enough to see me for a second time. The servant took every
fresh batch of drawings that I mounted and restored back to his master
with my “respects,” and returned empty-handed with Mr. Fairlie’s “kind
compliments,” “best thanks,” and “sincere regrets” that the state of
his health still obliged him to remain a solitary prisoner in his
own room. A more satisfactory arrangement to both sides could not
possibly have been adopted. It would be hard to say which of us, under
the circumstances, felt the most grateful sense of obligation to Mr.
Fairlie’s accommodating nerves.

I sat down at once to write the letter, expressing myself in it as
civilly, as clearly, and as briefly as possible. Mr. Fairlie did not
hurry his reply. Nearly an hour elapsed before the answer was placed
in my hands. It was written with beautiful regularity and neatness of
character, in violet-coloured ink, on note-paper as smooth as ivory and
almost as thick as cardboard, and it addressed me in these terms—

“Mr. Fairlie’s compliments to Mr. Hartright. Mr. Fairlie is more
surprised and disappointed than he can say (in the present state of
his health) by Mr. Hartright’s application. Mr. Fairlie is not a
man of business, but he has consulted his steward, who is, and that
person confirms Mr. Fairlie’s opinion that Mr. Hartright’s request
to be allowed to break his engagement cannot be justified by any
necessity whatever, excepting perhaps a case of life and death. If the
highly-appreciative feeling towards Art and its professors, which it is
the consolation and happiness of Mr. Fairlie’s suffering existence to
cultivate, could be easily shaken, Mr. Hartright’s present proceeding
would have shaken it. It has not done so—except in the instance of Mr.
Hartright himself.

“Having stated his opinion—so far, that is to say, as acute nervous
suffering will allow him to state anything—Mr. Fairlie has nothing to
add but the expression of his decision, in reference to the highly
irregular application that has been made to him. Perfect repose of body
and mind being to the last degree important in his case, Mr. Fairlie
will not suffer Mr. Hartright to disturb that repose by remaining in
the house under circumstances of an essentially irritating nature to
both sides. Accordingly, Mr. Fairlie waives his right of refusal,
purely with a view to the preservation of his own tranquillity—and
informs Mr. Hartright that he may go.”

I folded the letter up, and put it away with my other papers. The time
had been when I should have resented it as an insult—I accepted it now
as a written release from my engagement. It was off my mind, it was
almost out of my memory, when I went downstairs to the breakfast-room,
and informed Miss Halcombe that I was ready to walk with her to the
farm.

“Has Mr. Fairlie given you a satisfactory answer?” she asked as we left
the house.

“He has allowed me to go, Miss Halcombe.”

She looked up at me quickly, and then, for the first time since I had
known her, took my arm of her own accord. No words could have expressed
so delicately that she understood how the permission to leave my
employment had been granted, and that she gave me her sympathy, not
as my superior, but as my friend. I had not felt the man’s insolent
letter, but I felt deeply the woman’s atoning kindness.

On our way to the farm we arranged that Miss Halcombe was to enter the
house alone, and that I was to wait outside, within call. We adopted
this mode of proceeding from an apprehension that my presence, after
what had happened in the churchyard the evening before, might have the
effect of renewing Anne Catherick’s nervous dread, and of rendering her
additionally distrustful of the advances of a lady who was a stranger
to her. Miss Halcombe left me, with the intention of speaking, in the
first instance, to the farmer’s wife (of whose friendly readiness to
help her in any way she was well assured), while I waited for her in
the near neighbourhood of the house.

I had fully expected to be left alone for some time. To my surprise,
however, little more than five minutes had elapsed before Miss Halcombe
returned.

“Does Anne Catherick refuse to see you?” I asked in astonishment.

“Anne Catherick is gone,” replied Miss Halcombe.

“Gone?”

“Gone with Mrs. Clements. They both left the farm at eight o’clock this
morning.”

I could say nothing—I could only feel that our last chance of discovery
had gone with them.

“All that Mrs. Todd knows about her guests, I know,” Miss Halcombe
went on, “and it leaves me, as it leaves her, in the dark. They both
came back safe last night, after they left you, and they passed the
first part of the evening with Mr. Todd’s family as usual. Just before
supper-time, however, Anne Catherick startled them all by being
suddenly seized with faintness. She had had a similar attack, of a less
alarming kind, on the day she arrived at the farm; and Mrs. Todd had
connected it, on that occasion, with something she was reading at the
time in our local newspaper, which lay on the farm table, and which she
had taken up only a minute or two before.”

“Does Mrs. Todd know what particular passage in the newspaper affected
her in that way?” I inquired.

“No,” replied Miss Halcombe. “She had looked it over, and had seen
nothing in it to agitate any one. I asked leave, however, to look it
over in my turn, and at the very first page I opened I found that the
editor had enriched his small stock of news by drawing upon our family
affairs, and had published my sister’s marriage engagement, among his
other announcements, copied from the London papers, of Marriages in
High Life. I concluded at once that this was the paragraph which had so
strangely affected Anne Catherick, and I thought I saw in it, also, the
origin of the letter which she sent to our house the next day.”

“There can be no doubt in either case. But what did you hear about her
second attack of faintness yesterday evening?”

“Nothing. The cause of it is a complete mystery. There was no stranger
in the room. The only visitor was our dairymaid, who, as I told you, is
one of Mr. Todd’s daughters, and the only conversation was the usual
gossip about local affairs. They heard her cry out, and saw her turn
deadly pale, without the slightest apparent reason. Mrs. Todd and Mrs.
Clements took her upstairs, and Mrs. Clements remained with her. They
were heard talking together until long after the usual bedtime, and
early this morning Mrs. Clements took Mrs. Todd aside, and amazed her
beyond all power of expression by saying that they must go. The only
explanation Mrs. Todd could extract from her guest was, that something
had happened, which was not the fault of any one at the farmhouse,
but which was serious enough to make Anne Catherick resolve to leave
Limmeridge immediately. It was quite useless to press Mrs. Clements
to be more explicit. She only shook her head, and said that, for
Anne’s sake, she must beg and pray that no one would question her. All
she could repeat, with every appearance of being seriously agitated
herself, was that Anne must go, that she must go with her, and that
the destination to which they might both betake themselves must be
kept a secret from everybody. I spare you the recital of Mrs. Todd’s
hospitable remonstrances and refusals. It ended in her driving them
both to the nearest station, more than three hours since. She tried
hard on the way to get them to speak more plainly, but without success;
and she set them down outside the station-door, so hurt and offended by
the unceremonious abruptness of their departure and their unfriendly
reluctance to place the least confidence in her, that she drove away
in anger, without so much as stopping to bid them good-bye. That is
exactly what has taken place. Search your own memory, Mr. Hartright,
and tell me if anything happened in the burial-ground yesterday evening
which can at all account for the extraordinary departure of those two
women this morning.”

“I should like to account first, Miss Halcombe, for the sudden change
in Anne Catherick which alarmed them at the farmhouse, hours after she
and I had parted, and when time enough had elapsed to quiet any violent
agitation that I might have been unfortunate enough to cause. Did you
inquire particularly about the gossip which was going on in the room
when she turned faint?”

“Yes. But Mrs. Todd’s household affairs seem to have divided her
attention that evening with the talk in the farmhouse parlour. She
could only tell me that it was ‘just the news,’—meaning, I suppose,
that they all talked as usual about each other.”

“The dairymaid’s memory may be better than her mother’s,” I said. “It
may be as well for you to speak to the girl, Miss Halcombe, as soon as
we get back.”

My suggestion was acted on the moment we returned to the house. Miss
Halcombe led me round to the servants’ offices, and we found the girl
in the dairy, with her sleeves tucked up to her shoulders, cleaning a
large milk-pan and singing blithely over her work.

“I have brought this gentleman to see your dairy, Hannah,” said Miss
Halcombe. “It is one of the sights of the house, and it always does you
credit.”

The girl blushed and curtseyed, and said shyly that she hoped she
always did her best to keep things neat and clean.

“We have just come from your father’s,” Miss Halcombe continued. “You
were there yesterday evening, I hear, and you found visitors at the
house?”

“Yes, miss.”

“One of them was taken faint and ill, I am told. I suppose nothing was
said or done to frighten her? You were not talking of anything very
terrible, were you?”

“Oh no, miss!” said the girl, laughing. “We were only talking of the
news.”

“Your sisters told you the news at Todd’s Corner, I suppose?”

“Yes, miss.”

“And you told them the news at Limmeridge House?”

“Yes, miss. And I’m quite sure nothing was said to frighten the poor
thing, for I was talking when she was taken ill. It gave me quite a
turn, miss, to see it, never having been taken faint myself.”

Before any more questions could be put to her, she was called away to
receive a basket of eggs at the dairy door. As she left us I whispered
to Miss Halcombe—

“Ask her if she happened to mention, last night, that visitors were
expected at Limmeridge House.”

Miss Halcombe showed me, by a look, that she understood, and put the
question as soon as the dairymaid returned to us.

“Oh yes, miss, I mentioned that,” said the girl simply. “The company
coming, and the accident to the brindled cow, was all the news I had to
take to the farm.”

“Did you mention names? Did you tell them that Sir Percival Glyde was
expected on Monday?”

“Yes, miss—I told them Sir Percival Glyde was coming. I hope there was
no harm in it—I hope I didn’t do wrong.”

“Oh no, no harm. Come, Mr. Hartright, Hannah will begin to think us in
the way, if we interrupt her any longer over her work.”

We stopped and looked at one another the moment we were alone again.

“Is there any doubt in your mind, NOW, Miss Halcombe?”

“Sir Percival Glyde shall remove that doubt, Mr. Hartright—or Laura
Fairlie shall never be his wife.”



XV

As we walked round to the front of the house a fly from the railway
approached us along the drive. Miss Halcombe waited on the door-steps
until the fly drew up, and then advanced to shake hands with an old
gentleman, who got out briskly the moment the steps were let down. Mr.
Gilmore had arrived.

I looked at him, when we were introduced to each other, with an
interest and a curiosity which I could hardly conceal. This old man
was to remain at Limmeridge House after I had left it, he was to hear
Sir Percival Glyde’s explanation, and was to give Miss Halcombe the
assistance of his experience in forming her judgment; he was to wait
until the question of the marriage was set at rest; and his hand,
if that question were decided in the affirmative, was to draw the
settlement which bound Miss Fairlie irrevocably to her engagement. Even
then, when I knew nothing by comparison with what I know now, I looked
at the family lawyer with an interest which I had never felt before in
the presence of any man breathing who was a total stranger to me.

In external appearance Mr. Gilmore was the exact opposite of the
conventional idea of an old lawyer. His complexion was florid—his white
hair was worn rather long and kept carefully brushed—his black coat,
waistcoat, and trousers fitted him with perfect neatness—his white
cravat was carefully tied, and his lavender-coloured kid gloves might
have adorned the hands of a fashionable clergyman, without fear and
without reproach. His manners were pleasantly marked by the formal
grace and refinement of the old school of politeness, quickened by
the invigorating sharpness and readiness of a man whose business in
life obliges him always to keep his faculties in good working order.
A sanguine constitution and fair prospects to begin with—a long
subsequent career of creditable and comfortable prosperity—a cheerful,
diligent, widely-respected old age—such were the general impressions I
derived from my introduction to Mr. Gilmore, and it is but fair to him
to add, that the knowledge I gained by later and better experience only
tended to confirm them.

I left the old gentleman and Miss Halcombe to enter the house
together, and to talk of family matters undisturbed by the restraint
of a stranger’s presence. They crossed the hall on their way to the
drawing-room, and I descended the steps again to wander about the
garden alone.

My hours were numbered at Limmeridge House—my departure the next
morning was irrevocably settled—my share in the investigation which the
anonymous letter had rendered necessary was at an end. No harm could
be done to any one but myself if I let my heart loose again, for the
little time that was left me, from the cold cruelty of restraint which
necessity had forced me to inflict upon it, and took my farewell of the
scenes which were associated with the brief dream-time of my happiness
and my love.

I turned instinctively to the walk beneath my study-window, where I
had seen her the evening before with her little dog, and followed
the path which her dear feet had trodden so often, till I came to
the wicket gate that led into her rose garden. The winter bareness
spread drearily over it now. The flowers that she had taught me to
distinguish by their names, the flowers that I had taught her to paint
from, were gone, and the tiny white paths that led between the beds
were damp and green already. I went on to the avenue of trees, where
we had breathed together the warm fragrance of August evenings, where
we had admired together the myriad combinations of shade and sunlight
that dappled the ground at our feet. The leaves fell about me from the
groaning branches, and the earthy decay in the atmosphere chilled me
to the bones. A little farther on, and I was out of the grounds, and
following the lane that wound gently upward to the nearest hills. The
old felled tree by the wayside, on which we had sat to rest, was sodden
with rain, and the tuft of ferns and grasses which I had drawn for her,
nestling under the rough stone wall in front of us, had turned to a
pool of water, stagnating round an island of draggled weeds. I gained
the summit of the hill, and looked at the view which we had so often
admired in the happier time. It was cold and barren—it was no longer
the view that I remembered. The sunshine of her presence was far from
me—the charm of her voice no longer murmured in my ear. She had talked
to me, on the spot from which I now looked down, of her father, who was
her last surviving parent—had told me how fond of each other they had
been, and how sadly she missed him still when she entered certain rooms
in the house, and when she took up forgotten occupations and amusements
with which he had been associated. Was the view that I had seen, while
listening to those words, the view that I saw now, standing on the
hill-top by myself? I turned and left it—I wound my way back again,
over the moor, and round the sandhills, down to the beach. There was
the white rage of the surf, and the multitudinous glory of the leaping
waves—but where was the place on which she had once drawn idle figures
with her parasol in the sand—the place where we had sat together,
while she talked to me about myself and my home, while she asked me a
woman’s minutely observant questions about my mother and my sister,
and innocently wondered whether I should ever leave my lonely chambers
and have a wife and a house of my own? Wind and wave had long since
smoothed out the trace of her which she had left in those marks on the
sand. I looked over the wide monotony of the sea-side prospect, and the
place in which we two had idled away the sunny hours was as lost to me
as if I had never known it, as strange to me as if I stood already on a
foreign shore.

The empty silence of the beach struck cold to my heart. I returned to
the house and the garden, where traces were left to speak of her at
every turn.

On the west terrace walk I met Mr. Gilmore. He was evidently in search
of me, for he quickened his pace when we caught sight of each other.
The state of my spirits little fitted me for the society of a stranger;
but the meeting was inevitable, and I resigned myself to make the best
of it.

“You are the very person I wanted to see,” said the old gentleman. “I
had two words to say to you, my dear sir; and if you have no objection
I will avail myself of the present opportunity. To put it plainly, Miss
Halcombe and I have been talking over family affairs—affairs which are
the cause of my being here—and in the course of our conversation she
was naturally led to tell me of this unpleasant matter connected with
the anonymous letter, and of the share which you have most creditably
and properly taken in the proceedings so far. That share, I quite
understand, gives you an interest which you might not otherwise have
felt, in knowing that the future management of the investigation which
you have begun will be placed in safe hands. My dear sir, make yourself
quite easy on that point—it will be placed in MY hands.”

“You are, in every way, Mr. Gilmore, much fitter to advise and to act
in the matter than I am. Is it an indiscretion on my part to ask if you
have decided yet on a course of proceeding?”

“So far as it is possible to decide, Mr. Hartright, I have decided. I
mean to send a copy of the letter, accompanied by a statement of the
circumstances, to Sir Percival Glyde’s solicitor in London, with whom
I have some acquaintance. The letter itself I shall keep here to show
to Sir Percival as soon as he arrives. The tracing of the two women I
have already provided for, by sending one of Mr. Fairlie’s servants—a
confidential person—to the station to make inquiries. The man has his
money and his directions, and he will follow the women in the event of
his finding any clue. This is all that can be done until Sir Percival
comes on Monday. I have no doubt myself that every explanation which
can be expected from a gentleman and a man of honour, he will readily
give. Sir Percival stands very high, sir—an eminent position, a
reputation above suspicion—I feel quite easy about results—quite easy,
I am rejoiced to assure you. Things of this sort happen constantly
in my experience. Anonymous letters—unfortunate woman—sad state of
society. I don’t deny that there are peculiar complications in this
case; but the case itself is, most unhappily, common—common.”

“I am afraid, Mr. Gilmore, I have the misfortune to differ from you in
the view I take of the case.”

“Just so, my dear sir—just so. I am an old man, and I take the
practical view. You are a young man, and you take the romantic view.
Let us not dispute about our views. I live professionally in an
atmosphere of disputation, Mr. Hartright, and I am only too glad to
escape from it, as I am escaping here. We will wait for events—yes,
yes, yes—we will wait for events. Charming place this. Good shooting?
Probably not, none of Mr. Fairlie’s land is preserved, I think.
Charming place, though, and delightful people. You draw and paint, I
hear, Mr. Hartright? Enviable accomplishment. What style?”

We dropped into general conversation, or rather, Mr. Gilmore talked
and I listened. My attention was far from him, and from the topics on
which he discoursed so fluently. The solitary walk of the last two
hours had wrought its effect on me—it had set the idea in my mind of
hastening my departure from Limmeridge House. Why should I prolong the
hard trial of saying farewell by one unnecessary minute? What further
service was required of me by any one? There was no useful purpose to
be served by my stay in Cumberland—there was no restriction of time in
the permission to leave which my employer had granted to me. Why not
end it there and then?

I determined to end it. There were some hours of daylight still
left—there was no reason why my journey back to London should not begin
on that afternoon. I made the first civil excuse that occurred to me
for leaving Mr. Gilmore, and returned at once to the house.

On my way up to my own room I met Miss Halcombe on the stairs. She saw,
by the hurry of my movements and the change in my manner, that I had
some new purpose in view, and asked what had happened.

I told her the reasons which induced me to think of hastening my
departure, exactly as I have told them here.

“No, no,” she said, earnestly and kindly, “leave us like a friend—break
bread with us once more. Stay here and dine, stay here and help us to
spend our last evening with you as happily, as like our first evenings,
as we can. It is my invitation—Mrs. Vesey’s invitation——” she hesitated
a little, and then added, “Laura’s invitation as well.”

I promised to remain. God knows I had no wish to leave even the shadow
of a sorrowful impression with any one of them.

My own room was the best place for me till the dinner bell rang. I
waited there till it was time to go downstairs.

I had not spoken to Miss Fairlie—I had not even seen her—all that day.
The first meeting with her, when I entered the drawing-room, was a hard
trial to her self-control and to mine. She, too, had done her best to
make our last evening renew the golden bygone time—the time that could
never come again. She had put on the dress which I used to admire more
than any other that she possessed—a dark blue silk, trimmed quaintly
and prettily with old-fashioned lace; she came forward to meet me with
her former readiness—she gave me her hand with the frank, innocent
good-will of happier days. The cold fingers that trembled round
mine—the pale cheeks with a bright red spot burning in the midst of
them—the faint smile that struggled to live on her lips and died away
from them while I looked at it, told me at what sacrifice of herself
her outward composure was maintained. My heart could take her no closer
to me, or I should have loved her then as I had never loved her yet.

Mr. Gilmore was a great assistance to us. He was in high good-humour,
and he led the conversation with unflagging spirit. Miss Halcombe
seconded him resolutely, and I did all I could to follow her example.
The kind blue eyes, whose slightest changes of expression I had learnt
to interpret so well, looked at me appealingly when we first sat down
to table. Help my sister—the sweet anxious face seemed to say—help my
sister, and you will help me.

We got through the dinner, to all outward appearance at least, happily
enough. When the ladies had risen from table, and Mr. Gilmore and I
were left alone in the dining-room, a new interest presented itself to
occupy our attention, and to give me an opportunity of quieting myself
by a few minutes of needful and welcome silence. The servant who had
been despatched to trace Anne Catherick and Mrs. Clements returned with
his report, and was shown into the dining-room immediately.

“Well,” said Mr. Gilmore, “what have you found out?”

“I have found out, sir,” answered the man, “that both the women took
tickets at our station here for Carlisle.”

“You went to Carlisle, of course, when you heard that?”

“I did, sir, but I am sorry to say I could find no further trace of
them.”

“You inquired at the railway?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And at the different inns?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you left the statement I wrote for you at the police station?”

“I did, sir.”

“Well, my friend, you have done all you could, and I have done all I
could, and there the matter must rest till further notice. We have
played our trump cards, Mr. Hartright,” continued the old gentleman
when the servant had withdrawn. “For the present, at least, the women
have outmanoeuvred us, and our only resource now is to wait till Sir
Percival Glyde comes here on Monday next. Won’t you fill your glass
again? Good bottle of port, that—sound, substantial, old wine. I have
got better in my own cellar, though.”

We returned to the drawing-room—the room in which the happiest evenings
of my life had been passed—the room which, after this last night, I was
never to see again. Its aspect was altered since the days had shortened
and the weather had grown cold. The glass doors on the terrace side
were closed, and hidden by thick curtains. Instead of the soft twilight
obscurity, in which we used to sit, the bright radiant glow of
lamplight now dazzled my eyes. All was changed—indoors and out all was
changed.

Miss Halcombe and Mr. Gilmore sat down together at the card-table—Mrs.
Vesey took her customary chair. There was no restraint on the disposal
of THEIR evening, and I felt the restraint on the disposal of mine all
the more painfully from observing it. I saw Miss Fairlie lingering near
the music-stand. The time had been when I might have joined her there.
I waited irresolutely—I knew neither where to go nor what to do next.
She cast one quick glance at me, took a piece of music suddenly from
the stand, and came towards me of her own accord.

“Shall I play some of those little melodies of Mozart’s which you used
to like so much?” she asked, opening the music nervously, and looking
down at it while she spoke.

Before I could thank her she hastened to the piano. The chair near it,
which I had always been accustomed to occupy, stood empty. She struck a
few chords—then glanced round at me—then looked back again at her music.

“Won’t you take your old place?” she said, speaking very abruptly and
in very low tones.

“I may take it on the last night,” I answered.

She did not reply—she kept her attention riveted on the music—music
which she knew by memory, which she had played over and over again, in
former times, without the book. I only knew that she had heard me, I
only knew that she was aware of my being close to her, by seeing the
red spot on the cheek that was nearest to me fade out, and the face
grow pale all over.

“I am very sorry you are going,” she said, her voice almost sinking
to a whisper, her eyes looking more and more intently at the music,
her fingers flying over the keys of the piano with a strange feverish
energy which I had never noticed in her before.

“I shall remember those kind words, Miss Fairlie, long after to-morrow
has come and gone.”

The paleness grew whiter on her face, and she turned it farther away
from me.

“Don’t speak of to-morrow,” she said. “Let the music speak to us of
to-night, in a happier language than ours.”

Her lips trembled—a faint sigh fluttered from them, which she tried
vainly to suppress. Her fingers wavered on the piano—she struck a false
note, confused herself in trying to set it right, and dropped her
hands angrily on her lap. Miss Halcombe and Mr. Gilmore looked up in
astonishment from the card-table at which they were playing. Even Mrs.
Vesey, dozing in her chair, woke at the sudden cessation of the music,
and inquired what had happened.

“You play at whist, Mr. Hartright?” asked Miss Halcombe, with her eyes
directed significantly at the place I occupied.

I knew what she meant—I knew she was right, and I rose at once to go to
the card-table. As I left the piano Miss Fairlie turned a page of the
music, and touched the keys again with a surer hand.

“I WILL play it,” she said, striking the notes almost passionately. “I
WILL play it on the last night.”

“Come, Mrs. Vesey,” said Miss Halcombe, “Mr. Gilmore and I are tired of
ecarte—come and be Mr. Hartright’s partner at whist.”

The old lawyer smiled satirically. His had been the winning hand, and
he had just turned up a king. He evidently attributed Miss Halcombe’s
abrupt change in the card-table arrangements to a lady’s inability to
play the losing game.

The rest of the evening passed without a word or a look from her. She
kept her place at the piano, and I kept mine at the card-table. She
played unintermittingly—played as if the music was her only refuge
from herself. Sometimes her fingers touched the notes with a lingering
fondness—a soft, plaintive, dying tenderness, unutterably beautiful and
mournful to hear; sometimes they faltered and failed her, or hurried
over the instrument mechanically, as if their task was a burden to
them. But still, change and waver as they might in the expression they
imparted to the music, their resolution to play never faltered. She
only rose from the piano when we all rose to say good night.

Mrs. Vesey was the nearest to the door, and the first to shake hands
with me.

“I shall not see you again, Mr. Hartright,” said the old lady. “I am
truly sorry you are going away. You have been very kind and attentive,
and an old woman like me feels kindness and attention. I wish you
happy, sir—I wish you a kind good-bye.”

Mr. Gilmore came next.

“I hope we shall have a future opportunity of bettering our
acquaintance, Mr. Hartright. You quite understand about that little
matter of business being safe in my hands? Yes, yes, of course. Bless
me, how cold it is! Don’t let me keep you at the door. Bon voyage, my
dear sir—bon voyage, as the French say.”

Miss Halcombe followed.

“Half-past seven to-morrow morning,” she said—then added in a whisper,
“I have heard and seen more than you think. Your conduct to-night has
made me your friend for life.”

Miss Fairlie came last. I could not trust myself to look at her when I
took her hand, and when I thought of the next morning.

“My departure must be a very early one,” I said. “I shall be gone, Miss
Fairlie, before you——”

“No, no,” she interposed hastily, “not before I am out of my room. I
shall be down to breakfast with Marian. I am not so ungrateful, not so
forgetful of the past three months——”

Her voice failed her, her hand closed gently round mine—then dropped it
suddenly. Before I could say “Good-night” she was gone.


The end comes fast to meet me—comes inevitably, as the light of the
last morning came at Limmeridge House.

It was barely half-past seven when I went downstairs, but I found
them both at the breakfast-table waiting for me. In the chill air, in
the dim light, in the gloomy morning silence of the house, we three
sat down together, and tried to eat, tried to talk. The struggle to
preserve appearances was hopeless and useless, and I rose to end it.

As I held out my hand, as Miss Halcombe, who was nearest to me, took
it, Miss Fairlie turned away suddenly and hurried from the room.

“Better so,” said Miss Halcombe, when the door had closed—“better so,
for you and for her.”

I waited a moment before I could speak—it was hard to lose her, without
a parting word or a parting look. I controlled myself—I tried to take
leave of Miss Halcombe in fitting terms; but all the farewell words I
would fain have spoken dwindled to one sentence.

“Have I deserved that you should write to me?” was all I could say.

“You have nobly deserved everything that I can do for you, as long as
we both live. Whatever the end is you shall know it.”

“And if I can ever be of help again, at any future time, long after the
memory of my presumption and my folly is forgotten . . .”

I could add no more. My voice faltered, my eyes moistened in spite of
me.

She caught me by both hands—she pressed them with the strong, steady
grasp of a man—her dark eyes glittered—her brown complexion flushed
deep—the force and energy of her face glowed and grew beautiful with
the pure inner light of her generosity and her pity.

“I will trust you—if ever the time comes I will trust you as my friend
and HER friend, as my brother and HER brother.” She stopped, drew
me nearer to her—the fearless, noble creature—touched my forehead,
sister-like, with her lips, and called me by my Christian name. “God
bless you, Walter!” she said. “Wait here alone and compose yourself—I
had better not stay for both our sakes—I had better see you go from the
balcony upstairs.”

She left the room. I turned away towards the window, where nothing
faced me but the lonely autumn landscape—I turned away to master
myself, before I too left the room in my turn, and left it for ever.

A minute passed—it could hardly have been more—when I heard the door
open again softly, and the rustling of a woman’s dress on the carpet
moved towards me. My heart beat violently as I turned round. Miss
Fairlie was approaching me from the farther end of the room.

She stopped and hesitated when our eyes met, and when she saw that we
were alone. Then, with that courage which women lose so often in the
small emergency, and so seldom in the great, she came on nearer to me,
strangely pale and strangely quiet, drawing one hand after her along
the table by which she walked, and holding something at her side in the
other, which was hidden by the folds of her dress.

“I only went into the drawing-room,” she said, “to look for this. It
may remind you of your visit here, and of the friends you leave behind
you. You told me I had improved very much when I did it, and I thought
you might like——”

She turned her head away, and offered me a little sketch, drawn
throughout by her own pencil, of the summer-house in which we had first
met. The paper trembled in her hand as she held it out to me—trembled
in mine as I took it from her.

I was afraid to say what I felt—I only answered, “It shall never leave
me—all my life long it shall be the treasure that I prize most. I am
very grateful for it—very grateful to you, for not letting me go away
without bidding you good-bye.”

“Oh!” she said innocently, “how could I let you go, after we have
passed so many happy days together!”

“Those days may never return, Miss Fairlie—my way of life and yours
are very far apart. But if a time should come, when the devotion of my
whole heart and soul and strength will give you a moment’s happiness,
or spare you a moment’s sorrow, will you try to remember the poor
drawing-master who has taught you? Miss Halcombe has promised to trust
me—will you promise too?”

The farewell sadness in the kind blue eyes shone dimly through her
gathering tears.

“I promise it,” she said in broken tones. “Oh, don’t look at me like
that! I promise it with all my heart.”

I ventured a little nearer to her, and held out my hand.

“You have many friends who love you, Miss Fairlie. Your happy future is
the dear object of many hopes. May I say, at parting, that it is the
dear object of MY hopes too?”

The tears flowed fast down her cheeks. She rested one trembling hand on
the table to steady herself while she gave me the other. I took it in
mine—I held it fast. My head drooped over it, my tears fell on it, my
lips pressed it—not in love; oh, not in love, at that last moment, but
in the agony and the self-abandonment of despair.

“For God’s sake, leave me!” she said faintly.

The confession of her heart’s secret burst from her in those pleading
words. I had no right to hear them, no right to answer them—they were
the words that banished me, in the name of her sacred weakness, from
the room. It was all over. I dropped her hand, I said no more. The
blinding tears shut her out from my eyes, and I dashed them away to
look at her for the last time. One look as she sank into a chair, as
her arms fell on the table, as her fair head dropped on them wearily.
One farewell look, and the door had closed upon her—the great gulf
of separation had opened between us—the image of Laura Fairlie was a
memory of the past already.


The End of Hartright’s Narrative.



THE STORY CONTINUED BY VINCENT GILMORE

(of Chancery Lane, Solicitor)



I

I write these lines at the request of my friend, Mr. Walter Hartright.
They are intended to convey a description of certain events which
seriously affected Miss Fairlie’s interests, and which took place after
the period of Mr. Hartright’s departure from Limmeridge House.

There is no need for me to say whether my own opinion does or does not
sanction the disclosure of the remarkable family story, of which my
narrative forms an important component part. Mr. Hartright has taken
that responsibility on himself, and circumstances yet to be related
will show that he has amply earned the right to do so, if he chooses
to exercise it. The plan he has adopted for presenting the story to
others, in the most truthful and most vivid manner, requires that it
should be told, at each successive stage in the march of events, by
the persons who were directly concerned in those events at the time of
their occurrence. My appearance here, as narrator, is the necessary
consequence of this arrangement. I was present during the sojourn of
Sir Percival Glyde in Cumberland, and was personally concerned in one
important result of his short residence under Mr. Fairlie’s roof. It is
my duty, therefore, to add these new links to the chain of events, and
to take up the chain itself at the point where, for the present only,
Mr. Hartright has dropped it.


I arrived at Limmeridge House on Friday the second of November.

My object was to remain at Mr. Fairlie’s until the arrival of Sir
Percival Glyde. If that event led to the appointment of any given day
for Sir Percival’s union with Miss Fairlie, I was to take the necessary
instructions back with me to London, and to occupy myself in drawing
the lady’s marriage-settlement.

On the Friday I was not favoured by Mr. Fairlie with an interview. He
had been, or had fancied himself to be, an invalid for years past,
and he was not well enough to receive me. Miss Halcombe was the first
member of the family whom I saw. She met me at the house door, and
introduced me to Mr. Hartright, who had been staying at Limmeridge for
some time past.

I did not see Miss Fairlie until later in the day, at dinner-time. She
was not looking well, and I was sorry to observe it. She is a sweet
lovable girl, as amiable and attentive to every one about her as her
excellent mother used to be—though, personally speaking, she takes
after her father. Mrs. Fairlie had dark eyes and hair, and her elder
daughter, Miss Halcombe, strongly reminds me of her. Miss Fairlie
played to us in the evening—not so well as usual, I thought. We had a
rubber at whist, a mere profanation, so far as play was concerned, of
that noble game. I had been favourably impressed by Mr. Hartright on
our first introduction to one another, but I soon discovered that he
was not free from the social failings incidental to his age. There are
three things that none of the young men of the present generation can
do. They can’t sit over their wine, they can’t play at whist, and they
can’t pay a lady a compliment. Mr. Hartright was no exception to the
general rule. Otherwise, even in those early days and on that short
acquaintance, he struck me as being a modest and gentlemanlike young
man.

So the Friday passed. I say nothing about the more serious matters
which engaged my attention on that day—the anonymous letter to Miss
Fairlie, the measures I thought it right to adopt when the matter was
mentioned to me, and the conviction I entertained that every possible
explanation of the circumstances would be readily afforded by Sir
Percival Glyde, having all been fully noticed, as I understand, in the
narrative which precedes this.

On the Saturday Mr. Hartright had left before I got down to breakfast.
Miss Fairlie kept her room all day, and Miss Halcombe appeared to me to
be out of spirits. The house was not what it used to be in the time of
Mr. and Mrs. Philip Fairlie. I took a walk by myself in the forenoon,
and looked about at some of the places which I first saw when I was
staying at Limmeridge to transact family business, more than thirty
years since. They were not what they used to be either.

At two o’clock Mr. Fairlie sent to say he was well enough to see me.
HE had not altered, at any rate, since I first knew him. His talk was
to the same purpose as usual—all about himself and his ailments, his
wonderful coins, and his matchless Rembrandt etchings. The moment I
tried to speak of the business that had brought me to his house, he
shut his eyes and said I “upset” him. I persisted in upsetting him by
returning again and again to the subject. All I could ascertain was
that he looked on his niece’s marriage as a settled thing, that her
father had sanctioned it, that he sanctioned it himself, that it was a
desirable marriage, and that he should be personally rejoiced when the
worry of it was over. As to the settlements, if I would consult his
niece, and afterwards dive as deeply as I pleased into my own knowledge
of the family affairs, and get everything ready, and limit his share
in the business, as guardian, to saying Yes, at the right moment—why,
of course he would meet my views, and everybody else’s views, with
infinite pleasure. In the meantime, there I saw him, a helpless
sufferer, confined to his room. Did I think he looked as if he wanted
teasing? No. Then why tease him?

I might, perhaps, have been a little astonished at this extraordinary
absence of all self-assertion on Mr. Fairlie’s part, in the character
of guardian, if my knowledge of the family affairs had not been
sufficient to remind me that he was a single man, and that he had
nothing more than a life-interest in the Limmeridge property. As
matters stood, therefore, I was neither surprised nor disappointed
at the result of the interview. Mr. Fairlie had simply justified my
expectations—and there was an end of it.

Sunday was a dull day, out of doors and in. A letter arrived for me
from Sir Percival Glyde’s solicitor, acknowledging the receipt of my
copy of the anonymous letter and my accompanying statement of the case.
Miss Fairlie joined us in the afternoon, looking pale and depressed,
and altogether unlike herself. I had some talk with her, and ventured
on a delicate allusion to Sir Percival. She listened and said nothing.
All other subjects she pursued willingly, but this subject she allowed
to drop. I began to doubt whether she might not be repenting of her
engagement—just as young ladies often do, when repentance comes too
late.

On Monday Sir Percival Glyde arrived.

I found him to be a most prepossessing man, so far as manners and
appearance were concerned. He looked rather older than I had expected,
his head being bald over the forehead, and his face somewhat marked and
worn, but his movements were as active and his spirits as high as a
young man’s. His meeting with Miss Halcombe was delightfully hearty and
unaffected, and his reception of me, upon my being presented to him,
was so easy and pleasant that we got on together like old friends. Miss
Fairlie was not with us when he arrived, but she entered the room about
ten minutes afterwards. Sir Percival rose and paid his compliments with
perfect grace. His evident concern on seeing the change for the worse
in the young lady’s looks was expressed with a mixture of tenderness
and respect, with an unassuming delicacy of tone, voice, and manner,
which did equal credit to his good breeding and his good sense. I was
rather surprised, under these circumstances, to see that Miss Fairlie
continued to be constrained and uneasy in his presence, and that she
took the first opportunity of leaving the room again. Sir Percival
neither noticed the restraint in her reception of him, nor her sudden
withdrawal from our society. He had not obtruded his attentions on her
while she was present, and he did not embarrass Miss Halcombe by any
allusion to her departure when she was gone. His tact and taste were
never at fault on this or on any other occasion while I was in his
company at Limmeridge House.

As soon as Miss Fairlie had left the room he spared us all
embarrassment on the subject of the anonymous letter, by adverting
to it of his own accord. He had stopped in London on his way from
Hampshire, had seen his solicitor, had read the documents forwarded by
me, and had travelled on to Cumberland, anxious to satisfy our minds
by the speediest and the fullest explanation that words could convey.
On hearing him express himself to this effect, I offered him the
original letter, which I had kept for his inspection. He thanked me,
and declined to look at it, saying that he had seen the copy, and that
he was quite willing to leave the original in our hands.

The statement itself, on which he immediately entered, was as simple
and satisfactory as I had all along anticipated it would be.

Mrs. Catherick, he informed us, had in past years laid him under some
obligations for faithful services rendered to his family connections
and to himself. She had been doubly unfortunate in being married to
a husband who had deserted her, and in having an only child whose
mental faculties had been in a disturbed condition from a very early
age. Although her marriage had removed her to a part of Hampshire far
distant from the neighbourhood in which Sir Percival’s property was
situated, he had taken care not to lose sight of her—his friendly
feeling towards the poor woman, in consideration of her past services,
having been greatly strengthened by his admiration of the patience and
courage with which she supported her calamities. In course of time the
symptoms of mental affliction in her unhappy daughter increased to
such a serious extent, as to make it a matter of necessity to place
her under proper medical care. Mrs. Catherick herself recognised
this necessity, but she also felt the prejudice common to persons
occupying her respectable station, against allowing her child to be
admitted, as a pauper, into a public Asylum. Sir Percival had respected
this prejudice, as he respected honest independence of feeling in
any rank of life, and had resolved to mark his grateful sense of
Mrs. Catherick’s early attachment to the interests of himself and
his family, by defraying the expense of her daughter’s maintenance
in a trustworthy private Asylum. To her mother’s regret, and to his
own regret, the unfortunate creature had discovered the share which
circumstances had induced him to take in placing her under restraint,
and had conceived the most intense hatred and distrust of him in
consequence. To that hatred and distrust—which had expressed itself
in various ways in the Asylum—the anonymous letter, written after her
escape, was plainly attributable. If Miss Halcombe’s or Mr. Gilmore’s
recollection of the document did not confirm that view, or if they
wished for any additional particulars about the Asylum (the address
of which he mentioned, as well as the names and addresses of the two
doctors on whose certificates the patient was admitted), he was ready
to answer any question and to clear up any uncertainty. He had done his
duty to the unhappy young woman, by instructing his solicitor to spare
no expense in tracing her, and in restoring her once more to medical
care, and he was now only anxious to do his duty towards Miss Fairlie
and towards her family, in the same plain, straightforward way.

I was the first to speak in answer to this appeal. My own course was
plain to me. It is the great beauty of the Law that it can dispute
any human statement, made under any circumstances, and reduced to
any form. If I had felt professionally called upon to set up a case
against Sir Percival Glyde, on the strength of his own explanation, I
could have done so beyond all doubt. But my duty did not lie in this
direction—my function was of the purely judicial kind. I was to weigh
the explanation we had just heard, to allow all due force to the high
reputation of the gentleman who offered it, and to decide honestly
whether the probabilities, on Sir Percival’s own showing, were plainly
with him, or plainly against him. My own conviction was that they were
plainly with him, and I accordingly declared that his explanation was,
to my mind, unquestionably a satisfactory one.

Miss Halcombe, after looking at me very earnestly, said a few words,
on her side, to the same effect—with a certain hesitation of manner,
however, which the circumstances did not seem to me to warrant. I am
unable to say, positively, whether Sir Percival noticed this or not. My
opinion is that he did, seeing that he pointedly resumed the subject,
although he might now, with all propriety, have allowed it to drop.

“If my plain statement of facts had only been addressed to Mr.
Gilmore,” he said, “I should consider any further reference to this
unhappy matter as unnecessary. I may fairly expect Mr. Gilmore, as
a gentleman, to believe me on my word, and when he has done me that
justice, all discussion of the subject between us has come to an end.
But my position with a lady is not the same. I owe to her—what I would
concede to no man alive—a PROOF of the truth of my assertion. You
cannot ask for that proof, Miss Halcombe, and it is therefore my duty
to you, and still more to Miss Fairlie, to offer it. May I beg that
you will write at once to the mother of this unfortunate woman—to Mrs.
Catherick—to ask for her testimony in support of the explanation which
I have just offered to you.”

I saw Miss Halcombe change colour, and look a little uneasy. Sir
Percival’s suggestion, politely as it was expressed, appeared to her,
as it appeared to me, to point very delicately at the hesitation which
her manner had betrayed a moment or two since.

“I hope, Sir Percival, you don’t do me the injustice to suppose that I
distrust you,” she said quickly.

“Certainly not, Miss Halcombe. I make my proposal purely as an act of
attention to YOU. Will you excuse my obstinacy if I still venture to
press it?”

He walked to the writing-table as he spoke, drew a chair to it, and
opened the paper case.

“Let me beg you to write the note,” he said, “as a favour to ME. It
need not occupy you more than a few minutes. You have only to ask Mrs.
Catherick two questions. First, if her daughter was placed in the
Asylum with her knowledge and approval. Secondly, if the share I took
in the matter was such as to merit the expression of her gratitude
towards myself? Mr. Gilmore’s mind is at ease on this unpleasant
subject, and your mind is at ease—pray set my mind at ease also by
writing the note.”

“You oblige me to grant your request, Sir Percival, when I would much
rather refuse it.”

With those words Miss Halcombe rose from her place and went to the
writing-table. Sir Percival thanked her, handed her a pen, and then
walked away towards the fireplace. Miss Fairlie’s little Italian
greyhound was lying on the rug. He held out his hand, and called to the
dog good-humouredly.

“Come, Nina,” he said, “we remember each other, don’t we?”

The little beast, cowardly and cross-grained, as pet-dogs usually are,
looked up at him sharply, shrank away from his outstretched hand,
whined, shivered, and hid itself under a sofa. It was scarcely possible
that he could have been put out by such a trifle as a dog’s reception
of him, but I observed, nevertheless, that he walked away towards the
window very suddenly. Perhaps his temper is irritable at times. If so,
I can sympathise with him. My temper is irritable at times too.

Miss Halcombe was not long in writing the note. When it was done she
rose from the writing-table, and handed the open sheet of paper to Sir
Percival. He bowed, took it from her, folded it up immediately without
looking at the contents, sealed it, wrote the address, and handed it
back to her in silence. I never saw anything more gracefully and more
becomingly done in my life.

“You insist on my posting this letter, Sir Percival?” said Miss
Halcombe.

“I beg you will post it,” he answered. “And now that it is written and
sealed up, allow me to ask one or two last questions about the unhappy
woman to whom it refers. I have read the communication which Mr.
Gilmore kindly addressed to my solicitor, describing the circumstances
under which the writer of the anonymous letter was identified. But
there are certain points to which that statement does not refer. Did
Anne Catherick see Miss Fairlie?”

“Certainly not,” replied Miss Halcombe.

“Did she see you?”

“No.”

“She saw nobody from the house then, except a certain Mr. Hartright,
who accidentally met with her in the churchyard here?”

“Nobody else.”

“Mr. Hartright was employed at Limmeridge as a drawing-master, I
believe? Is he a member of one of the Water-Colour Societies?”

“I believe he is,” answered Miss Halcombe.

He paused for a moment, as if he was thinking over the last answer, and
then added—

“Did you find out where Anne Catherick was living, when she was in this
neighbourhood?”

“Yes. At a farm on the moor, called Todd’s Corner.”

“It is a duty we all owe to the poor creature herself to trace her,”
continued Sir Percival. “She may have said something at Todd’s Corner
which may help us to find her. I will go there and make inquiries on
the chance. In the meantime, as I cannot prevail on myself to discuss
this painful subject with Miss Fairlie, may I beg, Miss Halcombe,
that you will kindly undertake to give her the necessary explanation,
deferring it of course until you have received the reply to that note.”

Miss Halcombe promised to comply with his request. He thanked her,
nodded pleasantly, and left us, to go and establish himself in his own
room. As he opened the door the cross-grained greyhound poked out her
sharp muzzle from under the sofa, and barked and snapped at him.

“A good morning’s work, Miss Halcombe,” I said, as soon as we were
alone. “Here is an anxious day well ended already.”

“Yes,” she answered; “no doubt. I am very glad your mind is satisfied.”

“My mind! Surely, with that note in your hand, your mind is at ease
too?”

“Oh yes—how can it be otherwise? I know the thing could not be,” she
went on, speaking more to herself than to me; “but I almost wish Walter
Hartright had stayed here long enough to be present at the explanation,
and to hear the proposal to me to write this note.”

I was a little surprised—perhaps a little piqued also—by these last
words.

“Events, it is true, connected Mr. Hartright very remarkably with the
affair of the letter,” I said; “and I readily admit that he conducted
himself, all things considered, with great delicacy and discretion. But
I am quite at a loss to understand what useful influence his presence
could have exercised in relation to the effect of Sir Percival’s
statement on your mind or mine.”

“It was only a fancy,” she said absently. “There is no need to discuss
it, Mr. Gilmore. Your experience ought to be, and is, the best guide I
can desire.”

I did not altogether like her thrusting the whole responsibility,
in this marked manner, on my shoulders. If Mr. Fairlie had done it,
I should not have been surprised. But resolute, clear-minded Miss
Halcombe was the very last person in the world whom I should have
expected to find shrinking from the expression of an opinion of her own.

“If any doubts still trouble you,” I said, “why not mention them to me
at once? Tell me plainly, have you any reason to distrust Sir Percival
Glyde?”

“None whatever.”

“Do you see anything improbable, or contradictory, in his explanation?”

“How can I say I do, after the proof he has offered me of the truth of
it? Can there be better testimony in his favour, Mr. Gilmore, than the
testimony of the woman’s mother?”

“None better. If the answer to your note of inquiry proves to be
satisfactory, I for one cannot see what more any friend of Sir
Percival’s can possibly expect from him.”

“Then we will post the note,” she said, rising to leave the room, “and
dismiss all further reference to the subject until the answer arrives.
Don’t attach any weight to my hesitation. I can give no better reason
for it than that I have been over-anxious about Laura lately—and
anxiety, Mr. Gilmore, unsettles the strongest of us.”

She left me abruptly, her naturally firm voice faltering as she spoke
those last words. A sensitive, vehement, passionate nature—a woman
of ten thousand in these trivial, superficial times. I had known her
from her earliest years—I had seen her tested, as she grew up, in more
than one trying family crisis, and my long experience made me attach
an importance to her hesitation under the circumstances here detailed,
which I should certainly not have felt in the case of another woman.
I could see no cause for any uneasiness or any doubt, but she had
made me a little uneasy, and a little doubtful, nevertheless. In my
youth, I should have chafed and fretted under the irritation of my own
unreasonable state of mind. In my age, I knew better, and went out
philosophically to walk it off.



II

We all met again at dinner-time.

Sir Percival was in such boisterous high spirits that I hardly
recognised him as the same man whose quiet tact, refinement, and good
sense had impressed me so strongly at the interview of the morning.
The only trace of his former self that I could detect reappeared,
every now and then, in his manner towards Miss Fairlie. A look or a
word from her suspended his loudest laugh, checked his gayest flow of
talk, and rendered him all attention to her, and to no one else at
table, in an instant. Although he never openly tried to draw her into
the conversation, he never lost the slightest chance she gave him of
letting her drift into it by accident, and of saying the words to her,
under those favourable circumstances, which a man with less tact and
delicacy would have pointedly addressed to her the moment they occurred
to him. Rather to my surprise, Miss Fairlie appeared to be sensible of
his attentions without being moved by them. She was a little confused
from time to time when he looked at her, or spoke to her; but she never
warmed towards him. Rank, fortune, good breeding, good looks, the
respect of a gentleman, and the devotion of a lover were all humbly
placed at her feet, and, so far as appearances went, were all offered
in vain.

On the next day, the Tuesday, Sir Percival went in the morning (taking
one of the servants with him as a guide) to Todd’s Corner. His
inquiries, as I afterwards heard, led to no results. On his return he
had an interview with Mr. Fairlie, and in the afternoon he and Miss
Halcombe rode out together. Nothing else happened worthy of record. The
evening passed as usual. There was no change in Sir Percival, and no
change in Miss Fairlie.

The Wednesday’s post brought with it an event—the reply from Mrs.
Catherick. I took a copy of the document, which I have preserved, and
which I may as well present in this place. It ran as follows—


“MADAM,—I beg to acknowledge the receipt of your letter, inquiring
whether my daughter, Anne, was placed under medical superintendence
with my knowledge and approval, and whether the share taken in the
matter by Sir Percival Glyde was such as to merit the expression of my
gratitude towards that gentleman. Be pleased to accept my answer in the
affirmative to both those questions, and believe me to remain, your
obedient servant,

                        “JANE ANNE CATHERICK.”


Short, sharp, and to the point; in form rather a business-like letter
for a woman to write—in substance as plain a confirmation as could be
desired of Sir Percival Glyde’s statement. This was my opinion, and
with certain minor reservations, Miss Halcombe’s opinion also. Sir
Percival, when the letter was shown to him, did not appear to be struck
by the sharp, short tone of it. He told us that Mrs. Catherick was a
woman of few words, a clear-headed, straightforward, unimaginative
person, who wrote briefly and plainly, just as she spoke.

The next duty to be accomplished, now that the answer had been
received, was to acquaint Miss Fairlie with Sir Percival’s explanation.
Miss Halcombe had undertaken to do this, and had left the room to go
to her sister, when she suddenly returned again, and sat down by the
easy-chair in which I was reading the newspaper. Sir Percival had gone
out a minute before to look at the stables, and no one was in the room
but ourselves.

“I suppose we have really and truly done all we can?” she said, turning
and twisting Mrs. Catherick’s letter in her hand.

“If we are friends of Sir Percival’s, who know him and trust him, we
have done all, and more than all, that is necessary,” I answered, a
little annoyed by this return of her hesitation. “But if we are enemies
who suspect him——”

“That alternative is not even to be thought of,” she interposed. “We
are Sir Percival’s friends, and if generosity and forbearance can add
to our regard for him, we ought to be Sir Percival’s admirers as well.
You know that he saw Mr. Fairlie yesterday, and that he afterwards went
out with me.”

“Yes. I saw you riding away together.”

“We began the ride by talking about Anne Catherick, and about the
singular manner in which Mr. Hartright met with her. But we soon
dropped that subject, and Sir Percival spoke next, in the most
unselfish terms, of his engagement with Laura. He said he had observed
that she was out of spirits, and he was willing, if not informed to
the contrary, to attribute to that cause the alteration in her manner
towards him during his present visit. If, however, there was any more
serious reason for the change, he would entreat that no constraint
might be placed on her inclinations either by Mr. Fairlie or by me. All
he asked, in that case, was that she would recall to mind, for the last
time, what the circumstances were under which the engagement between
them was made, and what his conduct had been from the beginning of the
courtship to the present time. If, after due reflection on those two
subjects, she seriously desired that he should withdraw his pretensions
to the honour of becoming her husband—and if she would tell him so
plainly with her own lips—he would sacrifice himself by leaving her
perfectly free to withdraw from the engagement.”

“No man could say more than that, Miss Halcombe. As to my experience,
few men in his situation would have said as much.”

She paused after I had spoken those words, and looked at me with a
singular expression of perplexity and distress.

“I accuse nobody, and I suspect nothing,” she broke out abruptly. “But
I cannot and will not accept the responsibility of persuading Laura to
this marriage.”

“That is exactly the course which Sir Percival Glyde has himself
requested you to take,” I replied in astonishment. “He has begged you
not to force her inclinations.”

“And he indirectly obliges me to force them, if I give her his message.”

“How can that possibly be?”

“Consult your own knowledge of Laura, Mr. Gilmore. If I tell her to
reflect on the circumstances of her engagement, I at once appeal
to two of the strongest feelings in her nature—to her love for her
father’s memory, and to her strict regard for truth. You know that she
never broke a promise in her life—you know that she entered on this
engagement at the beginning of her father’s fatal illness, and that he
spoke hopefully and happily of her marriage to Sir Percival Glyde on
his deathbed.”

I own that I was a little shocked at this view of the case.

“Surely,” I said, “you don’t mean to infer that when Sir Percival
spoke to you yesterday he speculated on such a result as you have just
mentioned?”

Her frank, fearless face answered for her before she spoke.

“Do you think I would remain an instant in the company of any man whom
I suspected of such baseness as that?” she asked angrily.

I liked to feel her hearty indignation flash out on me in that way. We
see so much malice and so little indignation in my profession.

“In that case,” I said, “excuse me if I tell you, in our legal phrase,
that you are travelling out of the record. Whatever the consequences
may be, Sir Percival has a right to expect that your sister should
carefully consider her engagement from every reasonable point of
view before she claims her release from it. If that unlucky letter
has prejudiced her against him, go at once, and tell her that he has
cleared himself in your eyes and in mine. What objection can she urge
against him after that? What excuse can she possibly have for changing
her mind about a man whom she had virtually accepted for her husband
more than two years ago?”

“In the eyes of law and reason, Mr. Gilmore, no excuse, I daresay. If
she still hesitates, and if I still hesitate, you must attribute our
strange conduct, if you like, to caprice in both cases, and we must
bear the imputation as well as we can.”

With those words she suddenly rose and left me. When a sensible woman
has a serious question put to her, and evades it by a flippant answer,
it is a sure sign, in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, that she
has something to conceal. I returned to the perusal of the newspaper,
strongly suspecting that Miss Halcombe and Miss Fairlie had a secret
between them which they were keeping from Sir Percival, and keeping
from me. I thought this hard on both of us, especially on Sir Percival.

My doubts—or to speak more correctly, my convictions—were confirmed
by Miss Halcombe’s language and manner when I saw her again later in
the day. She was suspiciously brief and reserved in telling me the
result of her interview with her sister. Miss Fairlie, it appeared,
had listened quietly while the affair of the letter was placed before
her in the right point of view, but when Miss Halcombe next proceeded
to say that the object of Sir Percival’s visit at Limmeridge was to
prevail on her to let a day be fixed for the marriage she checked all
further reference to the subject by begging for time. If Sir Percival
would consent to spare her for the present, she would undertake to give
him his final answer before the end of the year. She pleaded for this
delay with such anxiety and agitation, that Miss Halcombe had promised
to use her influence, if necessary, to obtain it, and there, at Miss
Fairlie’s earnest entreaty, all further discussion of the marriage
question had ended.

The purely temporary arrangement thus proposed might have been
convenient enough to the young lady, but it proved somewhat
embarrassing to the writer of these lines. That morning’s post had
brought a letter from my partner, which obliged me to return to town
the next day by the afternoon train. It was extremely probable that I
should find no second opportunity of presenting myself at Limmeridge
House during the remainder of the year. In that case, supposing Miss
Fairlie ultimately decided on holding to her engagement, my necessary
personal communication with her, before I drew her settlement, would
become something like a downright impossibility, and we should be
obliged to commit to writing questions which ought always to be
discussed on both sides by word of mouth. I said nothing about this
difficulty until Sir Percival had been consulted on the subject of the
desired delay. He was too gallant a gentleman not to grant the request
immediately. When Miss Halcombe informed me of this I told her that
I must absolutely speak to her sister before I left Limmeridge, and
it was, therefore, arranged that I should see Miss Fairlie in her own
sitting-room the next morning. She did not come down to dinner, or join
us in the evening. Indisposition was the excuse, and I thought Sir
Percival looked, as well he might, a little annoyed when he heard of it.

The next morning, as soon as breakfast was over, I went up to Miss
Fairlie’s sitting-room. The poor girl looked so pale and sad, and came
forward to welcome me so readily and prettily, that the resolution to
lecture her on her caprice and indecision, which I had been forming
all the way upstairs, failed me on the spot. I led her back to the
chair from which she had risen, and placed myself opposite to her. Her
cross-grained pet greyhound was in the room, and I fully expected a
barking and snapping reception. Strange to say, the whimsical little
brute falsified my expectations by jumping into my lap and poking its
sharp muzzle familiarly into my hand the moment I sat down.

“You used often to sit on my knee when you were a child, my dear,” I
said, “and now your little dog seems determined to succeed you in the
vacant throne. Is that pretty drawing your doing?”

I pointed to a little album which lay on the table by her side and
which she had evidently been looking over when I came in. The page that
lay open had a small water-colour landscape very neatly mounted on it.
This was the drawing which had suggested my question—an idle question
enough—but how could I begin to talk of business to her the moment I
opened my lips?

“No,” she said, looking away from the drawing rather confusedly, “it is
not my doing.”

Her fingers had a restless habit, which I remembered in her as a child,
of always playing with the first thing that came to hand whenever any
one was talking to her. On this occasion they wandered to the album,
and toyed absently about the margin of the little water-colour drawing.
The expression of melancholy deepened on her face. She did not look
at the drawing, or look at me. Her eyes moved uneasily from object
to object in the room, betraying plainly that she suspected what my
purpose was in coming to speak to her. Seeing that, I thought it best
to get to the purpose with as little delay as possible.

“One of the errands, my dear, which brings me here is to bid you
good-bye,” I began. “I must get back to London to-day: and, before
I leave, I want to have a word with you on the subject of your own
affairs.”

“I am very sorry you are going, Mr. Gilmore,” she said, looking at me
kindly. “It is like the happy old times to have you here.”

“I hope I may be able to come back and recall those pleasant memories
once more,” I continued; “but as there is some uncertainty about the
future, I must take my opportunity when I can get it, and speak to you
now. I am your old lawyer and your old friend, and I may remind you,
I am sure, without offence, of the possibility of your marrying Sir
Percival Glyde.”

She took her hand off the little album as suddenly as if it had turned
hot and burnt her. Her fingers twined together nervously in her
lap, her eyes looked down again at the floor, and an expression of
constraint settled on her face which looked almost like an expression
of pain.

“Is it absolutely necessary to speak of my marriage engagement?” she
asked in low tones.

“It is necessary to refer to it,” I answered, “but not to dwell on it.
Let us merely say that you may marry, or that you may not marry. In the
first case, I must be prepared, beforehand, to draw your settlement,
and I ought not to do that without, as a matter of politeness, first
consulting you. This may be my only chance of hearing what your wishes
are. Let us, therefore, suppose the case of your marrying, and let me
inform you, in as few words as possible, what your position is now, and
what you may make it, if you please, in the future.”

I explained to her the object of a marriage-settlement, and then told
her exactly what her prospects were—in the first place, on her coming
of age, and in the second place, on the decease of her uncle—marking
the distinction between the property in which she had a life-interest
only, and the property which was left at her own control. She listened
attentively, with the constrained expression still on her face, and her
hands still nervously clasped together in her lap.

“And now,” I said in conclusion, “tell me if you can think of any
condition which, in the case we have supposed, you would wish me to
make for you—subject, of course, to your guardian’s approval, as you
are not yet of age.”

She moved uneasily in her chair, then looked in my face on a sudden
very earnestly.

“If it does happen,” she began faintly, “if I am——”

“If you are married,” I added, helping her out.

“Don’t let him part me from Marian,” she cried, with a sudden outbreak
of energy. “Oh, Mr. Gilmore, pray make it law that Marian is to live
with me!”

Under other circumstances I might, perhaps, have been amused at this
essentially feminine interpretation of my question, and of the long
explanation which had preceded it. But her looks and tones, when she
spoke, were of a kind to make me more than serious—they distressed me.
Her words, few as they were, betrayed a desperate clinging to the past
which boded ill for the future.

“Your having Marian Halcombe to live with you can easily be settled by
private arrangement,” I said. “You hardly understood my question, I
think. It referred to your own property—to the disposal of your money.
Supposing you were to make a will when you come of age, who would you
like the money to go to?”

“Marian has been mother and sister both to me,” said the good,
affectionate girl, her pretty blue eyes glistening while she spoke.
“May I leave it to Marian, Mr. Gilmore?”

“Certainly, my love,” I answered. “But remember what a large sum it is.
Would you like it all to go to Miss Halcombe?”

She hesitated; her colour came and went, and her hand stole back again
to the little album.

“Not all of it,” she said. “There is some one else besides Marian——”

She stopped; her colour heightened, and the fingers of the hand that
rested upon the album beat gently on the margin of the drawing, as if
her memory had set them going mechanically with the remembrance of a
favourite tune.

“You mean some other member of the family besides Miss Halcombe?” I
suggested, seeing her at a loss to proceed.

The heightening colour spread to her forehead and her neck, and the
nervous fingers suddenly clasped themselves fast round the edge of the
book.

“There is some one else,” she said, not noticing my last words, though
she had evidently heard them; “there is some one else who might like
a little keepsake if—if I might leave it. There would be no harm if I
should die first——”

She paused again. The colour that had spread over her cheeks suddenly,
as suddenly left them. The hand on the album resigned its hold,
trembled a little, and moved the book away from her. She looked
at me for an instant—then turned her head aside in the chair. Her
handkerchief fell to the floor as she changed her position, and she
hurriedly hid her face from me in her hands.

Sad! To remember her, as I did, the liveliest, happiest child that ever
laughed the day through, and to see her now, in the flower of her age
and her beauty, so broken and so brought down as this!

In the distress that she caused me I forgot the years that had passed,
and the change they had made in our position towards one another. I
moved my chair close to her, and picked up her handkerchief from the
carpet, and drew her hands from her face gently. “Don’t cry, my love,”
I said, and dried the tears that were gathering in her eyes with my own
hand, as if she had been the little Laura Fairlie of ten long years ago.

It was the best way I could have taken to compose her. She laid her
head on my shoulder, and smiled faintly through her tears.

“I am very sorry for forgetting myself,” she said artlessly. “I have
not been well—I have felt sadly weak and nervous lately, and I often
cry without reason when I am alone. I am better now—I can answer you as
I ought, Mr. Gilmore, I can indeed.”

“No, no, my dear,” I replied, “we will consider the subject as done
with for the present. You have said enough to sanction my taking the
best possible care of your interests, and we can settle details at
another opportunity. Let us have done with business now, and talk of
something else.”

I led her at once into speaking on other topics. In ten minutes’ time
she was in better spirits, and I rose to take my leave.

“Come here again,” she said earnestly. “I will try to be worthier of
your kind feeling for me and for my interests if you will only come
again.”

Still clinging to the past—that past which I represented to her, in my
way, as Miss Halcombe did in hers! It troubled me sorely to see her
looking back, at the beginning of her career, just as I look back at
the end of mine.

“If I do come again, I hope I shall find you better,” I said; “better
and happier. God bless you, my dear!”

She only answered by putting up her cheek to me to be kissed. Even
lawyers have hearts, and mine ached a little as I took leave of her.

The whole interview between us had hardly lasted more than half an
hour—she had not breathed a word, in my presence, to explain the
mystery of her evident distress and dismay at the prospect of her
marriage, and yet she had contrived to win me over to her side of the
question, I neither knew how nor why. I had entered the room, feeling
that Sir Percival Glyde had fair reason to complain of the manner in
which she was treating him. I left it, secretly hoping that matters
might end in her taking him at his word and claiming her release. A man
of my age and experience ought to have known better than to vacillate
in this unreasonable manner. I can make no excuse for myself; I can
only tell the truth, and say—so it was.

The hour for my departure was now drawing near. I sent to Mr. Fairlie
to say that I would wait on him to take leave if he liked, but that he
must excuse my being rather in a hurry. He sent a message back, written
in pencil on a slip of paper: “Kind love and best wishes, dear Gilmore.
Hurry of any kind is inexpressibly injurious to me. Pray take care of
yourself. Good-bye.”

Just before I left I saw Miss Halcombe for a moment alone.

“Have you said all you wanted to Laura?” she asked.

“Yes,” I replied. “She is very weak and nervous—I am glad she has you
to take care of her.”

Miss Halcombe’s sharp eyes studied my face attentively.

“You are altering your opinion about Laura,” she said. “You are readier
to make allowances for her than you were yesterday.”

No sensible man ever engages, unprepared, in a fencing match of words
with a woman. I only answered—

“Let me know what happens. I will do nothing till I hear from you.”

She still looked hard in my face. “I wish it was all over, and well
over, Mr. Gilmore—and so do you.” With those words she left me.

Sir Percival most politely insisted on seeing me to the carriage door.

“If you are ever in my neighbourhood,” he said, “pray don’t forget
that I am sincerely anxious to improve our acquaintance. The tried and
trusted old friend of this family will be always a welcome visitor in
any house of mine.”

A really irresistible man—courteous, considerate, delightfully free
from pride—a gentleman, every inch of him. As I drove away to the
station I felt as if I could cheerfully do anything to promote the
interests of Sir Percival Glyde—anything in the world, except drawing
the marriage settlement of his wife.



III

A week passed, after my return to London, without the receipt of any
communication from Miss Halcombe.

On the eighth day a letter in her handwriting was placed among the
other letters on my table.

It announced that Sir Percival Glyde had been definitely accepted, and
that the marriage was to take place, as he had originally desired,
before the end of the year. In all probability the ceremony would
be performed during the last fortnight in December. Miss Fairlie’s
twenty-first birthday was late in March. She would, therefore, by this
arrangement, become Sir Percival’s wife about three months before she
was of age.

I ought not to have been surprised, I ought not to have been sorry, but
I was surprised and sorry, nevertheless. Some little disappointment,
caused by the unsatisfactory shortness of Miss Halcombe’s letter,
mingled itself with these feelings, and contributed its share towards
upsetting my serenity for the day. In six lines my correspondent
announced the proposed marriage—in three more, she told me that Sir
Percival had left Cumberland to return to his house in Hampshire,
and in two concluding sentences she informed me, first, that Laura
was sadly in want of change and cheerful society; secondly, that she
had resolved to try the effect of some such change forthwith, by
taking her sister away with her on a visit to certain old friends in
Yorkshire. There the letter ended, without a word to explain what
the circumstances were which had decided Miss Fairlie to accept Sir
Percival Glyde in one short week from the time when I had last seen her.

At a later period the cause of this sudden determination was fully
explained to me. It is not my business to relate it imperfectly, on
hearsay evidence. The circumstances came within the personal experience
of Miss Halcombe, and when her narrative succeeds mine, she will
describe them in every particular exactly as they happened. In the
meantime, the plain duty for me to perform—before I, in my turn, lay
down my pen and withdraw from the story—is to relate the one remaining
event connected with Miss Fairlie’s proposed marriage in which I was
concerned, namely, the drawing of the settlement.

It is impossible to refer intelligibly to this document without first
entering into certain particulars in relation to the bride’s pecuniary
affairs. I will try to make my explanation briefly and plainly, and
to keep it free from professional obscurities and technicalities.
The matter is of the utmost importance. I warn all readers of these
lines that Miss Fairlie’s inheritance is a very serious part of Miss
Fairlie’s story, and that Mr. Gilmore’s experience, in this particular,
must be their experience also, if they wish to understand the
narratives which are yet to come.

Miss Fairlie’s expectations, then, were of a twofold kind, comprising
her possible inheritance of real property, or land, when her uncle
died, and her absolute inheritance of personal property, or money, when
she came of age.

Let us take the land first.

In the time of Miss Fairlie’s paternal grandfather (whom we will call
Mr. Fairlie, the elder) the entailed succession to the Limmeridge
estate stood thus—

Mr. Fairlie, the elder, died and left three sons, Philip, Frederick,
and Arthur. As eldest son, Philip succeeded to the estate, if he
died without leaving a son, the property went to the second brother,
Frederick; and if Frederick died also without leaving a son, the
property went to the third brother, Arthur.

As events turned out, Mr. Philip Fairlie died leaving an only daughter,
the Laura of this story, and the estate, in consequence, went, in
course of law, to the second brother, Frederick, a single man. The
third brother, Arthur, had died many years before the decease of
Philip, leaving a son and a daughter. The son, at the age of eighteen,
was drowned at Oxford. His death left Laura, the daughter of Mr.
Philip Fairlie, presumptive heiress to the estate, with every chance
of succeeding to it, in the ordinary course of nature, on her uncle
Frederick’s death, if the said Frederick died without leaving male
issue.

Except in the event, then, of Mr. Frederick Fairlie’s marrying and
leaving an heir (the two very last things in the world that he was
likely to do), his niece, Laura, would have the property on his death,
possessing, it must be remembered, nothing more than a life-interest
in it. If she died single, or died childless, the estate would revert
to her cousin, Magdalen, the daughter of Mr. Arthur Fairlie. If
she married, with a proper settlement—or, in other words, with the
settlement I meant to make for her—the income from the estate (a good
three thousand a year) would, during her lifetime, be at her own
disposal. If she died before her husband, he would naturally expect
to be left in the enjoyment of the income, for HIS lifetime. If she
had a son, that son would be the heir, to the exclusion of her cousin
Magdalen. Thus, Sir Percival’s prospects in marrying Miss Fairlie (so
far as his wife’s expectations from real property were concerned)
promised him these two advantages, on Mr. Frederick Fairlie’s death:
First, the use of three thousand a year (by his wife’s permission,
while she lived, and in his own right, on her death, if he survived
her); and, secondly, the inheritance of Limmeridge for his son, if he
had one.

So much for the landed property, and for the disposal of the income
from it, on the occasion of Miss Fairlie’s marriage. Thus far, no
difficulty or difference of opinion on the lady’s settlement was at all
likely to arise between Sir Percival’s lawyer and myself.

The personal estate, or, in other words, the money to which Miss
Fairlie would become entitled on reaching the age of twenty-one years,
is the next point to consider.

This part of her inheritance was, in itself, a comfortable little
fortune. It was derived under her father’s will, and it amounted to the
sum of twenty thousand pounds. Besides this, she had a life-interest
in ten thousand pounds more, which latter amount was to go, on her
decease, to her aunt Eleanor, her father’s only sister. It will greatly
assist in setting the family affairs before the reader in the clearest
possible light, if I stop here for a moment, to explain why the aunt
had been kept waiting for her legacy until the death of the niece.

Mr. Philip Fairlie had lived on excellent terms with his sister
Eleanor, as long as she remained a single woman. But when her marriage
took place, somewhat late in life, and when that marriage united
her to an Italian gentleman named Fosco, or, rather, to an Italian
nobleman—seeing that he rejoiced in the title of Count—Mr. Fairlie
disapproved of her conduct so strongly that he ceased to hold any
communication with her, and even went the length of striking her name
out of his will. The other members of the family all thought this
serious manifestation of resentment at his sister’s marriage more
or less unreasonable. Count Fosco, though not a rich man, was not a
penniless adventurer either. He had a small but sufficient income of
his own. He had lived many years in England, and he held an excellent
position in society. These recommendations, however, availed nothing
with Mr. Fairlie. In many of his opinions he was an Englishman of the
old school, and he hated a foreigner simply and solely because he was
a foreigner. The utmost that he could be prevailed on to do, in after
years—mainly at Miss Fairlie’s intercession—was to restore his sister’s
name to its former place in his will, but to keep her waiting for her
legacy by giving the income of the money to his daughter for life, and
the money itself, if her aunt died before her, to her cousin Magdalen.
Considering the relative ages of the two ladies, the aunt’s chance, in
the ordinary course of nature, of receiving the ten thousand pounds,
was thus rendered doubtful in the extreme; and Madame Fosco resented
her brother’s treatment of her as unjustly as usual in such cases, by
refusing to see her niece, and declining to believe that Miss Fairlie’s
intercession had ever been exerted to restore her name to Mr. Fairlie’s
will.

Such was the history of the ten thousand pounds. Here again no
difficulty could arise with Sir Percival’s legal adviser. The income
would be at the wife’s disposal, and the principal would go to her aunt
or her cousin on her death.

All preliminary explanations being now cleared out of the way, I come
at last to the real knot of the case—to the twenty thousand pounds.

This sum was absolutely Miss Fairlie’s own on her completing her
twenty-first year, and the whole future disposition of it depended, in
the first instance, on the conditions I could obtain for her in her
marriage-settlement. The other clauses contained in that document were
of a formal kind, and need not be recited here. But the clause relating
to the money is too important to be passed over. A few lines will be
sufficient to give the necessary abstract of it.

My stipulation in regard to the twenty thousand pounds was simply
this: The whole amount was to be settled so as to give the income to
the lady for her life—afterwards to Sir Percival for his life—and the
principal to the children of the marriage. In default of issue, the
principal was to be disposed of as the lady might by her will direct,
for which purpose I reserved to her the right of making a will. The
effect of these conditions may be thus summed up. If Lady Glyde died
without leaving children, her half-sister Miss Halcombe, and any other
relatives or friends whom she might be anxious to benefit, would, on
her husband’s death, divide among them such shares of her money as she
desired them to have. If, on the other hand, she died leaving children,
then their interest, naturally and necessarily, superseded all other
interests whatsoever. This was the clause—and no one who reads it can
fail, I think, to agree with me that it meted out equal justice to all
parties.

We shall see how my proposals were met on the husband’s side.

At the time when Miss Halcombe’s letter reached me I was even more
busily occupied than usual. But I contrived to make leisure for the
settlement. I had drawn it, and had sent it for approval to Sir
Percival’s solicitor, in less than a week from the time when Miss
Halcombe had informed me of the proposed marriage.

After a lapse of two days the document was returned to me, with notes
and remarks of the baronet’s lawyer. His objections, in general, proved
to be of the most trifling and technical kind, until he came to the
clause relating to the twenty thousand pounds. Against this there were
double lines drawn in red ink, and the following note was appended to
them—

“Not admissible. The PRINCIPAL to go to Sir Percival Glyde, in the
event of his surviving Lady Glyde, and there being no issue.”

That is to say, not one farthing of the twenty thousand pounds was
to go to Miss Halcombe, or to any other relative or friend of Lady
Glyde’s. The whole sum, if she left no children, was to slip into the
pockets of her husband.

The answer I wrote to this audacious proposal was as short and sharp as
I could make it. “My dear sir. Miss Fairlie’s settlement. I maintain
the clause to which you object, exactly as it stands. Yours truly.”
The rejoinder came back in a quarter of an hour. “My dear sir. Miss
Fairlie’s settlement. I maintain the red ink to which you object,
exactly as it stands. Yours truly.” In the detestable slang of the day,
we were now both “at a deadlock,” and nothing was left for it but to
refer to our clients on either side.

As matters stood, my client—Miss Fairlie not having yet completed her
twenty-first year—Mr. Frederick Fairlie, was her guardian. I wrote by
that day’s post, and put the case before him exactly as it stood, not
only urging every argument I could think of to induce him to maintain
the clause as I had drawn it, but stating to him plainly the mercenary
motive which was at the bottom of the opposition to my settlement of
the twenty thousand pounds. The knowledge of Sir Percival’s affairs
which I had necessarily gained when the provisions of the deed on
HIS side were submitted in due course to my examination, had but too
plainly informed me that the debts on his estate were enormous, and
that his income, though nominally a large one, was virtually, for a
man in his position, next to nothing. The want of ready money was the
practical necessity of Sir Percival’s existence, and his lawyer’s note
on the clause in the settlement was nothing but the frankly selfish
expression of it.

Mr. Fairlie’s answer reached me by return of post, and proved to be
wandering and irrelevant in the extreme. Turned into plain English, it
practically expressed itself to this effect: “Would dear Gilmore be so
very obliging as not to worry his friend and client about such a trifle
as a remote contingency? Was it likely that a young woman of twenty-one
would die before a man of forty five, and die without children? On
the other hand, in such a miserable world as this, was it possible to
over-estimate the value of peace and quietness? If those two heavenly
blessings were offered in exchange for such an earthly trifle as a
remote chance of twenty thousand pounds, was it not a fair bargain?
Surely, yes. Then why not make it?”

I threw the letter away in disgust. Just as it had fluttered to the
ground, there was a knock at my door, and Sir Percival’s solicitor, Mr.
Merriman, was shown in. There are many varieties of sharp practitioners
in this world, but I think the hardest of all to deal with are the
men who overreach you under the disguise of inveterate good-humour. A
fat, well fed, smiling, friendly man of business is of all parties to
a bargain the most hopeless to deal with. Mr. Merriman was one of this
class.

“And how is good Mr. Gilmore?” he began, all in a glow with the warmth
of his own amiability. “Glad to see you, sir, in such excellent health.
I was passing your door, and I thought I would look in in case you
might have something to say to me. Do—now pray do let us settle this
little difference of ours by word of mouth, if we can! Have you heard
from your client yet?”

“Yes. Have you heard from yours?”

“My dear, good sir! I wish I had heard from him to any purpose—I
wish, with all my heart, the responsibility was off my shoulders; but
he is obstinate—or let me rather say, resolute—and he won’t take it
off. ‘Merriman, I leave details to you. Do what you think right for
my interests, and consider me as having personally withdrawn from the
business until it is all over.’ Those were Sir Percival’s words a
fortnight ago, and all I can get him to do now is to repeat them. I am
not a hard man, Mr. Gilmore, as you know. Personally and privately, I
do assure you, I should like to sponge out that note of mine at this
very moment. But if Sir Percival won’t go into the matter, if Sir
Percival will blindly leave all his interests in my sole care, what
course can I possibly take except the course of asserting them? My
hands are bound—don’t you see, my dear sir?—my hands are bound.”

“You maintain your note on the clause, then, to the letter?” I said.

“Yes—deuce take it! I have no other alternative.” He walked to the
fireplace and warmed himself, humming the fag end of a tune in a rich
convivial bass voice. “What does your side say?” he went on; “now pray
tell me—what does your side say?”

I was ashamed to tell him. I attempted to gain time—nay, I did worse.
My legal instincts got the better of me, and I even tried to bargain.

“Twenty thousand pounds is rather a large sum to be given up by the
lady’s friends at two days’ notice,” I said.

“Very true,” replied Mr. Merriman, looking down thoughtfully at his
boots. “Properly put, sir—most properly put!”

“A compromise, recognising the interests of the lady’s family as well
as the interests of the husband, might not perhaps have frightened
my client quite so much,” I went on. “Come, come! this contingency
resolves itself into a matter of bargaining after all. What is the
least you will take?”

“The least we will take,” said Mr. Merriman, “is nineteen-thousand-
nine-hundred-and-ninety-nine-pounds-nineteen-shillings-and-elevenpence-
three-farthings. Ha! ha! ha! Excuse me, Mr. Gilmore. I must have my
little joke.”

“Little enough,” I remarked. “The joke is just worth the odd farthing
it was made for.”

Mr. Merriman was delighted. He laughed over my retort till the room
rang again. I was not half so good-humoured on my side; I came back to
business, and closed the interview.

“This is Friday,” I said. “Give us till Tuesday next for our final
answer.”

“By all means,” replied Mr. Merriman. “Longer, my dear sir, if you
like.” He took up his hat to go, and then addressed me again. “By the
way,” he said, “your clients in Cumberland have not heard anything more
of the woman who wrote the anonymous letter, have they?”

“Nothing more,” I answered. “Have you found no trace of her?”

“Not yet,” said my legal friend. “But we don’t despair. Sir Percival
has his suspicions that Somebody is keeping her in hiding, and we are
having that Somebody watched.”

“You mean the old woman who was with her in Cumberland,” I said.

“Quite another party, sir,” answered Mr. Merriman. “We don’t happen to
have laid hands on the old woman yet. Our Somebody is a man. We have
got him close under our eye here in London, and we strongly suspect
he had something to do with helping her in the first instance to
escape from the Asylum. Sir Percival wanted to question him at once,
but I said, ‘No. Questioning him will only put him on his guard—watch
him, and wait.’ We shall see what happens. A dangerous woman to be
at large, Mr. Gilmore; nobody knows what she may do next. I wish you
good-morning, sir. On Tuesday next I shall hope for the pleasure of
hearing from you.” He smiled amiably and went out.

My mind had been rather absent during the latter part of the
conversation with my legal friend. I was so anxious about the matter
of the settlement that I had little attention to give to any other
subject, and the moment I was left alone again I began to think over
what my next proceeding ought to be.

In the case of any other client I should have acted on my instructions,
however personally distasteful to me, and have given up the point
about the twenty thousand pounds on the spot. But I could not act with
this business-like indifference towards Miss Fairlie. I had an honest
feeling of affection and admiration for her—I remembered gratefully
that her father had been the kindest patron and friend to me that ever
man had—I had felt towards her while I was drawing the settlement as I
might have felt, if I had not been an old bachelor, towards a daughter
of my own, and I was determined to spare no personal sacrifice in her
service and where her interests were concerned. Writing a second time
to Mr. Fairlie was not to be thought of—it would only be giving him
a second opportunity of slipping through my fingers. Seeing him and
personally remonstrating with him might possibly be of more use. The
next day was Saturday. I determined to take a return ticket and jolt my
old bones down to Cumberland, on the chance of persuading him to adopt
the just, the independent, and the honourable course. It was a poor
chance enough, no doubt, but when I had tried it my conscience would be
at ease. I should then have done all that a man in my position could do
to serve the interests of my old friend’s only child.

The weather on Saturday was beautiful, a west wind and a bright sun.
Having felt latterly a return of that fulness and oppression of the
head, against which my doctor warned me so seriously more than two
years since, I resolved to take the opportunity of getting a little
extra exercise by sending my bag on before me and walking to the
terminus in Euston Square. As I came out into Holborn a gentleman
walking by rapidly stopped and spoke to me. It was Mr. Walter Hartright.

If he had not been the first to greet me I should certainly have
passed him. He was so changed that I hardly knew him again. His face
looked pale and haggard—his manner was hurried and uncertain—and his
dress, which I remembered as neat and gentlemanlike when I saw him at
Limmeridge, was so slovenly now that I should really have been ashamed
of the appearance of it on one of my own clerks.

“Have you been long back from Cumberland?” he asked. “I heard from Miss
Halcombe lately. I am aware that Sir Percival Glyde’s explanation has
been considered satisfactory. Will the marriage take place soon? Do you
happen to know, Mr. Gilmore?”

He spoke so fast, and crowded his questions together so strangely
and confusedly, that I could hardly follow him. However accidentally
intimate he might have been with the family at Limmeridge, I could
not see that he had any right to expect information on their private
affairs, and I determined to drop him, as easily as might be, on the
subject of Miss Fairlie’s marriage.

“Time will show, Mr. Hartright,” I said—“time will show. I dare say if
we look out for the marriage in the papers we shall not be far wrong.
Excuse my noticing it, but I am sorry to see you not looking so well as
you were when we last met.”

A momentary nervous contraction quivered about his lips and eyes,
and made me half reproach myself for having answered him in such a
significantly guarded manner.

“I had no right to ask about her marriage,” he said bitterly. “I must
wait to see it in the newspapers like other people. Yes,”—he went on
before I could make any apologies—“I have not been well lately. I am
going to another country to try a change of scene and occupation. Miss
Halcombe has kindly assisted me with her influence, and my testimonials
have been found satisfactory. It is a long distance off, but I don’t
care where I go, what the climate is, or how long I am away.” He looked
about him while he said this at the throng of strangers passing us by
on either side, in a strange, suspicious manner, as if he thought that
some of them might be watching us.

“I wish you well through it, and safe back again,” I said, and then
added, so as not to keep him altogether at arm’s length on the subject
of the Fairlies, “I am going down to Limmeridge to-day on business.
Miss Halcombe and Miss Fairlie are away just now on a visit to some
friends in Yorkshire.”

His eyes brightened, and he seemed about to say something in answer,
but the same momentary nervous spasm crossed his face again. He took my
hand, pressed it hard, and disappeared among the crowd without saying
another word. Though he was little more than a stranger to me, I waited
for a moment, looking after him almost with a feeling of regret. I had
gained in my profession sufficient experience of young men to know what
the outward signs and tokens were of their beginning to go wrong, and
when I resumed my walk to the railway I am sorry to say I felt more
than doubtful about Mr. Hartright’s future.



IV

Leaving by an early train, I got to Limmeridge in time for dinner.
The house was oppressively empty and dull. I had expected that good
Mrs. Vesey would have been company for me in the absence of the young
ladies, but she was confined to her room by a cold. The servants were
so surprised at seeing me that they hurried and bustled absurdly, and
made all sorts of annoying mistakes. Even the butler, who was old
enough to have known better, brought me a bottle of port that was
chilled. The reports of Mr. Fairlie’s health were just as usual, and
when I sent up a message to announce my arrival, I was told that he
would be delighted to see me the next morning but that the sudden news
of my appearance had prostrated him with palpitations for the rest of
the evening. The wind howled dismally all night, and strange cracking
and groaning noises sounded here, there, and everywhere in the empty
house. I slept as wretchedly as possible, and got up in a mighty bad
humour to breakfast by myself the next morning.

At ten o’clock I was conducted to Mr. Fairlie’s apartments. He was
in his usual room, his usual chair, and his usual aggravating state
of mind and body. When I went in, his valet was standing before him,
holding up for inspection a heavy volume of etchings, as long and as
broad as my office writing-desk. The miserable foreigner grinned in the
most abject manner, and looked ready to drop with fatigue, while his
master composedly turned over the etchings, and brought their hidden
beauties to light with the help of a magnifying glass.

“You very best of good old friends,” said Mr. Fairlie, leaning back
lazily before he could look at me, “are you QUITE well? How nice of you
to come here and see me in my solitude. Dear Gilmore!”

I had expected that the valet would be dismissed when I appeared, but
nothing of the sort happened. There he stood, in front of his master’s
chair, trembling under the weight of the etchings, and there Mr.
Fairlie sat, serenely twirling the magnifying glass between his white
fingers and thumbs.

“I have come to speak to you on a very important matter,” I said, “and
you will therefore excuse me, if I suggest that we had better be alone.”

The unfortunate valet looked at me gratefully. Mr. Fairlie faintly
repeated my last three words, “better be alone,” with every appearance
of the utmost possible astonishment.

I was in no humour for trifling, and I resolved to make him understand
what I meant.

“Oblige me by giving that man permission to withdraw,” I said, pointing
to the valet.

Mr. Fairlie arched his eyebrows and pursed up his lips in sarcastic
surprise.

“Man?” he repeated. “You provoking old Gilmore, what can you possibly
mean by calling him a man? He’s nothing of the sort. He might have been
a man half an hour ago, before I wanted my etchings, and he may be a
man half an hour hence, when I don’t want them any longer. At present
he is simply a portfolio stand. Why object, Gilmore, to a portfolio
stand?”

“I DO object. For the third time, Mr. Fairlie, I beg that we may be
alone.”

My tone and manner left him no alternative but to comply with my
request. He looked at the servant, and pointed peevishly to a chair at
his side.

“Put down the etchings and go away,” he said. “Don’t upset me by losing
my place. Have you, or have you not, lost my place? Are you sure you
have not? And have you put my hand-bell quite within my reach? Yes?
Then why the devil don’t you go?”

The valet went out. Mr. Fairlie twisted himself round in his chair,
polished the magnifying glass with his delicate cambric handkerchief,
and indulged himself with a sidelong inspection of the open volume of
etchings. It was not easy to keep my temper under these circumstances,
but I did keep it.

“I have come here at great personal inconvenience,” I said, “to serve
the interests of your niece and your family, and I think I have
established some slight claim to be favoured with your attention in
return.”

“Don’t bully me!” exclaimed Mr. Fairlie, falling back helplessly in the
chair, and closing his eyes. “Please don’t bully me. I’m not strong
enough.”

I was determined not to let him provoke me, for Laura Fairlie’s sake.

“My object,” I went on, “is to entreat you to reconsider your letter,
and not to force me to abandon the just rights of your niece, and of
all who belong to her. Let me state the case to you once more, and for
the last time.”

Mr. Fairlie shook his head and sighed piteously.

“This is heartless of you, Gilmore—very heartless,” he said. “Never
mind, go on.”

I put all the points to him carefully—I set the matter before him
in every conceivable light. He lay back in the chair the whole time
I was speaking with his eyes closed. When I had done he opened them
indolently, took his silver smelling-bottle from the table, and sniffed
at it with an air of gentle relish.

“Good Gilmore!” he said between the sniffs, “how very nice this is of
you! How you reconcile one to human nature!”

“Give me a plain answer to a plain question, Mr. Fairlie. I tell you
again, Sir Percival Glyde has no shadow of a claim to expect more
than the income of the money. The money itself if your niece has no
children, ought to be under her control, and to return to her family.
If you stand firm, Sir Percival must give way—he must give way, I tell
you, or he exposes himself to the base imputation of marrying Miss
Fairlie entirely from mercenary motives.”

Mr. Fairlie shook the silver smelling-bottle at me playfully.

“You dear old Gilmore, how you do hate rank and family, don’t you? How
you detest Glyde because he happens to be a baronet. What a Radical you
are—oh, dear me, what a Radical you are!”

A Radical!!! I could put up with a good deal of provocation, but, after
holding the soundest Conservative principles all my life, I could NOT
put up with being called a Radical. My blood boiled at it—I started out
of my chair—I was speechless with Indignation.

“Don’t shake the room!” cried Mr. Fairlie—“for Heaven’s sake don’t
shake the room! Worthiest of all possible Gilmores, I meant no offence.
My own views are so extremely liberal that I think I am a Radical
myself. Yes. We are a pair of Radicals. Please don’t be angry. I can’t
quarrel—I haven’t stamina enough. Shall we drop the subject? Yes. Come
and look at these sweet etchings. Do let me teach you to understand the
heavenly pearliness of these lines. Do now, there’s a good Gilmore!”

While he was maundering on in this way I was, fortunately for my own
self-respect, returning to my senses. When I spoke again I was composed
enough to treat his impertinence with the silent contempt that it
deserved.

“You are entirely wrong, sir,” I said, “in supposing that I speak from
any prejudice against Sir Percival Glyde. I may regret that he has so
unreservedly resigned himself in this matter to his lawyer’s direction
as to make any appeal to himself impossible, but I am not prejudiced
against him. What I have said would equally apply to any other man in
his situation, high or low. The principle I maintain is a recognised
principle. If you were to apply at the nearest town here, to the first
respectable solicitor you could find, he would tell you as a stranger
what I tell you as a friend. He would inform you that it is against all
rule to abandon the lady’s money entirely to the man she marries. He
would decline, on grounds of common legal caution, to give the husband,
under any circumstances whatever, an interest of twenty thousand pounds
in his wife’s death.”

“Would he really, Gilmore?” said Mr. Fairlie. “If he said anything half
so horrid, I do assure you I should tinkle my bell for Louis, and have
him sent out of the house immediately.”

“You shall not irritate me, Mr. Fairlie—for your niece’s sake and for
her father’s sake, you shall not irritate me. You shall take the whole
responsibility of this discreditable settlement on your own shoulders
before I leave the room.”

“Don’t!—now please don’t!” said Mr. Fairlie. “Think how precious your
time is, Gilmore, and don’t throw it away. I would dispute with you if
I could, but I can’t—I haven’t stamina enough. You want to upset me,
to upset yourself, to upset Glyde, and to upset Laura; and—oh, dear
me!—all for the sake of the very last thing in the world that is likely
to happen. No, dear friend—in the interests of peace and quietness,
positively No!”

“I am to understand, then, that you hold by the determination expressed
in your letter?”

“Yes, please. So glad we understand each other at last. Sit down
again—do!”

I walked at once to the door, and Mr. Fairlie resignedly “tinkled” his
hand-bell. Before I left the room I turned round and addressed him for
the last time.

“Whatever happens in the future, sir,” I said, “remember that my plain
duty of warning you has been performed. As the faithful friend and
servant of your family, I tell you, at parting, that no daughter of
mine should be married to any man alive under such a settlement as you
are forcing me to make for Miss Fairlie.”

The door opened behind me, and the valet stood waiting on the threshold.

“Louis,” said Mr. Fairlie, “show Mr. Gilmore out, and then come back
and hold up my etchings for me again. Make them give you a good lunch
downstairs. Do, Gilmore, make my idle beasts of servants give you a
good lunch!”

I was too much disgusted to reply—I turned on my heel, and left him in
silence. There was an up train at two o’clock in the afternoon, and by
that train I returned to London.

On the Tuesday I sent in the altered settlement, which practically
disinherited the very persons whom Miss Fairlie’s own lips had informed
me she was most anxious to benefit. I had no choice. Another lawyer
would have drawn up the deed if I had refused to undertake it.


My task is done. My personal share in the events of the family story
extends no farther than the point which I have just reached. Other
pens than mine will describe the strange circumstances which are now
shortly to follow. Seriously and sorrowfully I close this brief record.
Seriously and sorrowfully I repeat here the parting words that I spoke
at Limmeridge House:—No daughter of mine should have been married to
any man alive under such a settlement as I was compelled to make for
Laura Fairlie.

The End of Mr. Gilmore’s Narrative.



THE STORY CONTINUED BY MARIAN HALCOMBE

(in Extracts from her Diary)



                     LIMMERIDGE HOUSE, Nov. 8.[1]

[1] The passages omitted, here and elsewhere, in Miss Halcombe’s Diary
are only those which bear no reference to Miss Fairlie or to any of the
persons with whom she is associated in these pages.


This morning Mr. Gilmore left us.

His interview with Laura had evidently grieved and surprised him more
than he liked to confess. I felt afraid, from his look and manner when
we parted, that she might have inadvertently betrayed to him the real
secret of her depression and my anxiety. This doubt grew on me so,
after he had gone, that I declined riding out with Sir Percival, and
went up to Laura’s room instead.

I have been sadly distrustful of myself, in this difficult and
lamentable matter, ever since I found out my own ignorance of the
strength of Laura’s unhappy attachment. I ought to have known that
the delicacy and forbearance and sense of honour which drew me to
poor Hartright, and made me so sincerely admire and respect him, were
just the qualities to appeal most irresistibly to Laura’s natural
sensitiveness and natural generosity of nature. And yet, until she
opened her heart to me of her own accord, I had no suspicion that this
new feeling had taken root so deeply. I once thought time and care
might remove it. I now fear that it will remain with her and alter her
for life. The discovery that I have committed such an error in judgment
as this makes me hesitate about everything else. I hesitate about
Sir Percival, in the face of the plainest proofs. I hesitate even in
speaking to Laura. On this very morning I doubted, with my hand on the
door, whether I should ask her the questions I had come to put, or not.

When I went into her room I found her walking up and down in great
impatience. She looked flushed and excited, and she came forward at
once, and spoke to me before I could open my lips.

“I wanted you,” she said. “Come and sit down on the sofa with me.
Marian! I can bear this no longer—I must and will end it.”

There was too much colour in her cheeks, too much energy in her
manner, too much firmness in her voice. The little book of Hartright’s
drawings—the fatal book that she will dream over whenever she is
alone—was in one of her hands. I began by gently and firmly taking it
from her, and putting it out of sight on a side-table.

“Tell me quietly, my darling, what you wish to do,” I said. “Has Mr.
Gilmore been advising you?”

She shook her head. “No, not in what I am thinking of now. He was very
kind and good to me, Marian, and I am ashamed to say I distressed him
by crying. I am miserably helpless—I can’t control myself. For my own
sake, and for all our sakes, I must have courage enough to end it.”

“Do you mean courage enough to claim your release?” I asked.

“No,” she said simply. “Courage, dear, to tell the truth.”

She put her arms round my neck, and rested her head quietly on my
bosom. On the opposite wall hung the miniature portrait of her father.
I bent over her, and saw that she was looking at it while her head lay
on my breast.

“I can never claim my release from my engagement,” she went on.
“Whatever way it ends it must end wretchedly for me. All I can do,
Marian, is not to add the remembrance that I have broken my promise and
forgotten my father’s dying words, to make that wretchedness worse.”

“What is it you propose, then?” I asked.

“To tell Sir Percival Glyde the truth with my own lips,” she answered,
“and to let him release me, if he will, not because I ask him, but
because he knows all.”

“What do you mean, Laura, by ‘all’? Sir Percival will know enough (he
has told me so himself) if he knows that the engagement is opposed to
your own wishes.”

“Can I tell him that, when the engagement was made for me by my father,
with my own consent? I should have kept my promise, not happily, I am
afraid, but still contentedly—” she stopped, turned her face to me, and
laid her cheek close against mine—“I should have kept my engagement,
Marian, if another love had not grown up in my heart, which was not
there when I first promised to be Sir Percival’s wife.”

“Laura! you will never lower yourself by making a confession to him?”

“I shall lower myself, indeed, if I gain my release by hiding from him
what he has a right to know.”

“He has not the shadow of a right to know it!”

“Wrong, Marian, wrong! I ought to deceive no one—least of all the man
to whom my father gave me, and to whom I gave myself.” She put her lips
to mine, and kissed me. “My own love,” she said softly, “you are so
much too fond of me, and so much too proud of me, that you forget, in
my case, what you would remember in your own. Better that Sir Percival
should doubt my motives, and misjudge my conduct if he will, than that
I should be first false to him in thought, and then mean enough to
serve my own interests by hiding the falsehood.”

I held her away from me in astonishment. For the first time in our
lives we had changed places—the resolution was all on her side, the
hesitation all on mine. I looked into the pale, quiet, resigned young
face—I saw the pure, innocent heart, in the loving eyes that looked
back at me—and the poor worldly cautions and objections that rose to
my lips dwindled and died away in their own emptiness. I hung my head
in silence. In her place the despicably small pride which makes so
many women deceitful would have been my pride, and would have made me
deceitful too.

“Don’t be angry with me, Marian,” she said, mistaking my silence.

I only answered by drawing her close to me again. I was afraid of
crying if I spoke. My tears do not flow so easily as they ought—they
come almost like men’s tears, with sobs that seem to tear me in pieces,
and that frighten every one about me.

“I have thought of this, love, for many days,” she went on, twining
and twisting my hair with that childish restlessness in her fingers,
which poor Mrs. Vesey still tries so patiently and so vainly to cure
her of—“I have thought of it very seriously, and I can be sure of my
courage when my own conscience tells me I am right. Let me speak to him
to-morrow—in your presence, Marian. I will say nothing that is wrong,
nothing that you or I need be ashamed of—but, oh, it will ease my heart
so to end this miserable concealment! Only let me know and feel that I
have no deception to answer for on my side, and then, when he has heard
what I have to say, let him act towards me as he will.”

She sighed, and put her head back in its old position on my bosom.
Sad misgivings about what the end would be weighed upon my mind, but
still distrusting myself, I told her that I would do as she wished. She
thanked me, and we passed gradually into talking of other things.

At dinner she joined us again, and was more easy and more herself with
Sir Percival than I have seen her yet. In the evening she went to the
piano, choosing new music of the dexterous, tuneless, florid kind.
The lovely old melodies of Mozart, which poor Hartright was so fond
of, she has never played since he left. The book is no longer in the
music-stand. She took the volume away herself, so that nobody might
find it out and ask her to play from it.

I had no opportunity of discovering whether her purpose of the morning
had changed or not, until she wished Sir Percival good-night—and
then her own words informed me that it was unaltered. She said, very
quietly, that she wished to speak to him after breakfast, and that he
would find her in her sitting-room with me. He changed colour at those
words, and I felt his hand trembling a little when it came to my turn
to take it. The event of the next morning would decide his future life,
and he evidently knew it.

I went in, as usual, through the door between our two bedrooms, to bid
Laura good-night before she went to sleep. In stooping over her to kiss
her I saw the little book of Hartright’s drawings half hidden under her
pillow, just in the place where she used to hide her favourite toys
when she was a child. I could not find it in my heart to say anything,
but I pointed to the book and shook my head. She reached both hands up
to my cheeks, and drew my face down to hers till our lips met.

“Leave it there to-night,” she whispered; “to-morrow may be cruel, and
may make me say good-bye to it for ever.”


9th.—The first event of the morning was not of a kind to raise my
spirits—a letter arrived for me from poor Walter Hartright. It is the
answer to mine describing the manner in which Sir Percival cleared
himself of the suspicions raised by Anne Catherick’s letter. He writes
shortly and bitterly about Sir Percival’s explanations, only saying
that he has no right to offer an opinion on the conduct of those who
are above him. This is sad, but his occasional references to himself
grieve me still more. He says that the effort to return to his old
habits and pursuits grows harder instead of easier to him every day
and he implores me, if I have any interest, to exert it to get him
employment that will necessitate his absence from England, and take him
among new scenes and new people. I have been made all the readier to
comply with this request by a passage at the end of his letter, which
has almost alarmed me.

After mentioning that he has neither seen nor heard anything of Anne
Catherick, he suddenly breaks off, and hints in the most abrupt,
mysterious manner, that he has been perpetually watched and followed by
strange men ever since he returned to London. He acknowledges that he
cannot prove this extraordinary suspicion by fixing on any particular
persons, but he declares that the suspicion itself is present to him
night and day. This has frightened me, because it looks as if his one
fixed idea about Laura was becoming too much for his mind. I will write
immediately to some of my mother’s influential old friends in London,
and press his claims on their notice. Change of scene and change of
occupation may really be the salvation of him at this crisis in his
life.

Greatly to my relief, Sir Percival sent an apology for not joining us
at breakfast. He had taken an early cup of coffee in his own room, and
he was still engaged there in writing letters. At eleven o’clock, if
that hour was convenient, he would do himself the honour of waiting on
Miss Fairlie and Miss Halcombe.

My eyes were on Laura’s face while the message was being delivered.
I had found her unaccountably quiet and composed on going into her
room in the morning, and so she remained all through breakfast. Even
when we were sitting together on the sofa in her room, waiting for Sir
Percival, she still preserved her self-control.

“Don’t be afraid of me, Marian,” was all she said; “I may forget myself
with an old friend like Mr. Gilmore, or with a dear sister like you,
but I will not forget myself with Sir Percival Glyde.”

I looked at her, and listened to her in silent surprise. Through all
the years of our close intimacy this passive force in her character had
been hidden from me—hidden even from herself, till love found it, and
suffering called it forth.

As the clock on the mantelpiece struck eleven Sir Percival knocked at
the door and came in. There was suppressed anxiety and agitation in
every line of his face. The dry, sharp cough, which teases him at most
times, seemed to be troubling him more incessantly than ever. He sat
down opposite to us at the table, and Laura remained by me. I looked
attentively at them both, and he was the palest of the two.

He said a few unimportant words, with a visible effort to preserve his
customary ease of manner. But his voice was not to be steadied, and the
restless uneasiness in his eyes was not to be concealed. He must have
felt this himself, for he stopped in the middle of a sentence, and gave
up even the attempt to hide his embarrassment any longer.

There was just one moment of dead silence before Laura addressed him.

“I wish to speak to you, Sir Percival,” she said, “on a subject that
is very important to us both. My sister is here, because her presence
helps me and gives me confidence. She has not suggested one word of
what I am going to say—I speak from my own thoughts, not from hers.
I am sure you will be kind enough to understand that before I go any
farther?”

Sir Percival bowed. She had proceeded thus far, with perfect outward
tranquillity and perfect propriety of manner. She looked at him, and
he looked at her. They seemed, at the outset, at least, resolved to
understand one another plainly.

“I have heard from Marian,” she went on, “that I have only to claim my
release from our engagement to obtain that release from you. It was
forbearing and generous on your part, Sir Percival, to send me such a
message. It is only doing you justice to say that I am grateful for the
offer, and I hope and believe that it is only doing myself justice to
tell you that I decline to accept it.”

His attentive face relaxed a little. But I saw one of his feet, softly,
quietly, incessantly beating on the carpet under the table, and I felt
that he was secretly as anxious as ever.

“I have not forgotten,” she said, “that you asked my father’s
permission before you honoured me with a proposal of marriage. Perhaps
you have not forgotten either what I said when I consented to our
engagement? I ventured to tell you that my father’s influence and
advice had mainly decided me to give you my promise. I was guided by my
father, because I had always found him the truest of all advisers, the
best and fondest of all protectors and friends. I have lost him now—I
have only his memory to love, but my faith in that dear dead friend
has never been shaken. I believe at this moment, as truly as I ever
believed, that he knew what was best, and that his hopes and wishes
ought to be my hopes and wishes too.”

Her voice trembled for the first time. Her restless fingers stole their
way into my lap, and held fast by one of my hands. There was another
moment of silence, and then Sir Percival spoke.

“May I ask,” he said, “if I have ever proved myself unworthy of the
trust which it has been hitherto my greatest honour and greatest
happiness to possess?”

“I have found nothing in your conduct to blame,” she answered. “You
have always treated me with the same delicacy and the same forbearance.
You have deserved my trust, and, what is of far more importance in my
estimation, you have deserved my father’s trust, out of which mine
grew. You have given me no excuse, even if I had wanted to find one,
for asking to be released from my pledge. What I have said so far has
been spoken with the wish to acknowledge my whole obligation to you.
My regard for that obligation, my regard for my father’s memory, and
my regard for my own promise, all forbid me to set the example, on my
side, of withdrawing from our present position. The breaking of our
engagement must be entirely your wish and your act, Sir Percival—not
mine.”

The uneasy beating of his foot suddenly stopped, and he leaned forward
eagerly across the table.

“My act?” he said. “What reason can there be on my side for
withdrawing?”

I heard her breath quickening—I felt her hand growing cold. In spite
of what she had said to me when we were alone, I began to be afraid of
her. I was wrong.

“A reason that it is very hard to tell you,” she answered. “There is a
change in me, Sir Percival—a change which is serious enough to justify
you, to yourself and to me, in breaking off our engagement.”

His face turned so pale again that even his lips lost their colour.
He raised the arm which lay on the table, turned a little away in his
chair, and supported his head on his hand, so that his profile only was
presented to us.

“What change?” he asked. The tone in which he put the question jarred
on me—there was something painfully suppressed in it.

She sighed heavily, and leaned towards me a little, so as to rest her
shoulder against mine. I felt her trembling, and tried to spare her by
speaking myself. She stopped me by a warning pressure of her hand, and
then addressed Sir Percival one more, but this time without looking at
him.

“I have heard,” she said, “and I believe it, that the fondest and
truest of all affections is the affection which a woman ought to bear
to her husband. When our engagement began that affection was mine to
give, if I could, and yours to win, if you could. Will you pardon me,
and spare me, Sir Percival, if I acknowledge that it is not so any
longer?”

A few tears gathered in her eyes, and dropped over her cheeks slowly as
she paused and waited for his answer. He did not utter a word. At the
beginning of her reply he had moved the hand on which his head rested,
so that it hid his face. I saw nothing but the upper part of his figure
at the table. Not a muscle of him moved. The fingers of the hand which
supported his head were dented deep in his hair. They might have
expressed hidden anger or hidden grief—it was hard to say which—there
was no significant trembling in them. There was nothing, absolutely
nothing, to tell the secret of his thoughts at that moment—the moment
which was the crisis of his life and the crisis of hers.

I was determined to make him declare himself, for Laura’s sake.

“Sir Percival!” I interposed sharply, “have you nothing to say when
my sister has said so much? More, in my opinion,” I added, my unlucky
temper getting the better of me, “than any man alive, in your position,
has a right to hear from her.”

That last rash sentence opened a way for him by which to escape me if
he chose, and he instantly took advantage of it.

“Pardon me, Miss Halcombe,” he said, still keeping his hand over his
face, “pardon me if I remind you that I have claimed no such right.”

The few plain words which would have brought him back to the point from
which he had wandered were just on my lips, when Laura checked me by
speaking again.

“I hope I have not made my painful acknowledgment in vain,” she
continued. “I hope it has secured me your entire confidence in what I
have still to say?”

“Pray be assured of it.” He made that brief reply warmly, dropping
his hand on the table while he spoke, and turning towards us again.
Whatever outward change had passed over him was gone now. His face was
eager and expectant—it expressed nothing but the most intense anxiety
to hear her next words.

“I wish you to understand that I have not spoken from any selfish
motive,” she said. “If you leave me, Sir Percival, after what you
have just heard, you do not leave me to marry another man, you only
allow me to remain a single woman for the rest of my life. My fault
towards you has begun and ended in my own thoughts. It can never go
any farther. No word has passed—” She hesitated, in doubt about the
expression she should use next, hesitated in a momentary confusion
which it was very sad and very painful to see. “No word has passed,”
she patiently and resolutely resumed, “between myself and the person to
whom I am now referring for the first and last time in your presence
of my feelings towards him, or of his feelings towards me—no word ever
can pass—neither he nor I are likely, in this world, to meet again.
I earnestly beg you to spare me from saying any more, and to believe
me, on my word, in what I have just told you. It is the truth, Sir
Percival—the truth which I think my promised husband has a claim to
hear, at any sacrifice of my own feelings. I trust to his generosity to
pardon me, and to his honour to keep my secret.”

“Both those trusts are sacred to me,” he said, “and both shall be
sacredly kept.”

After answering in those terms he paused, and looked at her as if he
was waiting to hear more.

“I have said all I wish to say,” she added quietly—“I have said more
than enough to justify you in withdrawing from your engagement.”

“You have said more than enough,” he answered, “to make it the dearest
object of my life to KEEP the engagement.” With those words he rose
from his chair, and advanced a few steps towards the place where she
was sitting.

She started violently, and a faint cry of surprise escaped her. Every
word she had spoken had innocently betrayed her purity and truth to a
man who thoroughly understood the priceless value of a pure and true
woman. Her own noble conduct had been the hidden enemy, throughout, of
all the hopes she had trusted to it. I had dreaded this from the first.
I would have prevented it, if she had allowed me the smallest chance of
doing so. I even waited and watched now, when the harm was done, for a
word from Sir Percival that would give me the opportunity of putting
him in the wrong.

“You have left it to ME, Miss Fairlie, to resign you,” he continued. “I
am not heartless enough to resign a woman who has just shown herself to
be the noblest of her sex.”

He spoke with such warmth and feeling, with such passionate enthusiasm,
and yet with such perfect delicacy, that she raised her head, flushed
up a little, and looked at him with sudden animation and spirit.

“No!” she said firmly. “The most wretched of her sex, if she must give
herself in marriage when she cannot give her love.”

“May she not give it in the future,” he asked, “if the one object of
her husband’s life is to deserve it?”

“Never!” she answered. “If you still persist in maintaining our
engagement, I may be your true and faithful wife, Sir Percival—your
loving wife, if I know my own heart, never!”

She looked so irresistibly beautiful as she said those brave words that
no man alive could have steeled his heart against her. I tried hard to
feel that Sir Percival was to blame, and to say so, but my womanhood
would pity him, in spite of myself.

“I gratefully accept your faith and truth,” he said. “The least that
you can offer is more to me than the utmost that I could hope for from
any other woman in the world.”

Her left hand still held mine, but her right hand hung listlessly
at her side. He raised it gently to his lips—touched it with them,
rather than kissed it—bowed to me—and then, with perfect delicacy and
discretion, silently quitted the room.

She neither moved nor said a word when he was gone—she sat by me, cold
and still, with her eyes fixed on the ground. I saw it was hopeless and
useless to speak, and I only put my arm round her, and held her to me
in silence. We remained together so for what seemed a long and weary
time—so long and so weary, that I grew uneasy and spoke to her softly,
in the hope of producing a change.

The sound of my voice seemed to startle her into consciousness. She
suddenly drew herself away from me and rose to her feet.

“I must submit, Marian, as well as I can,” she said. “My new life has
its hard duties, and one of them begins to-day.”

As she spoke she went to a side-table near the window, on which her
sketching materials were placed, gathered them together carefully, and
put them in a drawer of her cabinet. She locked the drawer and brought
the key to me.

“I must part from everything that reminds me of him,” she said. “Keep
the key wherever you please—I shall never want it again.”

Before I could say a word she had turned away to her book-case, and had
taken from it the album that contained Walter Hartright’s drawings.
She hesitated for a moment, holding the little volume fondly in her
hands—then lifted it to her lips and kissed it.

“Oh, Laura! Laura!” I said, not angrily, not reprovingly—with nothing
but sorrow in my voice, and nothing but sorrow in my heart.

“It is the last time, Marian,” she pleaded. “I am bidding it good-bye
for ever.”

She laid the book on the table and drew out the comb that fastened her
hair. It fell, in its matchless beauty, over her back and shoulders,
and dropped round her, far below her waist. She separated one long,
thin lock from the rest, cut it off, and pinned it carefully, in the
form of a circle, on the first blank page of the album. The moment it
was fastened she closed the volume hurriedly, and placed it in my hands.

“You write to him and he writes to you,” she said. “While I am alive,
if he asks after me always tell him I am well, and never say I am
unhappy. Don’t distress him, Marian, for my sake, don’t distress him.
If I die first, promise you will give him this little book of his
drawings, with my hair in it. There can be no harm, when I am gone, in
telling him that I put it there with my own hands. And say—oh, Marian,
say for me, then, what I can never say for myself—say I loved him!”

She flung her arms round my neck, and whispered the last words in my
ear with a passionate delight in uttering them which it almost broke my
heart to hear. All the long restraint she had imposed on herself gave
way in that first last outburst of tenderness. She broke from me with
hysterical vehemence, and threw herself on the sofa in a paroxysm of
sobs and tears that shook her from head to foot.

I tried vainly to soothe her and reason with her—she was past being
soothed, and past being reasoned with. It was the sad, sudden end for
us two of this memorable day. When the fit had worn itself out she
was too exhausted to speak. She slumbered towards the afternoon, and
I put away the book of drawings so that she might not see it when she
woke. My face was calm, whatever my heart might be, when she opened
her eyes again and looked at me. We said no more to each other about
the distressing interview of the morning. Sir Percival’s name was not
mentioned. Walter Hartright was not alluded to again by either of us
for the remainder of the day.


10th.—Finding that she was composed and like herself this morning, I
returned to the painful subject of yesterday, for the sole purpose of
imploring her to let me speak to Sir Percival and Mr. Fairlie, more
plainly and strongly than she could speak to either of them herself,
about this lamentable marriage. She interposed, gently but firmly, in
the middle of my remonstrances.

“I left yesterday to decide,” she said; “and yesterday HAS decided. It
is too late to go back.”

Sir Percival spoke to me this afternoon about what had passed in
Laura’s room. He assured me that the unparalleled trust she had placed
in him had awakened such an answering conviction of her innocence
and integrity in his mind, that he was guiltless of having felt even
a moment’s unworthy jealousy, either at the time when he was in her
presence, or afterwards when he had withdrawn from it. Deeply as he
lamented the unfortunate attachment which had hindered the progress
he might otherwise have made in her esteem and regard, he firmly
believed that it had remained unacknowledged in the past, and that
it would remain, under all changes of circumstance which it was
possible to contemplate, unacknowledged in the future. This was his
absolute conviction; and the strongest proof he could give of it was
the assurance, which he now offered, that he felt no curiosity to
know whether the attachment was of recent date or not, or who had
been the object of it. His implicit confidence in Miss Fairlie made
him satisfied with what she had thought fit to say to him, and he was
honestly innocent of the slightest feeling of anxiety to hear more.

He waited after saying those words and looked at me. I was so conscious
of my unreasonable prejudice against him—so conscious of an unworthy
suspicion that he might be speculating on my impulsively answering the
very questions which he had just described himself as resolved not
to ask—that I evaded all reference to this part of the subject with
something like a feeling of confusion on my own part. At the same time
I was resolved not to lose even the smallest opportunity of trying
to plead Laura’s cause, and I told him boldly that I regretted his
generosity had not carried him one step farther, and induced him to
withdraw from the engagement altogether.

Here, again, he disarmed me by not attempting to defend himself. He
would merely beg me to remember the difference there was between his
allowing Miss Fairlie to give him up, which was a matter of submission
only, and his forcing himself to give up Miss Fairlie, which was,
in other words, asking him to be the suicide of his own hopes. Her
conduct of the day before had so strengthened the unchangeable love
and admiration of two long years, that all active contention against
those feelings, on his part, was henceforth entirely out of his power.
I must think him weak, selfish, unfeeling towards the very woman
whom he idolised, and he must bow to my opinion as resignedly as he
could—only putting it to me, at the same time, whether her future as
a single woman, pining under an unhappily placed attachment which she
could never acknowledge, could be said to promise her a much brighter
prospect than her future as the wife of a man who worshipped the very
ground she walked on? In the last case there was hope from time,
however slight it might be—in the first case, on her own showing, there
was no hope at all.

I answered him—more because my tongue is a woman’s, and must answer,
than because I had anything convincing to say. It was only too plain
that the course Laura had adopted the day before had offered him the
advantage if he chose to take it—and that he HAD chosen to take it.
I felt this at the time, and I feel it just as strongly now, while
I write these lines, in my own room. The one hope left is that his
motives really spring, as he says they do, from the irresistible
strength of his attachment to Laura.

Before I close my diary for to-night I must record that I wrote to-day,
in poor Hartright’s interest, to two of my mother’s old friends in
London—both men of influence and position. If they can do anything for
him, I am quite sure they will. Except Laura, I never was more anxious
about any one than I am now about Walter. All that has happened since
he left us has only increased my strong regard and sympathy for him.
I hope I am doing right in trying to help him to employment abroad—I
hope, most earnestly and anxiously, that it will end well.


11th.—Sir Percival had an interview with Mr. Fairlie, and I was sent
for to join them.

I found Mr. Fairlie greatly relieved at the prospect of the “family
worry” (as he was pleased to describe his niece’s marriage) being
settled at last. So far, I did not feel called on to say anything
to him about my own opinion, but when he proceeded, in his most
aggravatingly languid manner, to suggest that the time for the marriage
had better be settled next, in accordance with Sir Percival’s wishes,
I enjoyed the satisfaction of assailing Mr. Fairlie’s nerves with as
strong a protest against hurrying Laura’s decision as I could put into
words. Sir Percival immediately assured me that he felt the force of
my objection, and begged me to believe that the proposal had not been
made in consequence of any interference on his part. Mr. Fairlie leaned
back in his chair, closed his eyes, said we both of us did honour to
human nature, and then repeated his suggestion as coolly as if neither
Sir Percival nor I had said a word in opposition to it. It ended
in my flatly declining to mention the subject to Laura, unless she
first approached it of her own accord. I left the room at once after
making that declaration. Sir Percival looked seriously embarrassed
and distressed, Mr. Fairlie stretched out his lazy legs on his velvet
footstool, and said, “Dear Marian! how I envy you your robust nervous
system! Don’t bang the door!”

On going to Laura’s room I found that she had asked for me, and that
Mrs. Vesey had informed her that I was with Mr. Fairlie. She inquired
at once what I had been wanted for, and I told her all that had passed,
without attempting to conceal the vexation and annoyance that I really
felt. Her answer surprised and distressed me inexpressibly—it was the
very last reply that I should have expected her to make.

“My uncle is right,” she said. “I have caused trouble and anxiety
enough to you, and to all about me. Let me cause no more, Marian—let
Sir Percival decide.”

I remonstrated warmly, but nothing that I could say moved her.

“I am held to my engagement,” she replied; “I have broken with my old
life. The evil day will not come the less surely because I put it off.
No, Marian! once again my uncle is right. I have caused trouble enough
and anxiety enough, and I will cause no more.”

She used to be pliability itself, but she was now inflexibly passive
in her resignation—I might almost say in her despair. Dearly as I
love her, I should have been less pained if she had been violently
agitated—it was so shockingly unlike her natural character to see her
as cold and insensible as I saw her now.


12th.—Sir Percival put some questions to me at breakfast about Laura,
which left me no choice but to tell him what she had said.

While we were talking she herself came down and joined us. She was just
as unnaturally composed in Sir Percival’s presence as she had been in
mine. When breakfast was over he had an opportunity of saying a few
words to her privately, in a recess of one of the windows. They were
not more than two or three minutes together, and on their separating
she left the room with Mrs. Vesey, while Sir Percival came to me. He
said he had entreated her to favour him by maintaining her privilege of
fixing the time for the marriage at her own will and pleasure. In reply
she had merely expressed her acknowledgments, and had desired him to
mention what his wishes were to Miss Halcombe.

I have no patience to write more. In this instance, as in every
other, Sir Percival has carried his point with the utmost possible
credit to himself, in spite of everything that I can say or do. His
wishes are now, what they were, of course, when he first came here;
and Laura having resigned herself to the one inevitable sacrifice of
the marriage, remains as coldly hopeless and enduring as ever. In
parting with the little occupations and relics that reminded her of
Hartright, she seems to have parted with all her tenderness and all her
impressibility. It is only three o’clock in the afternoon while I write
these lines, and Sir Percival has left us already, in the happy hurry
of a bridegroom, to prepare for the bride’s reception at his house in
Hampshire. Unless some extraordinary event happens to prevent it they
will be married exactly at the time when he wished to be married—before
the end of the year. My very fingers burn as I write it!


13th.—A sleepless night, through uneasiness about Laura. Towards the
morning I came to a resolution to try what change of scene would
do to rouse her. She cannot surely remain in her present torpor of
insensibility, if I take her away from Limmeridge and surround her with
the pleasant faces of old friends? After some consideration I decided
on writing to the Arnolds, in Yorkshire. They are simple, kind-hearted,
hospitable people, and she has known them from her childhood. When I
had put the letter in the post-bag I told her what I had done. It would
have been a relief to me if she had shown the spirit to resist and
object. But no—she only said, “I will go anywhere with you, Marian. I
dare say you are right—I dare say the change will do me good.”


14th.—I wrote to Mr. Gilmore, informing him that there was really a
prospect of this miserable marriage taking place, and also mentioning
my idea of trying what change of scene would do for Laura. I had no
heart to go into particulars. Time enough for them when we get nearer
to the end of the year.


15th.—Three letters for me. The first, from the Arnolds, full of
delight at the prospect of seeing Laura and me. The second, from
one of the gentlemen to whom I wrote on Walter Hartright’s behalf,
informing me that he has been fortunate enough to find an opportunity
of complying with my request. The third, from Walter himself, thanking
me, poor fellow, in the warmest terms, for giving him an opportunity of
leaving his home, his country, and his friends. A private expedition
to make excavations among the ruined cities of Central America is,
it seems, about to sail from Liverpool. The draughtsman who had been
already appointed to accompany it has lost heart, and withdrawn at the
eleventh hour, and Walter is to fill his place. He is to be engaged
for six months certain, from the time of the landing in Honduras, and
for a year afterwards, if the excavations are successful, and if the
funds hold out. His letter ends with a promise to write me a farewell
line when they are all on board ship, and when the pilot leaves them.
I can only hope and pray earnestly that he and I are both acting in
this matter for the best. It seems such a serious step for him to take,
that the mere contemplation of it startles me. And yet, in his unhappy
position, how can I expect him or wish him to remain at home?


16th.—The carriage is at the door. Laura and I set out on our visit to
the Arnolds to-day.


POLESDEAN LODGE, YORKSHIRE.

23rd.—A week in these new scenes and among these kind-hearted people
has done her some good, though not so much as I had hoped. I have
resolved to prolong our stay for another week at least. It is useless
to go back to Limmeridge till there is an absolute necessity for our
return.


24th.—Sad news by this morning’s post. The expedition to Central
America sailed on the twenty-first. We have parted with a true man—we
have lost a faithful friend. Water Hartright has left England.


25th.—Sad news yesterday—ominous news to-day. Sir Percival Glyde has
written to Mr. Fairlie, and Mr. Fairlie has written to Laura and me, to
recall us to Limmeridge immediately.

What can this mean? Has the day for the marriage been fixed in our
absence?



II


LIMMERIDGE HOUSE.

November 27th.—My forebodings are realised. The marriage is fixed for
the twenty-second of December.

The day after we left for Polesdean Lodge Sir Percival wrote, it seems,
to Mr. Fairlie, to say that the necessary repairs and alterations in
his house in Hampshire would occupy a much longer time in completion
than he had originally anticipated. The proper estimates were to be
submitted to him as soon as possible, and it would greatly facilitate
his entering into definite arrangements with the workpeople, if
he could be informed of the exact period at which the wedding
ceremony might be expected to take place. He could then make all his
calculations in reference to time, besides writing the necessary
apologies to friends who had been engaged to visit him that winter, and
who could not, of course, be received when the house was in the hands
of the workmen.

To this letter Mr. Fairlie had replied by requesting Sir Percival
himself to suggest a day for the marriage, subject to Miss Fairlie’s
approval, which her guardian willingly undertook to do his best to
obtain. Sir Percival wrote back by the next post, and proposed (in
accordance with his own views and wishes from the first?) the latter
part of December—perhaps the twenty-second, or twenty-fourth, or any
other day that the lady and her guardian might prefer. The lady not
being at hand to speak for herself, her guardian had decided, in her
absence, on the earliest day mentioned—the twenty-second of December,
and had written to recall us to Limmeridge in consequence.

After explaining these particulars to me at a private interview
yesterday, Mr. Fairlie suggested, in his most amiable manner, that I
should open the necessary negotiations to-day. Feeling that resistance
was useless, unless I could first obtain Laura’s authority to make
it, I consented to speak to her, but declared, at the same time,
that I would on no consideration undertake to gain her consent to
Sir Percival’s wishes. Mr. Fairlie complimented me on my “excellent
conscience,” much as he would have complimented me, if he had been
out walking, on my “excellent constitution,” and seemed perfectly
satisfied, so far, with having simply shifted one more family
responsibility from his own shoulders to mine.

This morning I spoke to Laura as I had promised. The composure—I
may almost say, the insensibility—which she has so strangely and so
resolutely maintained ever since Sir Percival left us, was not proof
against the shock of the news I had to tell her. She turned pale and
trembled violently.

“Not so soon!” she pleaded. “Oh, Marian, not so soon!”

The slightest hint she could give was enough for me. I rose to leave
the room, and fight her battle for her at once with Mr. Fairlie.

Just as my hand was on the door, she caught fast hold of my dress and
stopped me.

“Let me go!” I said. “My tongue burns to tell your uncle that he and
Sir Percival are not to have it all their own way.”

She sighed bitterly, and still held my dress.

“No!” she said faintly. “Too late, Marian, too late!”

“Not a minute too late,” I retorted. “The question of time is OUR
question—and trust me, Laura, to take a woman’s full advantage of it.”

I unclasped her hand from my gown while I spoke; but she slipped
both her arms round my waist at the same moment, and held me more
effectually than ever.

“It will only involve us in more trouble and more confusion,” she said.
“It will set you and my uncle at variance, and bring Sir Percival here
again with fresh causes of complaint—”

“So much the better!” I cried out passionately. “Who cares for his
causes of complaint? Are you to break your heart to set his mind at
ease? No man under heaven deserves these sacrifices from us women. Men!
They are the enemies of our innocence and our peace—they drag us away
from our parents’ love and our sisters’ friendship—they take us body
and soul to themselves, and fasten our helpless lives to theirs as they
chain up a dog to his kennel. And what does the best of them give us in
return? Let me go, Laura—I’m mad when I think of it!”

The tears—miserable, weak, women’s tears of vexation and rage—started
to my eyes. She smiled sadly, and put her handkerchief over my face to
hide for me the betrayal of my own weakness—the weakness of all others
which she knew that I most despised.

“Oh, Marian!” she said. “You crying! Think what you would say to me,
if the places were changed, and if those tears were mine. All your
love and courage and devotion will not alter what must happen, sooner
or later. Let my uncle have his way. Let us have no more troubles and
heart-burnings that any sacrifice of mine can prevent. Say you will
live with me, Marian, when I am married—and say no more.”

But I did say more. I forced back the contemptible tears that were no
relief to ME, and that only distressed HER, and reasoned and pleaded
as calmly as I could. It was of no avail. She made me twice repeat the
promise to live with her when she was married, and then suddenly asked
a question which turned my sorrow and my sympathy for her into a new
direction.

“While we were at Polesdean,” she said, “you had a letter, Marian——”

Her altered tone—the abrupt manner in which she looked away from me and
hid her face on my shoulder—the hesitation which silenced her before
she had completed her question, all told me, but too plainly, to whom
the half-expressed inquiry pointed.

“I thought, Laura, that you and I were never to refer to him again,” I
said gently.

“You had a letter from him?” she persisted.

“Yes,” I replied, “if you must know it.”

“Do you mean to write to him again?”

I hesitated. I had been afraid to tell her of his absence from England,
or of the manner in which my exertions to serve his new hopes and
projects had connected me with his departure. What answer could I make?
He was gone where no letters could reach him for months, perhaps for
years, to come.

“Suppose I do mean to write to him again,” I said at last. “What then,
Laura?”

Her cheek grew burning hot against my neck, and her arms trembled and
tightened round me.

“Don’t tell him about THE TWENTY-SECOND,” she whispered. “Promise,
Marian—pray promise you will not even mention my name to him when you
write next.”

I gave the promise. No words can say how sorrowfully I gave it. She
instantly took her arm from my waist, walked away to the window, and
stood looking out with her back to me. After a moment she spoke once
more, but without turning round, without allowing me to catch the
smallest glimpse of her face.

“Are you going to my uncle’s room?” she asked. “Will you say that I
consent to whatever arrangement he may think best? Never mind leaving
me, Marian. I shall be better alone for a little while.”

I went out. If, as soon as I got into the passage, I could have
transported Mr. Fairlie and Sir Percival Glyde to the uttermost ends
of the earth by lifting one of my fingers, that finger would have been
raised without an instant’s hesitation. For once my unhappy temper now
stood my friend. I should have broken down altogether and burst into
a violent fit of crying, if my tears had not been all burnt up in the
heat of my anger. As it was, I dashed into Mr. Fairlie’s room—called to
him as harshly as possible, “Laura consents to the twenty-second”—and
dashed out again without waiting for a word of answer. I banged the
door after me, and I hope I shattered Mr. Fairlie’s nervous system for
the rest of the day.


28th.—This morning I read poor Hartright’s farewell letter over again,
a doubt having crossed my mind since yesterday, whether I am acting
wisely in concealing the fact of his departure from Laura.

On reflection, I still think I am right. The allusions in his letter
to the preparations made for the expedition to Central America, all
show that the leaders of it know it to be dangerous. If the discovery
of this makes me uneasy, what would it make HER? It is bad enough to
feel that his departure has deprived us of the friend of all others to
whose devotion we could trust in the hour of need, if ever that hour
comes and finds us helpless; but it is far worse to know that he has
gone from us to face the perils of a bad climate, a wild country, and a
disturbed population. Surely it would be a cruel candour to tell Laura
this, without a pressing and a positive necessity for it?

I almost doubt whether I ought not to go a step farther, and burn the
letter at once, for fear of its one day falling into wrong hands. It
not only refers to Laura in terms which ought to remain a secret for
ever between the writer and me, but it reiterates his suspicion—so
obstinate, so unaccountable, and so alarming—that he has been secretly
watched since he left Limmeridge. He declares that he saw the faces
of the two strange men who followed him about the streets of London,
watching him among the crowd which gathered at Liverpool to see the
expedition embark, and he positively asserts that he heard the name of
Anne Catherick pronounced behind him as he got into the boat. His own
words are, “These events have a meaning, these events must lead to a
result. The mystery of Anne Catherick is NOT cleared up yet. She may
never cross my path again, but if ever she crosses yours, make better
use of the opportunity, Miss Halcombe, than I made of it. I speak on
strong conviction—I entreat you to remember what I say.” These are his
own expressions. There is no danger of my forgetting them—my memory is
only too ready to dwell on any words of Hartright’s that refer to Anne
Catherick. But there is danger in my keeping the letter. The merest
accident might place it at the mercy of strangers. I may fall ill—I may
die. Better to burn it at once, and have one anxiety the less.

It is burnt. The ashes of his farewell letter—the last he may ever
write to me—lie in a few black fragments on the hearth. Is this the sad
end to all that sad story? Oh, not the end—surely, surely not the end
already!


29th.—The preparations for the marriage have begun. The dressmaker has
come to receive her orders. Laura is perfectly impassive, perfectly
careless about the question of all others in which a woman’s personal
interests are most closely bound up. She has left it all to the
dressmaker and to me. If poor Hartright had been the baronet, and the
husband of her father’s choice, how differently she would have behaved!
How anxious and capricious she would have been, and what a hard task
the best of dressmakers would have found it to please her!


30th.—We hear every day from Sir Percival. The last news is that
the alterations in his house will occupy from four to six months
before they can be properly completed. If painters, paperhangers, and
upholsterers could make happiness as well as splendour, I should be
interested about their proceedings in Laura’s future home. As it is,
the only part of Sir Percival’s last letter which does not leave me
as it found me, perfectly indifferent to all his plans and projects,
is the part which refers to the wedding tour. He proposes, as Laura
is delicate, and as the winter threatens to be unusually severe, to
take her to Rome, and to remain in Italy until the early part of next
summer. If this plan should not be approved, he is equally ready,
although he has no establishment of his own in town, to spend the
season in London, in the most suitable furnished house that can be
obtained for the purpose.

Putting myself and my own feelings entirely out of the question (which
it is my duty to do, and which I have done), I, for one, have no doubt
of the propriety of adopting the first of these proposals. In either
case a separation between Laura and me is inevitable. It will be a
longer separation, in the event of their going abroad, than it would be
in the event of their remaining in London—but we must set against this
disadvantage the benefit to Laura, on the other side, of passing the
winter in a mild climate, and more than that, the immense assistance in
raising her spirits, and reconciling her to her new existence, which
the mere wonder and excitement of travelling for the first time in her
life in the most interesting country in the world, must surely afford.
She is not of a disposition to find resources in the conventional
gaieties and excitements of London. They would only make the first
oppression of this lamentable marriage fall the heavier on her. I dread
the beginning of her new life more than words can tell, but I see some
hope for her if she travels—none if she remains at home.

It is strange to look back at this latest entry in my journal, and to
find that I am writing of the marriage and the parting with Laura, as
people write of a settled thing. It seems so cold and so unfeeling to
be looking at the future already in this cruelly composed way. But what
other way is possible, now that the time is drawing so near? Before
another month is over our heads she will be HIS Laura instead of mine!
HIS Laura! I am as little able to realise the idea which those two
words convey—my mind feels almost as dulled and stunned by it—as if
writing of her marriage were like writing of her death.


December 1st.—A sad, sad day—a day that I have no heart to describe at
any length. After weakly putting it off last night, I was obliged to
speak to her this morning of Sir Percival’s proposal about the wedding
tour.

In the full conviction that I should be with her wherever she went,
the poor child—for a child she is still in many things—was almost
happy at the prospect of seeing the wonders of Florence and Rome and
Naples. It nearly broke my heart to dispel her delusion, and to bring
her face to face with the hard truth. I was obliged to tell her that no
man tolerates a rival—not even a woman rival—in his wife’s affections,
when he first marries, whatever he may do afterwards. I was obliged to
warn her that my chance of living with her permanently under her own
roof, depended entirely on my not arousing Sir Percival’s jealousy and
distrust by standing between them at the beginning of their marriage,
in the position of the chosen depositary of his wife’s closest secrets.
Drop by drop I poured the profaning bitterness of this world’s wisdom
into that pure heart and that innocent mind, while every higher and
better feeling within me recoiled from my miserable task. It is over
now. She has learnt her hard, her inevitable lesson. The simple
illusions of her girlhood are gone, and my hand has stripped them off.
Better mine than his—that is all my consolation—better mine than his.

So the first proposal is the proposal accepted. They are to go to
Italy, and I am to arrange, with Sir Percival’s permission, for meeting
them and staying with them when they return to England. In other words,
I am to ask a personal favour, for the first time in my life, and to
ask it of the man of all others to whom I least desire to owe a serious
obligation of any kind. Well! I think I could do even more than that,
for Laura’s sake.


2nd.—On looking back, I find myself always referring to Sir Percival in
disparaging terms. In the turn affairs have now taken, I must and will
root out my prejudice against him. I cannot think how it first got into
my mind. It certainly never existed in former times.

Is it Laura’s reluctance to become his wife that has set me against
him? Have Hartright’s perfectly intelligible prejudices infected
me without my suspecting their influence? Does that letter of Anne
Catherick’s still leave a lurking distrust in my mind, in spite of Sir
Percival’s explanation, and of the proof in my possession of the truth
of it? I cannot account for the state of my own feelings; the one thing
I am certain of is, that it is my duty—doubly my duty now—not to wrong
Sir Percival by unjustly distrusting him. If it has got to be a habit
with me always to write of him in the same unfavourable manner, I must
and will break myself of this unworthy tendency, even though the effort
should force me to close the pages of my journal till the marriage is
over! I am seriously dissatisfied with myself—I will write no more
to-day.


December 16th.—A whole fortnight has passed, and I have not once opened
these pages. I have been long enough away from my journal to come back
to it with a healthier and better mind, I hope, so far as Sir Percival
is concerned.

There is not much to record of the past two weeks. The dresses are
almost all finished, and the new travelling trunks have been sent here
from London. Poor dear Laura hardly leaves me for a moment all day, and
last night, when neither of us could sleep, she came and crept into my
bed to talk to me there. “I shall lose you so soon, Marian,” she said;
“I must make the most of you while I can.”

They are to be married at Limmeridge Church, and thank Heaven, not one
of the neighbours is to be invited to the ceremony. The only visitor
will be our old friend, Mr. Arnold, who is to come from Polesdean to
give Laura away, her uncle being far too delicate to trust himself
outside the door in such inclement weather as we now have. If I were
not determined, from this day forth, to see nothing but the bright
side of our prospects, the melancholy absence of any male relative of
Laura’s, at the most important moment of her life, would make me very
gloomy and very distrustful of the future. But I have done with gloom
and distrust—that is to say, I have done with writing about either the
one or the other in this journal.

Sir Percival is to arrive to-morrow. He offered, in case we wished
to treat him on terms of rigid etiquette, to write and ask our
clergyman to grant him the hospitality of the rectory, during the
short period of his sojourn at Limmeridge, before the marriage.
Under the circumstances, neither Mr. Fairlie nor I thought it at all
necessary for us to trouble ourselves about attending to trifling
forms and ceremonies. In our wild moorland country, and in this great
lonely house, we may well claim to be beyond the reach of the trivial
conventionalities which hamper people in other places. I wrote to Sir
Percival to thank him for his polite offer, and to beg that he would
occupy his old rooms, just as usual, at Limmeridge House.


17th.—He arrived to-day, looking, as I thought, a little worn and
anxious, but still talking and laughing like a man in the best possible
spirits. He brought with him some really beautiful presents in
jewellery, which Laura received with her best grace, and, outwardly at
least, with perfect self-possession. The only sign I can detect of the
struggle it must cost her to preserve appearances at this trying time,
expresses itself in a sudden unwillingness, on her part, ever to be
left alone. Instead of retreating to her own room, as usual, she seems
to dread going there. When I went upstairs to-day, after lunch, to put
on my bonnet for a walk, she volunteered to join me, and again, before
dinner, she threw the door open between our two rooms, so that we
might talk to each other while we were dressing. “Keep me always doing
something,” she said; “keep me always in company with somebody. Don’t
let me think—that is all I ask now, Marian—don’t let me think.”

This sad change in her only increases her attractions for Sir Percival.
He interprets it, I can see, to his own advantage. There is a feverish
flush in her cheeks, a feverish brightness in her eyes, which he
welcomes as the return of her beauty and the recovery of her spirits.
She talked to-day at dinner with a gaiety and carelessness so false, so
shockingly out of her character, that I secretly longed to silence her
and take her away. Sir Percival’s delight and surprise appeared to be
beyond all expression. The anxiety which I had noticed on his face when
he arrived totally disappeared from it, and he looked, even to my eyes,
a good ten years younger than he really is.

There can be no doubt—though some strange perversity prevents me from
seeing it myself—there can be no doubt that Laura’s future husband is
a very handsome man. Regular features form a personal advantage to
begin with—and he has them. Bright brown eyes, either in man or woman,
are a great attraction—and he has them. Even baldness, when it is only
baldness over the forehead (as in his case), is rather becoming than
not in a man, for it heightens the head and adds to the intelligence
of the face. Grace and ease of movement, untiring animation of manner,
ready, pliant, conversational powers—all these are unquestionable
merits, and all these he certainly possesses. Surely Mr. Gilmore,
ignorant as he is of Laura’s secret, was not to blame for feeling
surprised that she should repent of her marriage engagement? Any one
else in his place would have shared our good old friend’s opinion.
If I were asked, at this moment, to say plainly what defects I have
discovered in Sir Percival, I could only point out two. One, his
incessant restlessness and excitability—which may be caused, naturally
enough, by unusual energy of character. The other, his short, sharp,
ill-tempered manner of speaking to the servants—which may be only a bad
habit after all. No, I cannot dispute it, and I will not dispute it—Sir
Percival is a very handsome and a very agreeable man. There! I have
written it down at last, and I am glad it’s over.


18th.—Feeling weary and depressed this morning, I left Laura with Mrs.
Vesey, and went out alone for one of my brisk midday walks, which I
have discontinued too much of late. I took the dry airy road over the
moor that leads to Todd’s Corner. After having been out half an hour,
I was excessively surprised to see Sir Percival approaching me from
the direction of the farm. He was walking rapidly, swinging his stick,
his head erect as usual, and his shooting jacket flying open in the
wind. When we met he did not wait for me to ask any questions—he told
me at once that he had been to the farm to inquire if Mr. or Mrs. Todd
had received any tidings, since his last visit to Limmeridge, of Anne
Catherick.

“You found, of course, that they had heard nothing?” I said.

“Nothing whatever,” he replied. “I begin to be seriously afraid that we
have lost her. Do you happen to know,” he continued, looking me in the
face very attentively “if the artist—Mr. Hartright—is in a position to
give us any further information?”

“He has neither heard of her, nor seen her, since he left Cumberland,”
I answered.

“Very sad,” said Sir Percival, speaking like a man who was
disappointed, and yet, oddly enough, looking at the same time like a
man who was relieved. “It is impossible to say what misfortunes may not
have happened to the miserable creature. I am inexpressibly annoyed at
the failure of all my efforts to restore her to the care and protection
which she so urgently needs.”

This time he really looked annoyed. I said a few sympathising words,
and we then talked of other subjects on our way back to the house.
Surely my chance meeting with him on the moor has disclosed another
favourable trait in his character? Surely it was singularly considerate
and unselfish of him to think of Anne Catherick on the eve of his
marriage, and to go all the way to Todd’s Corner to make inquiries
about her, when he might have passed the time so much more agreeably in
Laura’s society? Considering that he can only have acted from motives
of pure charity, his conduct, under the circumstances, shows unusual
good feeling and deserves extraordinary praise. Well! I give him
extraordinary praise—and there’s an end of it.


19th.—More discoveries in the inexhaustible mine of Sir Percival’s
virtues.

To-day I approached the subject of my proposed sojourn under his wife’s
roof when he brings her back to England. I had hardly dropped my first
hint in this direction before he caught me warmly by the hand, and said
I had made the very offer to him which he had been, on his side, most
anxious to make to me. I was the companion of all others whom he most
sincerely longed to secure for his wife, and he begged me to believe
that I had conferred a lasting favour on him by making the proposal to
live with Laura after her marriage, exactly as I had always lived with
her before it.

When I had thanked him in her name and mine for his considerate
kindness to both of us, we passed next to the subject of his wedding
tour, and began to talk of the English society in Rome to which Laura
was to be introduced. He ran over the names of several friends whom he
expected to meet abroad this winter. They were all English, as well as
I can remember, with one exception. The one exception was Count Fosco.

The mention of the Count’s name, and the discovery that he and his wife
are likely to meet the bride and bridegroom on the continent, puts
Laura’s marriage, for the first time, in a distinctly favourable light.
It is likely to be the means of healing a family feud. Hitherto Madame
Fosco has chosen to forget her obligations as Laura’s aunt out of sheer
spite against the late Mr. Fairlie for his conduct in the affair of
the legacy. Now however, she can persist in this course of conduct no
longer. Sir Percival and Count Fosco are old and fast friends, and
their wives will have no choice but to meet on civil terms. Madame
Fosco in her maiden days was one of the most impertinent women I
ever met with—capricious, exacting, and vain to the last degree of
absurdity. If her husband has succeeded in bringing her to her senses,
he deserves the gratitude of every member of the family, and he may
have mine to begin with.

I am becoming anxious to know the Count. He is the most intimate friend
of Laura’s husband, and in that capacity he excites my strongest
interest. Neither Laura nor I have ever seen him. All I know of him is
that his accidental presence, years ago, on the steps of the Trinita
del Monte at Rome, assisted Sir Percival’s escape from robbery and
assassination at the critical moment when he was wounded in the hand,
and might the next instant have been wounded in the heart. I remember
also that, at the time of the late Mr. Fairlie’s absurd objections
to his sister’s marriage, the Count wrote him a very temperate and
sensible letter on the subject, which, I am ashamed to say, remained
unanswered. This is all I know of Sir Percival’s friend. I wonder if he
will ever come to England? I wonder if I shall like him?

My pen is running away into mere speculation. Let me return to sober
matter of fact. It is certain that Sir Percival’s reception of my
venturesome proposal to live with his wife was more than kind, it was
almost affectionate. I am sure Laura’s husband will have no reason to
complain of me if I can only go on as I have begun. I have already
declared him to be handsome, agreeable, full of good feeling towards
the unfortunate and full of affectionate kindness towards me. Really, I
hardly know myself again, in my new character of Sir Percival’s warmest
friend.


20th.—I hate Sir Percival! I flatly deny his good looks. I consider
him to be eminently ill-tempered and disagreeable, and totally wanting
in kindness and good feeling. Last night the cards for the married
couple were sent home. Laura opened the packet and saw her future name
in print for the first time. Sir Percival looked over her shoulder
familiarly at the new card which had already transformed Miss Fairlie
into Lady Glyde—smiled with the most odious self-complacency, and
whispered something in her ear. I don’t know what it was—Laura has
refused to tell me—but I saw her face turn to such a deadly whiteness
that I thought she would have fainted. He took no notice of the
change—he seemed to be barbarously unconscious that he had said
anything to pain her. All my old feelings of hostility towards him
revived on the instant, and all the hours that have passed since have
done nothing to dissipate them. I am more unreasonable and more unjust
than ever. In three words—how glibly my pen writes them!—in three
words, I hate him.


21st.—Have the anxieties of this anxious time shaken me a little, at
last? I have been writing, for the last few days, in a tone of levity
which, Heaven knows, is far enough from my heart, and which it has
rather shocked me to discover on looking back at the entries in my
journal.

Perhaps I may have caught the feverish excitement of Laura’s spirits
for the last week. If so, the fit has already passed away from me,
and has left me in a very strange state of mind. A persistent idea
has been forcing itself on my attention, ever since last night, that
something will yet happen to prevent the marriage. What has produced
this singular fancy? Is it the indirect result of my apprehensions
for Laura’s future? Or has it been unconsciously suggested to me by
the increasing restlessness and irritability which I have certainly
observed in Sir Percival’s manner as the wedding-day draws nearer and
nearer? Impossible to say. I know that I have the idea—surely the
wildest idea, under the circumstances, that ever entered a woman’s
head?—but try as I may, I cannot trace it back to its source.

This last day has been all confusion and wretchedness. How can I write
about it?—and yet, I must write. Anything is better than brooding over
my own gloomy thoughts.

Kind Mrs. Vesey, whom we have all too much overlooked and forgotten
of late, innocently caused us a sad morning to begin with. She has
been, for months past, secretly making a warm Shetland shawl for her
dear pupil—a most beautiful and surprising piece of work to be done by
a woman at her age and with her habits. The gift was presented this
morning, and poor warm-hearted Laura completely broke down when the
shawl was put proudly on her shoulders by the loving old friend and
guardian of her motherless childhood. I was hardly allowed time to
quiet them both, or even to dry my own eyes, when I was sent for by Mr.
Fairlie, to be favoured with a long recital of his arrangements for the
preservation of his own tranquillity on the wedding-day.

“Dear Laura” was to receive his present—a shabby ring, with her
affectionate uncle’s hair for an ornament, instead of a precious
stone, and with a heartless French inscription inside, about congenial
sentiments and eternal friendship—“dear Laura” was to receive this
tender tribute from my hands immediately, so that she might have plenty
of time to recover from the agitation produced by the gift before she
appeared in Mr. Fairlie’s presence. “Dear Laura” was to pay him a
little visit that evening, and to be kind enough not to make a scene.
“Dear Laura” was to pay him another little visit in her wedding-dress
the next morning, and to be kind enough, again, not to make a scene.
“Dear Laura” was to look in once more, for the third time, before
going away, but without harrowing his feelings by saying WHEN she was
going away, and without tears—“in the name of pity, in the name of
everything, dear Marian, that is most affectionate and most domestic,
and most delightfully and charmingly self-composed, WITHOUT TEARS!” I
was so exasperated by this miserable selfish trifling, at such a time,
that I should certainly have shocked Mr. Fairlie by some of the hardest
and rudest truths he has ever heard in his life, if the arrival of Mr.
Arnold from Polesdean had not called me away to new duties downstairs.

The rest of the day is indescribable. I believe no one in the house
really knew how it passed. The confusion of small events, all huddled
together one on the other, bewildered everybody. There were dresses
sent home that had been forgotten—there were trunks to be packed
and unpacked and packed again—there were presents from friends far
and near, friends high and low. We were all needlessly hurried, all
nervously expectant of the morrow. Sir Percival, especially, was too
restless now to remain five minutes together in the same place. That
short, sharp cough of his troubled him more than ever. He was in and
out of doors all day long, and he seemed to grow so inquisitive on a
sudden, that he questioned the very strangers who came on small errands
to the house. Add to all this, the one perpetual thought in Laura’s
mind and mine, that we were to part the next day, and the haunting
dread, unexpressed by either of us, and yet ever present to both, that
this deplorable marriage might prove to be the one fatal error of her
life and the one hopeless sorrow of mine. For the first time in all the
years of our close and happy intercourse we almost avoided looking each
other in the face, and we refrained, by common consent, from speaking
together in private through the whole evening. I can dwell on it no
longer. Whatever future sorrows may be in store for me, I shall always
look back on this twenty-first of December as the most comfortless and
most miserable day of my life.

I am writing these lines in the solitude of my own room, long after
midnight, having just come back from a stolen look at Laura in her
pretty little white bed—the bed she has occupied since the days of her
girlhood.

There she lay, unconscious that I was looking at her—quiet, more
quiet than I had dared to hope, but not sleeping. The glimmer of the
night-light showed me that her eyes were only partially closed—the
traces of tears glistened between her eyelids. My little keepsake—only
a brooch—lay on the table at her bedside, with her prayer-book, and the
miniature portrait of her father which she takes with her wherever she
goes. I waited a moment, looking at her from behind her pillow, as she
lay beneath me, with one arm and hand resting on the white coverlid, so
still, so quietly breathing, that the frill on her night-dress never
moved—I waited, looking at her, as I have seen her thousands of times,
as I shall never see her again—and then stole back to my room. My own
love! with all your wealth, and all your beauty, how friendless you
are! The one man who would give his heart’s life to serve you is far
away, tossing, this stormy night, on the awful sea. Who else is left to
you? No father, no brother—no living creature but the helpless, useless
woman who writes these sad lines, and watches by you for the morning,
in sorrow that she cannot compose, in doubt that she cannot conquer.
Oh, what a trust is to be placed in that man’s hands to-morrow! If ever
he forgets it—if ever he injures a hair of her head!——


THE TWENTY-SECOND OF DECEMBER. Seven o’clock. A wild, unsettled
morning. She has just risen—better and calmer, now that the time has
come, than she was yesterday.



Ten o’clock. She is dressed. We have kissed each other—we have promised
each other not to lose courage. I am away for a moment in my own room.
In the whirl and confusion of my thoughts, I can detect that strange
fancy of some hindrance happening to stop the marriage still hanging
about my mind. Is it hanging about HIS mind too? I see him from the
window, moving hither and thither uneasily among the carriages at the
door.—How can I write such folly! The marriage is a certainty. In less
than half an hour we start for the church.


Eleven o’clock. It is all over. They are married.


Three o’clock. They are gone! I am blind with crying—I can write no
more——

*    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *

[The First Epoch of the Story closes here.]



THE SECOND EPOCH

THE STORY CONTINUED BY MARIAN HALCOMBE.



I

BLACKWATER PARK, HAMPSHIRE.


June 11th, 1850.—Six months to look back on—six long, lonely months
since Laura and I last saw each other!

How many days have I still to wait? Only one! To-morrow, the twelfth,
the travellers return to England. I can hardly realise my own
happiness—I can hardly believe that the next four-and-twenty hours will
complete the last day of separation between Laura and me.

She and her husband have been in Italy all the winter, and afterwards
in the Tyrol. They come back, accompanied by Count Fosco and his wife,
who propose to settle somewhere in the neighbourhood of London, and who
have engaged to stay at Blackwater Park for the summer months before
deciding on a place of residence. So long as Laura returns, no matter
who returns with her. Sir Percival may fill the house from floor to
ceiling, if he likes, on condition that his wife and I inhabit it
together.

Meanwhile, here I am, established at Blackwater Park, “the ancient and
interesting seat” (as the county history obligingly informs me) “of
Sir Percival Glyde, Bart.,” and the future abiding-place (as I may now
venture to add on my account) of plain Marian Halcombe, spinster, now
settled in a snug little sitting-room, with a cup of tea by her side,
and all her earthly possessions ranged round her in three boxes and a
bag.

I left Limmeridge yesterday, having received Laura’s delightful letter
from Paris the day before. I had been previously uncertain whether
I was to meet them in London or in Hampshire, but this last letter
informed me that Sir Percival proposed to land at Southampton, and to
travel straight on to his country-house. He has spent so much money
abroad that he has none left to defray the expenses of living in London
for the remainder of the season, and he is economically resolved to
pass the summer and autumn quietly at Blackwater. Laura has had more
than enough of excitement and change of scene, and is pleased at the
prospect of country tranquillity and retirement which her husband’s
prudence provides for her. As for me, I am ready to be happy anywhere
in her society. We are all, therefore, well contented in our various
ways, to begin with.

Last night I slept in London, and was delayed there so long to-day by
various calls and commissions, that I did not reach Blackwater this
evening till after dusk.

Judging by my vague impressions of the place thus far, it is the exact
opposite of Limmeridge.

The house is situated on a dead flat, and seems to be shut in—almost
suffocated, to my north-country notions, by trees. I have seen nobody
but the man-servant who opened the door to me, and the housekeeper, a
very civil person, who showed me the way to my own room, and got me my
tea. I have a nice little boudoir and bedroom, at the end of a long
passage on the first floor. The servants and some of the spare rooms
are on the second floor, and all the living rooms are on the ground
floor. I have not seen one of them yet, and I know nothing about the
house, except that one wing of it is said to be five hundred years
old, that it had a moat round it once, and that it gets its name of
Blackwater from a lake in the park.

Eleven o’clock has just struck, in a ghostly and solemn manner, from
a turret over the centre of the house, which I saw when I came in. A
large dog has been woke, apparently by the sound of the bell, and is
howling and yawning drearily, somewhere round a corner. I hear echoing
footsteps in the passages below, and the iron thumping of bolts and
bars at the house door. The servants are evidently going to bed. Shall
I follow their example?

No, I am not half sleepy enough. Sleepy, did I say? I feel as if I
should never close my eyes again. The bare anticipation of seeing that
dear face, and hearing that well-known voice to-morrow, keeps me in a
perpetual fever of excitement. If I only had the privileges of a man, I
would order out Sir Percival’s best horse instantly, and tear away on
a night-gallop, eastward, to meet the rising sun—a long, hard, heavy,
ceaseless gallop of hours and hours, like the famous highwayman’s ride
to York. Being, however, nothing but a woman, condemned to patience,
propriety, and petticoats for life, I must respect the house-keeper’s
opinions, and try to compose myself in some feeble and feminine way.

Reading is out of the question—I can’t fix my attention on books. Let
me try if I can write myself into sleepiness and fatigue. My journal
has been very much neglected of late. What can I recall—standing, as
I now do, on the threshold of a new life—of persons and events, of
chances and changes, during the past six months—the long, weary, empty
interval since Laura’s wedding-day?


Walter Hartright is uppermost in my memory, and he passes first in
the shadowy procession of my absent friends. I received a few lines
from him, after the landing of the expedition in Honduras, written
more cheerfully and hopefully than he has written yet. A month or six
weeks later I saw an extract from an American newspaper, describing the
departure of the adventurers on their inland journey. They were last
seen entering a wild primeval forest, each man with his rifle on his
shoulder and his baggage at his back. Since that time, civilisation has
lost all trace of them. Not a line more have I received from Walter,
not a fragment of news from the expedition has appeared in any of the
public journals.

The same dense, disheartening obscurity hangs over the fate and
fortunes of Anne Catherick, and her companion, Mrs. Clements. Nothing
whatever has been heard of either of them. Whether they are in the
country or out of it, whether they are living or dead, no one knows.
Even Sir Percival’s solicitor has lost all hope, and has ordered the
useless search after the fugitives to be finally given up.

Our good old friend Mr. Gilmore has met with a sad check in his active
professional career. Early in the spring we were alarmed by hearing
that he had been found insensible at his desk, and that the seizure
was pronounced to be an apoplectic fit. He had been long complaining
of fulness and oppression in the head, and his doctor had warned him
of the consequences that would follow his persistency in continuing to
work, early and late, as if he were still a young man. The result now
is that he has been positively ordered to keep out of his office for a
year to come, at least, and to seek repose of body and relief of mind
by altogether changing his usual mode of life. The business is left,
accordingly, to be carried on by his partner, and he is himself, at
this moment, away in Germany, visiting some relations who are settled
there in mercantile pursuits. Thus another true friend and trustworthy
adviser is lost to us—lost, I earnestly hope and trust, for a time only.

Poor Mrs. Vesey travelled with me as far as London. It was impossible
to abandon her to solitude at Limmeridge after Laura and I had both
left the house, and we have arranged that she is to live with an
unmarried younger sister of hers, who keeps a school at Clapham. She
is to come here this autumn to visit her pupil—I might almost say her
adopted child. I saw the good old lady safe to her destination, and
left her in the care of her relative, quietly happy at the prospect of
seeing Laura again in a few months’ time.

As for Mr. Fairlie, I believe I am guilty of no injustice if I describe
him as being unutterably relieved by having the house clear of us
women. The idea of his missing his niece is simply preposterous—he
used to let months pass in the old times without attempting to see
her—and in my case and Mrs. Vesey’s, I take leave to consider his
telling us both that he was half heart-broken at our departure, to
be equivalent to a confession that he was secretly rejoiced to get
rid of us. His last caprice has led him to keep two photographers
incessantly employed in producing sun-pictures of all the treasures
and curiosities in his possession. One complete copy of the collection
of the photographs is to be presented to the Mechanics’ Institution of
Carlisle, mounted on the finest cardboard, with ostentatious red-letter
inscriptions underneath, “Madonna and Child by Raphael. In the
possession of Frederick Fairlie, Esquire.” “Copper coin of the period
of Tiglath Pileser. In the possession of Frederick Fairlie, Esquire.”
“Unique Rembrandt etching. Known all over Europe as THE SMUDGE, from a
printer’s blot in the corner which exists in no other copy. Valued at
three hundred guineas. In the possession of Frederick Fairlie, Esq.”
Dozens of photographs of this sort, and all inscribed in this manner,
were completed before I left Cumberland, and hundreds more remain to
be done. With this new interest to occupy him, Mr. Fairlie will be
a happy man for months and months to come, and the two unfortunate
photographers will share the social martyrdom which he has hitherto
inflicted on his valet alone.

So much for the persons and events which hold the foremost place in my
memory. What next of the one person who holds the foremost place in
my heart? Laura has been present to my thoughts all the while I have
been writing these lines. What can I recall of her during the past six
months, before I close my journal for the night?

I have only her letters to guide me, and on the most important of all
the questions which our correspondence can discuss, every one of those
letters leaves me in the dark.

Does he treat her kindly? Is she happier now than she was when I parted
with her on the wedding-day? All my letters have contained these two
inquiries, put more or less directly, now in one form, and now in
another, and all, on that point only, have remained without reply, or
have been answered as if my questions merely related to the state of
her health. She informs me, over and over again, that she is perfectly
well—that travelling agrees with her—that she is getting through the
winter, for the first time in her life, without catching cold—but not a
word can I find anywhere which tells me plainly that she is reconciled
to her marriage, and that she can now look back to the twenty-second
of December without any bitter feelings of repentance and regret. The
name of her husband is only mentioned in her letters, as she might
mention the name of a friend who was travelling with them, and who had
undertaken to make all the arrangements for the journey. “Sir Percival”
has settled that we leave on such a day—“Sir Percival” has decided that
we travel by such a road. Sometimes she writes “Percival” only, but
very seldom—in nine cases out of ten she gives him his title.

I cannot find that his habits and opinions have changed and coloured
hers in any single particular. The usual moral transformation which is
insensibly wrought in a young, fresh, sensitive woman by her marriage,
seems never to have taken place in Laura. She writes of her own
thoughts and impressions, amid all the wonders she has seen, exactly
as she might have written to some one else, if I had been travelling
with her instead of her husband. I see no betrayal anywhere of sympathy
of any kind existing between them. Even when she wanders from the
subject of her travels, and occupies herself with the prospects that
await her in England, her speculations are busied with her future
as my sister, and persistently neglect to notice her future as Sir
Percival’s wife. In all this there is no undertone of complaint to warn
me that she is absolutely unhappy in her married life. The impression
I have derived from our correspondence does not, thank God, lead me
to any such distressing conclusion as that. I only see a sad torpor,
an unchangeable indifference, when I turn my mind from her in the old
character of a sister, and look at her, through the medium of her
letters, in the new character of a wife. In other words, it is always
Laura Fairlie who has been writing to me for the last six months, and
never Lady Glyde.

The strange silence which she maintains on the subject of her husband’s
character and conduct, she preserves with almost equal resolution in
the few references which her later letters contain to the name of her
husband’s bosom friend, Count Fosco.

For some unexplained reason the Count and his wife appear to have
changed their plans abruptly, at the end of last autumn, and to have
gone to Vienna instead of going to Rome, at which latter place Sir
Percival had expected to find them when he left England. They only
quitted Vienna in the spring, and travelled as far as the Tyrol to
meet the bride and bridegroom on their homeward journey. Laura writes
readily enough about the meeting with Madame Fosco, and assures me that
she has found her aunt so much changed for the better—so much quieter,
and so much more sensible as a wife than she was as a single woman—that
I shall hardly know her again when I see her here. But on the subject
of Count Fosco (who interests me infinitely more than his wife), Laura
is provokingly circumspect and silent. She only says that he puzzles
her, and that she will not tell me what her impression of him is until
I have seen him, and formed my own opinion first.

This, to my mind, looks ill for the Count. Laura has preserved, far
more perfectly than most people do in later life, the child’s subtle
faculty of knowing a friend by instinct, and if I am right in assuming
that her first impression of Count Fosco has not been favourable, I
for one am in some danger of doubting and distrusting that illustrious
foreigner before I have so much as set eyes on him. But, patience,
patience—this uncertainty, and many uncertainties more, cannot last
much longer. To-morrow will see all my doubts in a fair way of being
cleared up, sooner or later.

Twelve o’clock has struck, and I have just come back to close these
pages, after looking out at my open window.

It is a still, sultry, moonless night. The stars are dull and few. The
trees that shut out the view on all sides look dimly black and solid in
the distance, like a great wall of rock. I hear the croaking of frogs,
faint and far off, and the echoes of the great clock hum in the airless
calm long after the strokes have ceased. I wonder how Blackwater Park
will look in the daytime? I don’t altogether like it by night.


12th.—A day of investigations and discoveries—a more interesting day,
for many reasons, than I had ventured to anticipate.

I began my sight-seeing, of course, with the house.

The main body of the building is of the time of that highly-overrated
woman, Queen Elizabeth. On the ground floor there are two hugely long
galleries, with low ceilings lying parallel with each other, and
rendered additionally dark and dismal by hideous family portraits—every
one of which I should like to burn. The rooms on the floor above the
two galleries are kept in tolerable repair, but are very seldom used.
The civil housekeeper, who acted as my guide, offered to show me over
them, but considerately added that she feared I should find them
rather out of order. My respect for the integrity of my own petticoats
and stockings infinitely exceeds my respect for all the Elizabethan
bedrooms in the kingdom, so I positively declined exploring the upper
regions of dust and dirt at the risk of soiling my nice clean clothes.
The housekeeper said, “I am quite of your opinion, miss,” and appeared
to think me the most sensible woman she had met with for a long time
past.

So much, then, for the main building. Two wings are added at either end
of it. The half-ruined wing on the left (as you approach the house)
was once a place of residence standing by itself, and was built in the
fourteenth century. One of Sir Percival’s maternal ancestors—I don’t
remember, and don’t care which—tacked on the main building, at right
angles to it, in the aforesaid Queen Elizabeth’s time. The housekeeper
told me that the architecture of “the old wing,” both outside and
inside, was considered remarkably fine by good judges. On further
investigation I discovered that good judges could only exercise their
abilities on Sir Percival’s piece of antiquity by previously dismissing
from their minds all fear of damp, darkness, and rats. Under these
circumstances, I unhesitatingly acknowledged myself to be no judge
at all, and suggested that we should treat “the old wing” precisely
as we had previously treated the Elizabethan bedrooms. Once more the
housekeeper said, “I am quite of your opinion, miss,” and once more
she looked at me with undisguised admiration of my extraordinary
common-sense.

We went next to the wing on the right, which was built, by way of
completing the wonderful architectural jumble at Blackwater Park, in
the time of George the Second.

This is the habitable part of the house, which has been repaired and
redecorated inside on Laura’s account. My two rooms, and all the good
bedrooms besides, are on the first floor, and the basement contains a
drawing-room, a dining-room, a morning-room, a library, and a pretty
little boudoir for Laura, all very nicely ornamented in the bright
modern way, and all very elegantly furnished with the delightful modern
luxuries. None of the rooms are anything like so large and airy as
our rooms at Limmeridge, but they all look pleasant to live in. I was
terribly afraid, from what I had heard of Blackwater Park, of fatiguing
antique chairs, and dismal stained glass, and musty, frouzy hangings,
and all the barbarous lumber which people born without a sense of
comfort accumulate about them, in defiance of the consideration due
to the convenience of their friends. It is an inexpressible relief to
find that the nineteenth century has invaded this strange future home
of mine, and has swept the dirty “good old times” out of the way of our
daily life.

I dawdled away the morning—part of the time in the rooms downstairs,
and part out of doors in the great square which is formed by the three
sides of the house, and by the lofty iron railings and gates which
protect it in front. A large circular fish-pond with stone sides,
and an allegorical leaden monster in the middle, occupies the centre
of the square. The pond itself is full of gold and silver fish, and
is encircled by a broad belt of the softest turf I ever walked on. I
loitered here on the shady side pleasantly enough till luncheon-time,
and after that took my broad straw hat and wandered out alone in the
warm lovely sunlight to explore the grounds.

Daylight confirmed the impression which I had felt the night before, of
there being too many trees at Blackwater. The house is stifled by them.
They are, for the most part, young, and planted far too thickly. I
suspect there must have been a ruinous cutting down of timber all over
the estate before Sir Percival’s time, and an angry anxiety on the part
of the next possessor to fill up all the gaps as thickly and rapidly
as possible. After looking about me in front of the house, I observed
a flower-garden on my left hand, and walked towards it to see what I
could discover in that direction.

On a nearer view the garden proved to be small and poor and ill kept.
I left it behind me, opened a little gate in a ring fence, and found
myself in a plantation of fir-trees.

A pretty winding path, artificially made, led me on among the trees,
and my north-country experience soon informed me that I was approaching
sandy, heathy ground. After a walk of more than half a mile, I should
think, among the firs, the path took a sharp turn—the trees abruptly
ceased to appear on either side of me, and I found myself standing
suddenly on the margin of a vast open space, and looking down at the
Blackwater lake from which the house takes its name.

The ground, shelving away below me, was all sand, with a few little
heathy hillocks to break the monotony of it in certain places. The
lake itself had evidently once flowed to the spot on which I stood,
and had been gradually wasted and dried up to less than a third of its
former size. I saw its still, stagnant waters, a quarter of a mile
away from me in the hollow, separated into pools and ponds by twining
reeds and rushes, and little knolls of earth. On the farther bank from
me the trees rose thickly again, and shut out the view, and cast their
black shadows on the sluggish, shallow water. As I walked down to the
lake, I saw that the ground on its farther side was damp and marshy,
overgrown with rank grass and dismal willows. The water, which was
clear enough on the open sandy side, where the sun shone, looked black
and poisonous opposite to me, where it lay deeper under the shade of
the spongy banks, and the rank overhanging thickets and tangled trees.
The frogs were croaking, and the rats were slipping in and out of the
shadowy water, like live shadows themselves, as I got nearer to the
marshy side of the lake. I saw here, lying half in and half out of the
water, the rotten wreck of an old overturned boat, with a sickly spot
of sunlight glimmering through a gap in the trees on its dry surface,
and a snake basking in the midst of the spot, fantastically coiled and
treacherously still. Far and near the view suggested the same dreary
impressions of solitude and decay, and the glorious brightness of the
summer sky overhead seemed only to deepen and harden the gloom and
barrenness of the wilderness on which it shone. I turned and retraced
my steps to the high heathy ground, directing them a little aside from
my former path towards a shabby old wooden shed, which stood on the
outer skirt of the fir plantation, and which had hitherto been too
unimportant to share my notice with the wide, wild prospect of the lake.

On approaching the shed I found that it had once been a boat-house,
and that an attempt had apparently been made to convert it afterwards
into a sort of rude arbour, by placing inside it a firwood seat, a few
stools, and a table. I entered the place, and sat down for a little
while to rest and get my breath again.

I had not been in the boat-house more than a minute when it struck me
that the sound of my own quick breathing was very strangely echoed by
something beneath me. I listened intently for a moment, and heard a
low, thick, sobbing breath that seemed to come from the ground under
the seat which I was occupying. My nerves are not easily shaken by
trifles, but on this occasion I started to my feet in a fright—called
out—received no answer—summoned back my recreant courage, and looked
under the seat.

There, crouched up in the farthest corner, lay the forlorn cause of my
terror, in the shape of a poor little dog—a black and white spaniel.
The creature moaned feebly when I looked at it and called to it, but
never stirred. I moved away the seat and looked closer. The poor little
dog’s eyes were glazing fast, and there were spots of blood on its
glossy white side. The misery of a weak, helpless, dumb creature is
surely one of the saddest of all the mournful sights which this world
can show. I lifted the poor dog in my arms as gently as I could, and
contrived a sort of make-shift hammock for him to lie in, by gathering
up the front of my dress all round him. In this way I took the
creature, as painlessly as possible, and as fast as possible, back to
the house.

Finding no one in the hall I went up at once to my own sitting-room,
made a bed for the dog with one of my old shawls, and rang the bell.
The largest and fattest of all possible house-maids answered it, in a
state of cheerful stupidity which would have provoked the patience of a
saint. The girl’s fat, shapeless face actually stretched into a broad
grin at the sight of the wounded creature on the floor.

“What do you see there to laugh at?” I asked, as angrily as if she had
been a servant of my own. “Do you know whose dog it is?”

“No, miss, that I certainly don’t.” She stooped, and looked down at
the spaniel’s injured side—brightened suddenly with the irradiation of
a new idea—and pointing to the wound with a chuckle of satisfaction,
said, “That’s Baxter’s doings, that is.”

I was so exasperated that I could have boxed her ears. “Baxter?” I
said. “Who is the brute you call Baxter?”

The girl grinned again more cheerfully than ever. “Bless you, miss!
Baxter’s the keeper, and when he finds strange dogs hunting about, he
takes and shoots ’em. It’s keeper’s dooty, miss. I think that dog will
die. Here’s where he’s been shot, ain’t it? That’s Baxter’s doings,
that is. Baxter’s doings, miss, and Baxter’s dooty.”

I was almost wicked enough to wish that Baxter had shot the housemaid
instead of the dog. Seeing that it was quite useless to expect this
densely impenetrable personage to give me any help in relieving the
suffering creature at our feet, I told her to request the housekeeper’s
attendance with my compliments. She went out exactly as she had come
in, grinning from ear to ear. As the door closed on her she said to
herself softly, “It’s Baxter’s doings and Baxter’s dooty—that’s what it
is.”

The housekeeper, a person of some education and intelligence,
thoughtfully brought upstairs with her some milk and some warm water.
The instant she saw the dog on the floor she started and changed colour.

“Why, Lord bless me,” cried the housekeeper, “that must be Mrs.
Catherick’s dog!”

“Whose?” I asked, in the utmost astonishment.

“Mrs. Catherick’s. You seem to know Mrs. Catherick, Miss Halcombe?”

“Not personally, but I have heard of her. Does she live here? Has she
had any news of her daughter?”

“No, Miss Halcombe, she came here to ask for news.”

“When?”

“Only yesterday. She said some one had reported that a stranger
answering to the description of her daughter had been seen in our
neighbourhood. No such report has reached us here, and no such report
was known in the village, when I sent to make inquiries there on Mrs.
Catherick’s account. She certainly brought this poor little dog with
her when she came, and I saw it trot out after her when she went away.
I suppose the creature strayed into the plantations, and got shot.
Where did you find it, Miss Halcombe?”

“In the old shed that looks out on the lake.”

“Ah, yes, that is the plantation side, and the poor thing dragged
itself, I suppose, to the nearest shelter, as dogs will, to die. If
you can moisten its lips with the milk, Miss Halcombe, I will wash the
clotted hair from the wound. I am very much afraid it is too late to do
any good. However, we can but try.”

Mrs. Catherick! The name still rang in my ears, as if the housekeeper
had only that moment surprised me by uttering it. While we were
attending to the dog, the words of Walter Hartright’s caution to me
returned to my memory: “If ever Anne Catherick crosses your path, make
better use of the opportunity, Miss Halcombe, than I made of it.” The
finding of the wounded spaniel had led me already to the discovery of
Mrs. Catherick’s visit to Blackwater Park, and that event might lead
in its turn, to something more. I determined to make the most of the
chance which was now offered to me, and to gain as much information as
I could.

“Did you say that Mrs. Catherick lived anywhere in this neighbourhood?”
I asked.

“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——



II

June 15th.—The confusion of their arrival has had time to subside. Two
days have elapsed since the return of the travellers, and that interval
has sufficed to put the new machinery of our lives at Blackwater Park
in fair working order. I may now return to my journal, with some little
chance of being able to continue the entries in it as collectedly as
usual.

I think I must begin by putting down an odd remark which has suggested
itself to me since Laura came back.

When two members of a family or two intimate friends are separated, and
one goes abroad and one remains at home, the return of the relative
or friend who has been travelling always seems to place the relative
or friend who has been staying at home at a painful disadvantage when
the two first meet. The sudden encounter of the new thoughts and new
habits eagerly gained in the one case, with the old thoughts and old
habits passively preserved in the other, seems at first to part the
sympathies of the most loving relatives and the fondest friends, and
to set a sudden strangeness, unexpected by both and uncontrollable
by both, between them on either side. After the first happiness of
my meeting with Laura was over, after we had sat down together hand
in hand to recover breath enough and calmness enough to talk, I felt
this strangeness instantly, and I could see that she felt it too. It
has partially worn away, now that we have fallen back into most of
our old habits, and it will probably disappear before long. But it
has certainly had an influence over the first impressions that I have
formed of her, now that we are living together again—for which reason
only I have thought fit to mention it here.

She has found me unaltered, but I have found her changed.

Changed in person, and in one respect changed in character. I cannot
absolutely say that she is less beautiful than she used to be—I can
only say that she is less beautiful to me.

Others, who do not look at her with my eyes and my recollections, would
probably think her improved. There is more colour and more decision and
roundness of outline in her face than there used to be, and her figure
seems more firmly set and more sure and easy in all its movements
than it was in her maiden days. But I miss something when I look at
her—something that once belonged to the happy, innocent life of Laura
Fairlie, and that I cannot find in Lady Glyde. There was in the old
times a freshness, a softness, an ever-varying and yet ever-remaining
tenderness of beauty in her face, the charm of which it is not possible
to express in words, or, as poor Hartright used often to say, in
painting either. This is gone. I thought I saw the faint reflection of
it for a moment when she turned pale under the agitation of our sudden
meeting on the evening of her return, but it has never reappeared
since. None of her letters had prepared me for a personal change in
her. On the contrary, they had led me to expect that her marriage had
left her, in appearance at least, quite unaltered. Perhaps I read her
letters wrongly in the past, and am now reading her face wrongly in the
present? No matter! Whether her beauty has gained or whether it has
lost in the last six months, the separation either way has made her own
dear self more precious to me than ever, and that is one good result of
her marriage, at any rate!

The second change, the change that I have observed in her character,
has not surprised me, because I was prepared for it in this case by the
tone of her letters. Now that she is at home again, I find her just as
unwilling to enter into any details on the subject of her married life
as I had previously found her all through the time of our separation,
when we could only communicate with each other by writing. At the first
approach I made to the forbidden topic she put her hand on my lips with
a look and gesture which touchingly, almost painfully, recalled to my
memory the days of her girlhood and the happy bygone time when there
were no secrets between us.

“Whenever you and I are together, Marian,” she said, “we shall both be
happier and easier with one another, if we accept my married life for
what it is, and say and think as little about it as possible. I would
tell you everything, darling, about myself,” she went on, nervously
buckling and unbuckling the ribbon round my waist, “if my confidences
could only end there. But they could not—they would lead me into
confidences about my husband too; and now I am married, I think I had
better avoid them, for his sake, and for your sake, and for mine. I
don’t say that they would distress you, or distress me—I wouldn’t have
you think that for the world. But—I want to be so happy, now I have
got you back again, and I want you to be so happy too——” She broke off
abruptly, and looked round the room, my own sitting-room, in which we
were talking. “Ah!” she cried, clapping her hands with a bright smile
of recognition, “another old friend found already! Your book-case,
Marian—your dear-little-shabby-old-satin-wood book-case—how glad I am
you brought it with you from Limmeridge! And the horrid heavy man’s
umbrella, that you always would walk out with when it rained! And first
and foremost of all, your own dear, dark, clever, gipsy-face, looking
at me just as usual! It is so like home again to be here. How can we
make it more like home still? I will put my father’s portrait in your
room instead of in mine—and I will keep all my little treasures from
Limmeridge here—and we will pass hours and hours every day with these
four friendly walls round us. Oh, Marian!” she said, suddenly seating
herself on a footstool at my knees, and looking up earnestly in my
face, “promise you will never marry, and leave me. It is selfish to say
so, but you are so much better off as a single woman—unless—unless you
are very fond of your husband—but you won’t be very fond of anybody but
me, will you?” She stopped again, crossed my hands on my lap, and laid
her face on them. “Have you been writing many letters, and receiving
many letters lately?” she asked, in low, suddenly-altered tones. I
understood what the question meant, but I thought it my duty not to
encourage her by meeting her half way. “Have you heard from him?” she
went on, coaxing me to forgive the more direct appeal on which she now
ventured, by kissing my hands, upon which her face still rested. “Is
he well and happy, and getting on in his profession? Has he recovered
himself—and forgotten me?”

She should not have asked those questions. She should have remembered
her own resolution, on the morning when Sir Percival held her to her
marriage engagement, and when she resigned the book of Hartright’s
drawings into my hands for ever. But, ah me! where is the faultless
human creature who can persevere in a good resolution, without
sometimes failing and falling back? Where is the woman who has ever
really torn from her heart the image that has been once fixed in it
by a true love? Books tell us that such unearthly creatures have
existed—but what does our own experience say in answer to books?

I made no attempt to remonstrate with her: perhaps, because I sincerely
appreciated the fearless candour which let me see, what other women
in her position might have had reasons for concealing even from
their dearest friends—perhaps, because I felt, in my own heart and
conscience, that in her place I should have asked the same questions
and had the same thoughts. All I could honestly do was to reply that I
had not written to him or heard from him lately, and then to turn the
conversation to less dangerous topics.

There has been much to sadden me in our interview—my first confidential
interview with her since her return. The change which her marriage has
produced in our relations towards each other, by placing a forbidden
subject between us, for the first time in our lives; the melancholy
conviction of the dearth of all warmth of feeling, of all close
sympathy, between her husband and herself, which her own unwilling
words now force on my mind; the distressing discovery that the
influence of that ill-fated attachment still remains (no matter how
innocently, how harmlessly) rooted as deeply as ever in her heart—all
these are disclosures to sadden any woman who loves her as dearly, and
feels for her as acutely, as I do.

There is only one consolation to set against them—a consolation that
ought to comfort me, and that does comfort me. All the graces and
gentleness of her character—all the frank affection of her nature—all
the sweet, simple, womanly charms which used to make her the darling
and delight of every one who approached her, have come back to me with
herself. Of my other impressions I am sometimes a little inclined to
doubt. Of this last, best, happiest of all impressions, I grow more and
more certain every hour in the day.

Let me turn, now, from her to her travelling companions. Her husband
must engage my attention first. What have I observed in Sir Percival,
since his return, to improve my opinion of him?

I can hardly say. Small vexations and annoyances seem to have beset
him since he came back, and no man, under those circumstances, is
ever presented at his best. He looks, as I think, thinner than he
was when he left England. His wearisome cough and his comfortless
restlessness have certainly increased. His manner—at least his manner
towards me—is much more abrupt than it used to be. He greeted me, on
the evening of his return, with little or nothing of the ceremony and
civility of former times—no polite speeches of welcome—no appearance
of extraordinary gratification at seeing me—nothing but a short shake
of the hand, and a sharp “How-d’ye-do, Miss Halcombe—glad to see you
again.” He seemed to accept me as one of the necessary fixtures of
Blackwater Park, to be satisfied at finding me established in my proper
place, and then to pass me over altogether.

Most men show something of their disposition in their own houses, which
they have concealed elsewhere, and Sir Percival has already displayed
a mania for order and regularity, which is quite a new revelation of
him, so far as my previous knowledge of his character is concerned. If
I take a book from the library and leave it on the table, he follows
me and puts it back again. If I rise from a chair, and let it remain
where I have been sitting, he carefully restores it to its proper
place against the wall. He picks up stray flower-blossoms from the
carpet, and mutters to himself as discontentedly as if they were hot
cinders burning holes in it, and he storms at the servants if there is
a crease in the tablecloth, or a knife missing from its place at the
dinner-table, as fiercely as if they had personally insulted him.

I have already referred to the small annoyances which appear to have
troubled him since his return. Much of the alteration for the worse
which I have noticed in him may be due to these. I try to persuade
myself that it is so, because I am anxious not to be disheartened
already about the future. It is certainly trying to any man’s temper to
be met by a vexation the moment he sets foot in his own house again,
after a long absence, and this annoying circumstance did really happen
to Sir Percival in my presence.

On the evening of their arrival the housekeeper followed me into
the hall to receive her master and mistress and their guests. The
instant he saw her, Sir Percival asked if any one had called lately.
The housekeeper mentioned to him, in reply, what she had previously
mentioned to me, the visit of the strange gentleman to make inquiries
about the time of her master’s return. He asked immediately for the
gentleman’s name. No name had been left. The gentleman’s business?
No business had been mentioned. What was the gentleman like? The
housekeeper tried to describe him, but failed to distinguish the
nameless visitor by any personal peculiarity which her master could
recognise. Sir Percival frowned, stamped angrily on the floor, and
walked on into the house, taking no notice of anybody. Why he should
have been so discomposed by a trifle I cannot say—but he was seriously
discomposed, beyond all doubt.

Upon the whole, it will be best, perhaps, if I abstain from forming
a decisive opinion of his manners, language, and conduct in his own
house, until time has enabled him to shake off the anxieties, whatever
they may be, which now evidently troubled his mind in secret. I will
turn over to a new page, and my pen shall let Laura’s husband alone for
the present.

The two guests—the Count and Countess Fosco—come next in my catalogue.
I will dispose of the Countess first, so as to have done with the woman
as soon as possible.

Laura was certainly not chargeable with any exaggeration, in writing me
word that I should hardly recognise her aunt again when we met. Never
before have I beheld such a change produced in a woman by her marriage
as has been produced in Madame Fosco.

As Eleanor Fairlie (aged seven-and-thirty), she was always talking
pretentious nonsense, and always worrying the unfortunate men with
every small exaction which a vain and foolish woman can impose on
long-suffering male humanity. As Madame Fosco (aged three-and-forty),
she sits for hours together without saying a word, frozen up in the
strangest manner in herself. The hideously ridiculous love-locks which
used to hang on either side of her face are now replaced by stiff
little rows of very short curls, of the sort one sees in old-fashioned
wigs. A plain, matronly cap covers her head, and makes her look,
for the first time in her life since I remember her, like a decent
woman. Nobody (putting her husband out of the question, of course)
now sees in her, what everybody once saw—I mean the structure of the
female skeleton, in the upper regions of the collar-bones and the
shoulder-blades. Clad in quiet black or grey gowns, made high round the
throat—dresses that she would have laughed at, or screamed at, as the
whim of the moment inclined her, in her maiden days—she sits speechless
in corners; her dry white hands (so dry that the pores of her skin look
chalky) incessantly engaged, either in monotonous embroidery work or in
rolling up endless cigarettes for the Count’s own particular smoking.
On the few occasions when her cold blue eyes are off her work, they
are generally turned on her husband, with the look of mute submissive
inquiry which we are all familiar with in the eyes of a faithful dog.
The only approach to an inward thaw which I have yet detected under her
outer covering of icy constraint, has betrayed itself, once or twice,
in the form of a suppressed tigerish jealousy of any woman in the house
(the maids included) to whom the Count speaks, or on whom he looks with
anything approaching to special interest or attention. Except in this
one particular, she is always, morning, noon, and night, indoors and
out, fair weather or foul, as cold as a statue, and as impenetrable as
the stone out of which it is cut. For the common purposes of society
the extraordinary change thus produced in her is, beyond all doubt,
a change for the better, seeing that it has transformed her into a
civil, silent, unobtrusive woman, who is never in the way. How far
she is really reformed or deteriorated in her secret self, is another
question. I have once or twice seen sudden changes of expression on her
pinched lips, and heard sudden inflexions of tone in her calm voice,
which have led me to suspect that her present state of suppression
may have sealed up something dangerous in her nature, which used
to evaporate harmlessly in the freedom of her former life. It is
quite possible that I may be altogether wrong in this idea. My own
impression, however, is, that I am right. Time will show.

And the magician who has wrought this wonderful transformation—the
foreign husband who has tamed this once wayward English woman till her
own relations hardly know her again—the Count himself? What of the
Count?

This in two words: He looks like a man who could tame anything. If he
had married a tigress, instead of a woman, he would have tamed the
tigress. If he had married me, I should have made his cigarettes, as
his wife does—I should have held my tongue when he looked at me, as she
holds hers.

I am almost afraid to confess it, even to these secret pages. The man
has interested me, has attracted me, has forced me to like him. In two
short days he has made his way straight into my favourable estimation,
and how he has worked the miracle is more than I can tell.

It absolutely startles me, now he is in my mind, to find how plainly I
see him!—how much more plainly than I see Sir Percival, or Mr. Fairlie,
or Walter Hartright, or any other absent person of whom I think, with
the one exception of Laura herself! I can hear his voice, as if he was
speaking at this moment. I know what his conversation was yesterday,
as well as if I was hearing it now. How am I to describe him? There
are peculiarities in his personal appearance, his habits, and his
amusements, which I should blame in the boldest terms, or ridicule in
the most merciless manner, if I had seen them in another man. What is
it that makes me unable to blame them, or to ridicule them in HIM?

For example, he is immensely fat. Before this time I have always
especially disliked corpulent humanity. I have always maintained
that the popular notion of connecting excessive grossness of size
and excessive good-humour as inseparable allies was equivalent to
declaring, either that no people but amiable people ever get fat,
or that the accidental addition of so many pounds of flesh has a
directly favourable influence over the disposition of the person on
whose body they accumulate. I have invariably combated both these
absurd assertions by quoting examples of fat people who were as mean,
vicious, and cruel as the leanest and the worst of their neighbours. I
have asked whether Henry the Eighth was an amiable character? Whether
Pope Alexander the Sixth was a good man? Whether Mr. Murderer and Mrs.
Murderess Manning were not both unusually stout people? Whether hired
nurses, proverbially as cruel a set of women as are to be found in
all England, were not, for the most part, also as fat a set of women
as are to be found in all England?—and so on, through dozens of other
examples, modern and ancient, native and foreign, high and low. Holding
these strong opinions on the subject with might and main as I do at
this moment, here, nevertheless, is Count Fosco, as fat as Henry the
Eighth himself, established in my favour, at one day’s notice, without
let or hindrance from his own odious corpulence. Marvellous indeed!

Is it his face that has recommended him?

It may be his face. He is a most remarkable likeness, on a large
scale, of the great Napoleon. His features have Napoleon’s magnificent
regularity—his expression recalls the grandly calm, immovable power
of the Great Soldier’s face. This striking resemblance certainly
impressed me, to begin with; but there is something in him besides
the resemblance, which has impressed me more. I think the influence I
am now trying to find is in his eyes. They are the most unfathomable
grey eyes I ever saw, and they have at times a cold, clear, beautiful,
irresistible glitter in them which forces me to look at him, and yet
causes me sensations, when I do look, which I would rather not feel.
Other parts of his face and head have their strange peculiarities. His
complexion, for instance, has a singular sallow-fairness, so much at
variance with the dark-brown colour of his hair, that I suspect the
hair of being a wig, and his face, closely shaven all over, is smoother
and freer from all marks and wrinkles than mine, though (according to
Sir Percival’s account of him) he is close on sixty years of age. But
these are not the prominent personal characteristics which distinguish
him, to my mind, from all the other men I have ever seen. The marked
peculiarity which singles him out from the rank and file of humanity
lies entirely, so far as I can tell at present, in the extraordinary
expression and extraordinary power of his eyes.

His manner and his command of our language may also have assisted him,
in some degree, to establish himself in my good opinion. He has that
quiet deference, that look of pleased, attentive interest in listening
to a woman, and that secret gentleness in his voice in speaking to a
woman, which, say what we may, we can none of us resist. Here, too,
his unusual command of the English language necessarily helps him.
I had often heard of the extraordinary aptitude which many Italians
show in mastering our strong, hard, Northern speech; but, until I
saw Count Fosco, I had never supposed it possible that any foreigner
could have spoken English as he speaks it. There are times when it is
almost impossible to detect by his accent that he is not a countryman
of our own, and as for fluency, there are very few born Englishmen who
can talk with as few stoppages and repetitions as the Count. He may
construct his sentences more or less in the foreign way, but I have
never yet heard him use a wrong expression, or hesitate for a moment in
his choice of a word.

All the smallest characteristics of this strange man have something
strikingly original and perplexingly contradictory in them. Fat as he
is and old as he is, his movements are astonishingly light and easy.
He is as noiseless in a room as any of us women, and more than that,
with all his look of unmistakable mental firmness and power, he is as
nervously sensitive as the weakest of us. He starts at chance noises as
inveterately as Laura herself. He winced and shuddered yesterday, when
Sir Percival beat one of the spaniels, so that I felt ashamed of my own
want of tenderness and sensibility by comparison with the Count.

The relation of this last incident reminds me of one of his most
curious peculiarities, which I have not yet mentioned—his extraordinary
fondness for pet animals.

Some of these he has left on the Continent, but he has brought with
him to this house a cockatoo, two canary-birds, and a whole family
of white mice. He attends to all the necessities of these strange
favourites himself, and he has taught the creatures to be surprisingly
fond of him and familiar with him. The cockatoo, a most vicious and
treacherous bird towards every one else, absolutely seems to love him.
When he lets it out of its cage, it hops on to his knee, and claws its
way up his great big body, and rubs its top-knot against his sallow
double chin in the most caressing manner imaginable. He has only to
set the doors of the canaries’ cages open, and to call them, and the
pretty little cleverly trained creatures perch fearlessly on his hand,
mount his fat outstretched fingers one by one, when he tells them to
“go upstairs,” and sing together as if they would burst their throats
with delight when they get to the top finger. His white mice live in a
little pagoda of gaily-painted wirework, designed and made by himself.
They are almost as tame as the canaries, and they are perpetually let
out like the canaries. They crawl all over him, popping in and out of
his waistcoat, and sitting in couples, white as snow, on his capacious
shoulders. He seems to be even fonder of his mice than of his other
pets, smiles at them, and kisses them, and calls them by all sorts
of endearing names. If it be possible to suppose an Englishman with
any taste for such childish interests and amusements as these, that
Englishman would certainly feel rather ashamed of them, and would be
anxious to apologise for them, in the company of grown-up people. But
the Count, apparently, sees nothing ridiculous in the amazing contrast
between his colossal self and his frail little pets. He would blandly
kiss his white mice and twitter to his canary-birds amid an assembly of
English fox-hunters, and would only pity them as barbarians when they
were all laughing their loudest at him.

It seems hardly credible while I am writing it down, but it is
certainly true, that this same man, who has all the fondness of an old
maid for his cockatoo, and all the small dexterities of an organ-boy
in managing his white mice, can talk, when anything happens to rouse
him, with a daring independence of thought, a knowledge of books in
every language, and an experience of society in half the capitals of
Europe, which would make him the prominent personage of any assembly in
the civilised world. This trainer of canary-birds, this architect of
a pagoda for white mice, is (as Sir Percival himself has told me) one
of the first experimental chemists living, and has discovered, among
other wonderful inventions, a means of petrifying the body after death,
so as to preserve it, as hard as marble, to the end of time. This
fat, indolent, elderly man, whose nerves are so finely strung that he
starts at chance noises, and winces when he sees a house-spaniel get a
whipping, went into the stable-yard on the morning after his arrival,
and put his hand on the head of a chained bloodhound—a beast so savage
that the very groom who feeds him keeps out of his reach. His wife and
I were present, and I shall not forget the scene that followed, short
as it was.

“Mind that dog, sir,” said the groom; “he flies at everybody!” “He
does that, my friend,” replied the Count quietly, “because everybody
is afraid of him. Let us see if he flies at me.” And he laid his
plump, yellow-white fingers, on which the canary-birds had been
perching ten minutes before, upon the formidable brute’s head, and
looked him straight in the eyes. “You big dogs are all cowards,” he
said, addressing the animal contemptuously, with his face and the
dog’s within an inch of each other. “You would kill a poor cat, you
infernal coward. You would fly at a starving beggar, you infernal
coward. Anything that you can surprise unawares—anything that is afraid
of your big body, and your wicked white teeth, and your slobbering,
bloodthirsty mouth, is the thing you like to fly at. You could throttle
me at this moment, you mean, miserable bully, and you daren’t so much
as look me in the face, because I’m not afraid of you. Will you think
better of it, and try your teeth in my fat neck? Bah! not you!” He
turned away, laughing at the astonishment of the men in the yard, and
the dog crept back meekly to his kennel. “Ah! my nice waistcoat!”
he said pathetically. “I am sorry I came here. Some of that brute’s
slobber has got on my pretty clean waistcoat.” Those words express
another of his incomprehensible oddities. He is as fond of fine clothes
as the veriest fool in existence, and has appeared in four magnificent
waistcoats already—all of light garish colours, and all immensely large
even for him—in the two days of his residence at Blackwater Park.

His tact and cleverness in small things are quite as noticeable as the
singular inconsistencies in his character, and the childish triviality
of his ordinary tastes and pursuits.

I can see already that he means to live on excellent terms with all of
us during the period of his sojourn in this place. He has evidently
discovered that Laura secretly dislikes him (she confessed as much to
me when I pressed her on the subject)—but he has also found out that
she is extravagantly fond of flowers. Whenever she wants a nosegay he
has got one to give her, gathered and arranged by himself, and greatly
to my amusement, he is always cunningly provided with a duplicate,
composed of exactly the same flowers, grouped in exactly the same
way, to appease his icily jealous wife before she can so much as
think herself aggrieved. His management of the Countess (in public)
is a sight to see. He bows to her, he habitually addresses her as
“my angel,” he carries his canaries to pay her little visits on his
fingers and to sing to her, he kisses her hand when she gives him his
cigarettes; he presents her with sugar-plums in return, which he puts
into her mouth playfully, from a box in his pocket. The rod of iron
with which he rules her never appears in company—it is a private rod,
and is always kept upstairs.

His method of recommending himself to me is entirely different. He
flatters my vanity by talking to me as seriously and sensibly as if
I was a man. Yes! I can find him out when I am away from him—I know
he flatters my vanity, when I think of him up here in my own room—and
yet, when I go downstairs, and get into his company again, he will
blind me again, and I shall be flattered again, just as if I had never
found him out at all! He can manage me as he manages his wife and
Laura, as he managed the bloodhound in the stable-yard, as he manages
Sir Percival himself, every hour in the day. “My good Percival! how I
like your rough English humour!”—“My good Percival! how I enjoy your
solid English sense!” He puts the rudest remarks Sir Percival can make
on his effeminate tastes and amusements quietly away from him in that
manner—always calling the baronet by his Christian name, smiling at him
with the calmest superiority, patting him on the shoulder, and bearing
with him benignantly, as a good-humoured father bears with a wayward
son.

The interest which I really cannot help feeling in this strangely
original man has led me to question Sir Percival about his past life.

Sir Percival either knows little, or will tell me little, about it. He
and the Count first met many years ago, at Rome, under the dangerous
circumstances to which I have alluded elsewhere. Since that time they
have been perpetually together in London, in Paris, and in Vienna—but
never in Italy again; the Count having, oddly enough, not crossed
the frontiers of his native country for years past. Perhaps he has
been made the victim of some political persecution? At all events,
he seems to be patriotically anxious not to lose sight of any of his
own countrymen who may happen to be in England. On the evening of his
arrival he asked how far we were from the nearest town, and whether we
knew of any Italian gentlemen who might happen to be settled there. He
is certainly in correspondence with people on the Continent, for his
letters have all sorts of odd stamps on them, and I saw one for him
this morning, waiting in his place at the breakfast-table, with a huge,
official-looking seal on it. Perhaps he is in correspondence with his
government? And yet, that is hardly to be reconciled either with my
other idea that he may be a political exile.

How much I seem to have written about Count Fosco! And what does it all
amount to?—as poor, dear Mr. Gilmore would ask, in his impenetrable
business-like way I can only repeat that I do assuredly feel, even
on this short acquaintance, a strange, half-willing, half-unwilling
liking for the Count. He seems to have established over me the same
sort of ascendency which he has evidently gained over Sir Percival.
Free, and even rude, as he may occasionally be in his manner towards
his fat friend, Sir Percival is nevertheless afraid, as I can plainly
see, of giving any serious offence to the Count. I wonder whether I am
afraid too? I certainly never saw a man, in all my experience, whom I
should be so sorry to have for an enemy. Is this because I like him, or
because I am afraid of him? Chi sa?—as Count Fosco might say in his own
language. Who knows?


June 16th.—Something to chronicle to-day besides my own ideas and
impressions. A visitor has arrived—quite unknown to Laura and to me,
and apparently quite unexpected by Sir Percival.

We were all at lunch, in the room with the new French windows that open
into the verandah, and the Count (who devours pastry as I have never
yet seen it devoured by any human beings but girls at boarding-schools)
had just amused us by asking gravely for his fourth tart—when the
servant entered to announce the visitor.

“Mr. Merriman has just come, Sir Percival, and wishes to see you
immediately.”

Sir Percival started, and looked at the man with an expression of angry
alarm.

“Mr. Merriman!” he repeated, as if he thought his own ears must have
deceived him.

“Yes, Sir Percival—Mr. Merriman, from London.”

“Where is he?”

“In the library, Sir Percival.”

He left the table the instant the last answer was given, and hurried
out of the room without saying a word to any of us.

“Who is Mr. Merriman?” asked Laura, appealing to me.

“I have not the least idea,” was all I could say in reply.

The Count had finished his fourth tart, and had gone to a side-table to
look after his vicious cockatoo. He turned round to us with the bird
perched on his shoulder.

“Mr. Merriman is Sir Percival’s solicitor,” he said quietly.

Sir Percival’s solicitor. It was a perfectly straightforward answer
to Laura’s question, and yet, under the circumstances, it was not
satisfactory. If Mr. Merriman had been specially sent for by his
client, there would have been nothing very wonderful in his leaving
town to obey the summons. But when a lawyer travels from London to
Hampshire without being sent for, and when his arrival at a gentleman’s
house seriously startles the gentleman himself, it may be safely taken
for granted that the legal visitor is the bearer of some very important
and very unexpected news—news which may be either very good or very
bad, but which cannot, in either case, be of the common everyday kind.

Laura and I sat silent at the table for a quarter of an hour or more,
wondering uneasily what had happened, and waiting for the chance of Sir
Percival’s speedy return. There were no signs of his return, and we
rose to leave the room.

The Count, attentive as usual, advanced from the corner in which he had
been feeding his cockatoo, with the bird still perched on his shoulder,
and opened the door for us. Laura and Madame Fosco went out first. Just
as I was on the point of following them he made a sign with his hand,
and spoke to me, before I passed him, in the oddest manner.

“Yes,” he said, quietly answering the unexpressed idea at that
moment in my mind, as if I had plainly confided it to him in so many
words—“yes, Miss Halcombe, something HAS happened.”

I was on the point of answering, “I never said so,” but the vicious
cockatoo ruffled his clipped wings and gave a screech that set all my
nerves on edge in an instant, and made me only too glad to get out of
the room.

I joined Laura at the foot of the stairs. The thought in her mind was
the same as the thought in mine, which Count Fosco had surprised, and
when she spoke her words were almost the echo of his. She, too, said to
me secretly that she was afraid something had happened.



III

June 16th.—I have a few lines more to add to this day’s entry before I
go to bed to-night.

About two hours after Sir Percival rose from the luncheon-table to
receive his solicitor, Mr. Merriman, in the library, I left my room
alone to take a walk in the plantations. Just as I was at the end of
the landing the library door opened and the two gentlemen came out.
Thinking it best not to disturb them by appearing on the stairs, I
resolved to defer going down till they had crossed the hall. Although
they spoke to each other in guarded tones, their words were pronounced
with sufficient distinctness of utterance to reach my ears.

“Make your mind easy, Sir Percival,” I heard the lawyer say; “it all
rests with Lady Glyde.”

I had turned to go back to my own room for a minute or two, but the
sound of Laura’s name on the lips of a stranger stopped me instantly. I
daresay it was very wrong and very discreditable to listen, but where
is the woman, in the whole range of our sex, who can regulate her
actions by the abstract principles of honour, when those principles
point one way, and when her affections, and the interests which grow
out of them, point the other?

I listened—and under similar circumstances I would listen again—yes!
with my ear at the keyhole, if I could not possibly manage it in any
other way.

“You quite understand, Sir Percival,” the lawyer went on. “Lady Glyde
is to sign her name in the presence of a witness—or of two witnesses,
if you wish to be particularly careful—and is then to put her finger on
the seal and say, ‘I deliver this as my act and deed.’ If that is done
in a week’s time the arrangement will be perfectly successful, and the
anxiety will be all over. If not——”

“What do you mean by ‘if not’?” asked Sir Percival angrily. “If the
thing must be done it SHALL be done. I promise you that, Merriman.”

“Just so, Sir Percival—just so; but there are two alternatives in all
transactions, and we lawyers like to look both of them in the face
boldly. If through any extraordinary circumstance the arrangement
should not be made, I think I may be able to get the parties to accept
bills at three months. But how the money is to be raised when the bills
fall due——”

“Damn the bills! The money is only to be got in one way, and in that
way, I tell you again, it SHALL be got. Take a glass of wine, Merriman,
before you go.”

“Much obliged, Sir Percival; I have not a moment to lose if I am to
catch the up-train. You will let me know as soon as the arrangement is
complete? and you will not forget the caution I recommended——”

“Of course I won’t. There’s the dog-cart at the door for you. My groom
will get you to the station in no time. Benjamin, drive like mad! Jump
in. If Mr. Merriman misses the train you lose your place. Hold fast,
Merriman, and if you are upset trust to the devil to save his own.”
With that parting benediction the baronet turned about and walked back
to the library.

I had not heard much, but the little that had reached my ears was
enough to make me feel uneasy. The “something” that “had happened”
was but too plainly a serious money embarrassment, and Sir Percival’s
relief from it depended upon Laura. The prospect of seeing her
involved in her husband’s secret difficulties filled me with dismay,
exaggerated, no doubt, by my ignorance of business and my settled
distrust of Sir Percival. Instead of going out, as I proposed, I went
back immediately to Laura’s room to tell her what I had heard.

She received my bad news so composedly as to surprise me. She evidently
knows more of her husband’s character and her husband’s embarrassments
than I have suspected up to this time.

“I feared as much,” she said, “when I heard of that strange gentleman
who called, and declined to leave his name.”

“Who do you think the gentleman was, then?” I asked.

“Some person who has heavy claims on Sir Percival,” she answered, “and
who has been the cause of Mr. Merriman’s visit here to-day.”

“Do you know anything about those claims?”

“No, I know no particulars.”

“You will sign nothing, Laura, without first looking at it?”

“Certainly not, Marian. Whatever I can harmlessly and honestly do to
help him I will do—for the sake of making your life and mine, love, as
easy and as happy as possible. But I will do nothing ignorantly, which
we might, one day, have reason to feel ashamed of. Let us say no more
about it now. You have got your hat on—suppose we go and dream away the
afternoon in the grounds?”

On leaving the house we directed our steps to the nearest shade.

As we passed an open space among the trees in front of the house, there
was Count Fosco, slowly walking backwards and forwards on the grass,
sunning himself in the full blaze of the hot June afternoon. He had
a broad straw hat on, with a violet-coloured ribbon round it. A blue
blouse, with profuse white fancy-work over the bosom, covered his
prodigious body, and was girt about the place where his waist might
once have been with a broad scarlet leather belt. Nankeen trousers,
displaying more white fancy-work over the ankles, and purple morocco
slippers, adorned his lower extremities. He was singing Figaro’s famous
song in the Barber of Seville, with that crisply fluent vocalisation
which is never heard from any other than an Italian throat,
accompanying himself on the concertina, which he played with ecstatic
throwings-up of his arms, and graceful twistings and turnings of his
head, like a fat St. Cecilia masquerading in male attire. “Figaro qua!
Figaro la! Figaro su! Figaro giu!” sang the Count, jauntily tossing
up the concertina at arm’s length, and bowing to us, on one side of
the instrument, with the airy grace and elegance of Figaro himself at
twenty years of age.

“Take my word for it, Laura, that man knows something of Sir Percival’s
embarrassments,” I said, as we returned the Count’s salutation from a
safe distance.

“What makes you think that?” she asked.

“How should he have known, otherwise, that Mr. Merriman was Sir
Percival’s solicitor?” I rejoined. “Besides, when I followed you out of
the luncheon-room, he told me, without a single word of inquiry on my
part, that something had happened. Depend upon it, he knows more than
we do.”

“Don’t ask him any questions if he does. Don’t take him into our
confidence!”

“You seem to dislike him, Laura, in a very determined manner. What has
he said or done to justify you?”

“Nothing, Marian. On the contrary, he was all kindness and attention
on our journey home, and he several times checked Sir Percival’s
outbreaks of temper, in the most considerate manner towards me. Perhaps
I dislike him because he has so much more power over my husband than
I have. Perhaps it hurts my pride to be under any obligations to his
interference. All I know is, that I DO dislike him.”

The rest of the day and evening passed quietly enough. The Count
and I played at chess. For the first two games he politely allowed
me to conquer him, and then, when he saw that I had found him out,
begged my pardon, and at the third game checkmated me in ten minutes.
Sir Percival never once referred, all through the evening, to the
lawyer’s visit. But either that event, or something else, had produced
a singular alteration for the better in him. He was as polite and
agreeable to all of us, as he used to be in the days of his probation
at Limmeridge, and he was so amazingly attentive and kind to his wife,
that even icy Madame Fosco was roused into looking at him with a grave
surprise. What does this mean? I think I can guess—I am afraid Laura
can guess—and I am sure Count Fosco knows. I caught Sir Percival
looking at him for approval more than once in the course of the evening.


June 17th.—A day of events. I most fervently hope I may not have to
add, a day of disasters as well.

Sir Percival was as silent at breakfast as he had been the evening
before, on the subject of the mysterious “arrangement” (as the lawyer
called it) which is hanging over our heads. An hour afterwards,
however, he suddenly entered the morning-room, where his wife and
I were waiting, with our hats on, for Madame Fosco to join us, and
inquired for the Count.

“We expect to see him here directly,” I said.

“The fact is,” Sir Percival went on, walking nervously about the
room, “I want Fosco and his wife in the library, for a mere business
formality, and I want you there, Laura, for a minute too.” He stopped,
and appeared to notice, for the first time, that we were in our walking
costume. “Have you just come in?” he asked, “or were you just going
out?”

“We were all thinking of going to the lake this morning,” said Laura.
“But if you have any other arrangement to propose——”

“No, no,” he answered hastily. “My arrangement can wait. After lunch
will do as well for it as after breakfast. All going to the lake, eh? A
good idea. Let’s have an idle morning—I’ll be one of the party.”

There was no mistaking his manner, even if it had been possible to
mistake the uncharacteristic readiness which his words expressed, to
submit his own plans and projects to the convenience of others. He was
evidently relieved at finding any excuse for delaying the business
formality in the library, to which his own words had referred. My heart
sank within me as I drew the inevitable inference.

The Count and his wife joined us at that moment. The lady had her
husband’s embroidered tobacco-pouch, and her store of paper in her
hand, for the manufacture of the eternal cigarettes. The gentleman,
dressed, as usual, in his blouse and straw hat, carried the gay little
pagoda-cage, with his darling white mice in it, and smiled on them, and
on us, with a bland amiability which it was impossible to resist.

“With your kind permission,” said the Count, “I will take my small
family here—my poor-little-harmless-pretty-Mouseys, out for an airing
along with us. There are dogs about the house, and shall I leave my
forlorn white children at the mercies of the dogs? Ah, never!”

He chirruped paternally at his small white children through the bars of
the pagoda, and we all left the house for the lake.

In the plantation Sir Percival strayed away from us. It seems to be
part of his restless disposition always to separate himself from his
companions on these occasions, and always to occupy himself when he is
alone in cutting new walking-sticks for his own use. The mere act of
cutting and lopping at hazard appears to please him. He has filled the
house with walking-sticks of his own making, not one of which he ever
takes up for a second time. When they have been once used his interest
in them is all exhausted, and he thinks of nothing but going on and
making more.

At the old boat-house he joined us again. I will put down the
conversation that ensued when we were all settled in our places
exactly as it passed. It is an important conversation, so far as I am
concerned, for it has seriously disposed me to distrust the influence
which Count Fosco has exercised over my thoughts and feelings, and to
resist it for the future as resolutely as I can.

The boat-house was large enough to hold us all, but Sir Percival
remained outside trimming the last new stick with his pocket-axe. We
three women found plenty of room on the large seat. Laura took her
work, and Madame Fosco began her cigarettes. I, as usual, had nothing
to do. My hands always were, and always will be, as awkward as a man’s.
The Count good-humouredly took a stool many sizes too small for him,
and balanced himself on it with his back against the side of the shed,
which creaked and groaned under his weight. He put the pagoda-cage
on his lap, and let out the mice to crawl over him as usual. They
are pretty, innocent-looking little creatures, but the sight of them
creeping about a man’s body is for some reason not pleasant to me. It
excites a strange responsive creeping in my own nerves, and suggests
hideous ideas of men dying in prison with the crawling creatures of the
dungeon preying on them undisturbed.

The morning was windy and cloudy, and the rapid alternations of shadow
and sunlight over the waste of the lake made the view look doubly wild,
weird, and gloomy.

“Some people call that picturesque,” said Sir Percival, pointing over
the wide prospect with his half-finished walking-stick. “I call it a
blot on a gentleman’s property. In my great-grandfather’s time the
lake flowed to this place. Look at it now! It is not four feet deep
anywhere, and it is all puddles and pools. I wish I could afford to
drain it, and plant it all over. My bailiff (a superstitious idiot)
says he is quite sure the lake has a curse on it, like the Dead Sea.
What do you think, Fosco? It looks just the place for a murder, doesn’t
it?”

“My good Percival,” remonstrated the Count. “What is your solid English
sense thinking of? The water is too shallow to hide the body, and there
is sand everywhere to print off the murderer’s footsteps. It is, upon
the whole, the very worst place for a murder that I ever set my eyes
on.”

“Humbug!” said Sir Percival, cutting away fiercely at his stick. “You
know what I mean. The dreary scenery, the lonely situation. If you
choose to understand me, you can—if you don’t choose, I am not going to
trouble myself to explain my meaning.”

“And why not,” asked the Count, “when your meaning can be explained by
anybody in two words? If a fool was going to commit a murder, your lake
is the first place he would choose for it. If a wise man was going to
commit a murder, your lake is the last place he would choose for it. Is
that your meaning? If it is, there is your explanation for you ready
made. Take it, Percival, with your good Fosco’s blessing.”

Laura looked at the Count with her dislike for him appearing a little
too plainly in her face. He was so busy with his mice that he did not
notice her.

“I am sorry to hear the lake-view connected with anything so horrible
as the idea of murder,” she said. “And if Count Fosco must divide
murderers into classes, I think he has been very unfortunate in his
choice of expressions. To describe them as fools only seems like
treating them with an indulgence to which they have no claim. And to
describe them as wise men sounds to me like a downright contradiction
in terms. I have always heard that truly wise men are truly good men,
and have a horror of crime.”

“My dear lady,” said the Count, “those are admirable sentiments, and I
have seen them stated at the tops of copy-books.” He lifted one of the
white mice in the palm of his hand, and spoke to it in his whimsical
way. “My pretty little smooth white rascal,” he said, “here is a moral
lesson for you. A truly wise mouse is a truly good mouse. Mention that,
if you please, to your companions, and never gnaw at the bars of your
cage again as long as you live.”

“It is easy to turn everything into ridicule,” said Laura resolutely;
“but you will not find it quite so easy, Count Fosco, to give me an
instance of a wise man who has been a great criminal.”

The Count shrugged his huge shoulders, and smiled on Laura in the
friendliest manner.

“Most true!” he said. “The fool’s crime is the crime that is found out,
and the wise man’s crime is the crime that is NOT found out. If I could
give you an instance, it would not be the instance of a wise man. Dear
Lady Glyde, your sound English common sense has been too much for me.
It is checkmate for me this time, Miss Halcombe—ha?”

“Stand to your guns, Laura,” sneered Sir Percival, who had been
listening in his place at the door. “Tell him next, that crimes cause
their own detection. There’s another bit of copy-book morality for you,
Fosco. Crimes cause their own detection. What infernal humbug!”

“I believe it to be true,” said Laura quietly.

Sir Percival burst out laughing, so violently, so outrageously, that he
quite startled us all—the Count more than any of us.

“I believe it too,” I said, coming to Laura’s rescue.

Sir Percival, who had been unaccountably amused at his wife’s remark,
was just as unaccountably irritated by mine. He struck the new stick
savagely on the sand, and walked away from us.

“Poor dear Percival!” cried Count Fosco, looking after him gaily,
“he is the victim of English spleen. But, my dear Miss Halcombe, my
dear Lady Glyde, do you really believe that crimes cause their own
detection? And you, my angel,” he continued, turning to his wife, who
had not uttered a word yet, “do you think so too?”

“I wait to be instructed,” replied the Countess, in tones of freezing
reproof, intended for Laura and me, “before I venture on giving my
opinion in the presence of well-informed men.”

“Do you, indeed?” I said. “I remember the time, Countess, when you
advocated the Rights of Women, and freedom of female opinion was one of
them.”

“What is your view of the subject, Count?” asked Madame Fosco, calmly
proceeding with her cigarettes, and not taking the least notice of me.

The Count stroked one of his white mice reflectively with his chubby
little finger before he answered.

“It is truly wonderful,” he said, “how easily Society can console
itself for the worst of its shortcomings with a little bit of
clap-trap. The machinery it has set up for the detection of crime is
miserably ineffective—and yet only invent a moral epigram, saying
that it works well, and you blind everybody to its blunders from
that moment. Crimes cause their own detection, do they? And murder
will out (another moral epigram), will it? Ask Coroners who sit at
inquests in large towns if that is true, Lady Glyde. Ask secretaries
of life-assurance companies if that is true, Miss Halcombe. Read your
own public journals. In the few cases that get into the newspapers,
are there not instances of slain bodies found, and no murderers ever
discovered? Multiply the cases that are reported by the cases that are
NOT reported, and the bodies that are found by the bodies that are
NOT found, and what conclusion do you come to? This. That there are
foolish criminals who are discovered, and wise criminals who escape.
The hiding of a crime, or the detection of a crime, what is it? A
trial of skill between the police on one side, and the individual on
the other. When the criminal is a brutal, ignorant fool, the police in
nine cases out of ten win. When the criminal is a resolute, educated,
highly-intelligent man, the police in nine cases out of ten lose. If
the police win, you generally hear all about it. If the police lose,
you generally hear nothing. And on this tottering foundation you build
up your comfortable moral maxim that Crime causes its own detection!
Yes—all the crime you know of. And what of the rest?”

“Devilish true, and very well put,” cried a voice at the entrance of
the boat-house. Sir Percival had recovered his equanimity, and had come
back while we were listening to the Count.

“Some of it may be true,” I said, “and all of it may be very well
put. But I don’t see why Count Fosco should celebrate the victory of
the criminal over Society with so much exultation, or why you, Sir
Percival, should applaud him so loudly for doing it.”

“Do you hear that, Fosco?” asked Sir Percival. “Take my advice,
and make your peace with your audience. Tell them virtue’s a fine
thing—they like that, I can promise you.”

The Count laughed inwardly and silently, and two of the white mice in
his waistcoat, alarmed by the internal convulsion going on beneath
them, darted out in a violent hurry, and scrambled into their cage
again.

“The ladies, my good Percival, shall tell me about virtue,” he said.
“They are better authorities than I am, for they know what virtue is,
and I don’t.”

“You hear him?” said Sir Percival. “Isn’t it awful?”

“It is true,” said the Count quietly. “I am a citizen of the world,
and I have met, in my time, with so many different sorts of virtue,
that I am puzzled, in my old age, to say which is the right sort
and which is the wrong. Here, in England, there is one virtue. And
there, in China, there is another virtue. And John Englishman says my
virtue is the genuine virtue. And John Chinaman says my virtue is the
genuine virtue. And I say Yes to one, or No to the other, and am just
as much bewildered about it in the case of John with the top-boots as
I am in the case of John with the pigtail. Ah, nice little Mousey!
come, kiss me. What is your own private notion of a virtuous man, my
pret-pret-pretty? A man who keeps you warm, and gives you plenty to
eat. And a good notion, too, for it is intelligible, at the least.”

“Stay a minute, Count,” I interposed. “Accepting your illustration,
surely we have one unquestionable virtue in England which is wanting in
China. The Chinese authorities kill thousands of innocent people on the
most frivolous pretexts. We in England are free from all guilt of that
kind—we commit no such dreadful crime—we abhor reckless bloodshed with
all our hearts.”

“Quite right, Marian,” said Laura. “Well thought of, and well
expressed.”

“Pray allow the Count to proceed,” said Madame Fosco, with stern
civility. “You will find, young ladies, that HE never speaks without
having excellent reasons for all that he says.”

“Thank you, my angel,” replied the Count. “Have a bon-bon?” He took out
of his pocket a pretty little inlaid box, and placed it open on the
table. “Chocolat a la Vanille,” cried the impenetrable man, cheerfully
rattling the sweetmeats in the box, and bowing all round. “Offered by
Fosco as an act of homage to the charming society.”

“Be good enough to go on, Count,” said his wife, with a spiteful
reference to myself. “Oblige me by answering Miss Halcombe.”

“Miss Halcombe is unanswerable,” replied the polite Italian; “that
is to say, so far as she goes. Yes! I agree with her. John Bull does
abhor the crimes of John Chinaman. He is the quickest old gentleman
at finding out faults that are his neighbours’, and the slowest old
gentleman at finding out the faults that are his own, who exists on
the face of creation. Is he so very much better in this way than the
people whom he condemns in their way? English Society, Miss Halcombe,
is as often the accomplice as it is the enemy of crime. Yes! yes! Crime
is in this country what crime is in other countries—a good friend
to a man and to those about him as often as it is an enemy. A great
rascal provides for his wife and family. The worse he is the more
he makes them the objects for your sympathy. He often provides also
for himself. A profligate spendthrift who is always borrowing money
will get more from his friends than the rigidly honest man who only
borrows of them once, under pressure of the direst want. In the one
case the friends will not be at all surprised, and they will give.
In the other case they will be very much surprised, and they will
hesitate. Is the prison that Mr. Scoundrel lives in at the end of his
career a more uncomfortable place than the workhouse that Mr. Honesty
lives in at the end of his career? When John-Howard-Philanthropist
wants to relieve misery he goes to find it in prisons, where crime is
wretched—not in huts and hovels, where virtue is wretched too. Who is
the English poet who has won the most universal sympathy—who makes the
easiest of all subjects for pathetic writing and pathetic painting?
That nice young person who began life with a forgery, and ended it
by a suicide—your dear, romantic, interesting Chatterton. Which gets
on best, do you think, of two poor starving dressmakers—the woman
who resists temptation and is honest, or the woman who falls under
temptation and steals? You all know that the stealing is the making of
that second woman’s fortune—it advertises her from length to breadth of
good-humoured, charitable England—and she is relieved, as the breaker
of a commandment, when she would have been left to starve, as the
keeper of it. Come here, my jolly little Mouse! Hey! presto! pass! I
transform you, for the time being, into a respectable lady. Stop there,
in the palm of my great big hand, my dear, and listen. You marry the
poor man whom you love, Mouse, and one half your friends pity, and the
other half blame you. And now, on the contrary, you sell yourself for
gold to a man you don’t care for, and all your friends rejoice over
you, and a minister of public worship sanctions the base horror of the
vilest of all human bargains, and smiles and smirks afterwards at your
table, if you are polite enough to ask him to breakfast. Hey! presto!
pass! Be a mouse again, and squeak. If you continue to be a lady much
longer, I shall have you telling me that Society abhors crime—and then,
Mouse, I shall doubt if your own eyes and ears are really of any use to
you. Ah! I am a bad man, Lady Glyde, am I not? I say what other people
only think, and when all the rest of the world is in a conspiracy to
accept the mask for the true face, mine is the rash hand that tears
off the plump pasteboard, and shows the bare bones beneath. I will get
up on my big elephant’s legs, before I do myself any more harm in your
amiable estimations—I will get up and take a little airy walk of my
own. Dear ladies, as your excellent Sheridan said, I go—and leave my
character behind me.”

He got up, put the cage on the table, and paused for a moment to count
the mice in it. “One, two, three, four——Ha!” he cried, with a look of
horror, “where, in the name of Heaven, is the fifth—the youngest, the
whitest, the most amiable of all—my Benjamin of mice!”

Neither Laura nor I were in any favorable disposition to be amused.
The Count’s glib cynicism had revealed a new aspect of his nature from
which we both recoiled. But it was impossible to resist the comical
distress of so very large a man at the loss of so very small a mouse.
We laughed in spite of ourselves; and when Madame Fosco rose to set
the example of leaving the boat-house empty, so that her husband might
search it to its remotest corners, we rose also to follow her out.

Before we had taken three steps, the Count’s quick eye discovered the
lost mouse under the seat that we had been occupying. He pulled aside
the bench, took the little animal up in his hand, and then suddenly
stopped, on his knees, looking intently at a particular place on the
ground just beneath him.

When he rose to his feet again, his hand shook so that he could hardly
put the mouse back in the cage, and his face was of a faint livid
yellow hue all over.

“Percival!” he said, in a whisper. “Percival! come here.”

Sir Percival had paid no attention to any of us for the last ten
minutes. He had been entirely absorbed in writing figures on the sand,
and then rubbing them out again with the point of his stick.

“What’s the matter now?” he asked, lounging carelessly into the
boat-house.

“Do you see nothing there?” said the Count, catching him nervously by
the collar with one hand, and pointing with the other to the place near
which he had found the mouse.

“I see plenty of dry sand,” answered Sir Percival, “and a spot of dirt
in the middle of it.”

“Not dirt,” whispered the Count, fastening the other hand suddenly on
Sir Percival’s collar, and shaking it in his agitation. “Blood.”

Laura was near enough to hear the last word, softly as he whispered it.
She turned to me with a look of terror.

“Nonsense, my dear,” I said. “There is no need to be alarmed. It is
only the blood of a poor little stray dog.”

Everybody was astonished, and everybody’s eyes were fixed on me
inquiringly.

“How do you know that?” asked Sir Percival, speaking first.

“I found the dog here, dying, on the day when you all returned from
abroad,” I replied. “The poor creature had strayed into the plantation,
and had been shot by your keeper.”

“Whose dog was it?” inquired Sir Percival. “Not one of mine?”

“Did you try to save the poor thing?” asked Laura earnestly. “Surely
you tried to save it, Marian?”

“Yes,” I said, “the housekeeper and I both did our best—but the dog was
mortally wounded, and he died under our hands.”

“Whose dog was it?” persisted Sir Percival, repeating his question a
little irritably. “One of mine?”

“No, not one of yours.”

“Whose then? Did the housekeeper know?”

The housekeeper’s report of Mrs. Catherick’s desire to conceal her
visit to Blackwater Park from Sir Percival’s knowledge recurred to my
memory the moment he put that last question, and I half doubted the
discretion of answering it; but in my anxiety to quiet the general
alarm, I had thoughtlessly advanced too far to draw back, except at the
risk of exciting suspicion, which might only make matters worse. There
was nothing for it but to answer at once, without reference to results.

“Yes,” I said. “The housekeeper knew. She told me it was Mrs.
Catherick’s dog.”

Sir Percival had hitherto remained at the inner end of the boat-house
with Count Fosco, while I spoke to him from the door. But the instant
Mrs. Catherick’s name passed my lips he pushed by the Count roughly,
and placed himself face to face with me under the open daylight.

“How came the housekeeper to know it was Mrs. Catherick’s dog?” he
asked, fixing his eyes on mine with a frowning interest and attention,
which half angered, half startled me.

“She knew it,” I said quietly, “because Mrs. Catherick brought the dog
with her.”

“Brought it with her? Where did she bring it with her?”

“To this house.”

“What the devil did Mrs. Catherick want at this house?”

The manner in which he put the question was even more offensive than
the language in which he expressed it. I marked my sense of his want of
common politeness by silently turning away from him.

Just as I moved the Count’s persuasive hand was laid on his shoulder,
and the Count’s mellifluous voice interposed to quiet him.

“My dear Percival!—gently—gently!”

Sir Percival looked round in his angriest manner. The Count only smiled
and repeated the soothing application.

“Gently, my good friend—gently!”

Sir Percival hesitated, followed me a few steps, and, to my great
surprise, offered me an apology.

“I beg your pardon, Miss Halcombe,” he said. “I have been out of order
lately, and I am afraid I am a little irritable. But I should like to
know what Mrs. Catherick could possibly want here. When did she come?
Was the housekeeper the only person who saw her?”

“The only person,” I answered, “so far as I know.”

The Count interposed again.

“In that case why not question the housekeeper?” he said. “Why not go,
Percival, to the fountain-head of information at once?”

“Quite right!” said Sir Percival. “Of course the housekeeper is the
first person to question. Excessively stupid of me not to see it
myself.” With those words he instantly left us to return to the house.

The motive of the Count’s interference, which had puzzled me at
first, betrayed itself when Sir Percival’s back was turned. He had a
host of questions to put to me about Mrs. Catherick, and the cause
of her visit to Blackwater Park, which he could scarcely have asked
in his friend’s presence. I made my answers as short as I civilly
could, for I had already determined to check the least approach to
any exchanging of confidences between Count Fosco and myself. Laura,
however, unconsciously helped him to extract all my information, by
making inquiries herself, which left me no alternative but to reply
to her, or to appear in the very unenviable and very false character
of a depositary of Sir Percival’s secrets. The end of it was, that,
in about ten minutes’ time, the Count knew as much as I know of Mrs.
Catherick, and of the events which have so strangely connected us with
her daughter, Anne, from the time when Hartright met with her to this
day.

The effect of my information on him was, in one respect, curious enough.

Intimately as he knows Sir Percival, and closely as he appears to
be associated with Sir Percival’s private affairs in general, he is
certainly as far as I am from knowing anything of the true story of
Anne Catherick. The unsolved mystery in connection with this unhappy
woman is now rendered doubly suspicious, in my eyes, by the absolute
conviction which I feel, that the clue to it has been hidden by
Sir Percival from the most intimate friend he has in the world. It
was impossible to mistake the eager curiosity of the Count’s look
and manner while he drank in greedily every word that fell from my
lips. There are many kinds of curiosity, I know—but there is no
misinterpreting the curiosity of blank surprise: if I ever saw it in my
life I saw it in the Count’s face.

While the questions and answers were going on, we had all been
strolling quietly back through the plantation. As soon as we reached
the house the first object that we saw in front of it was Sir
Percival’s dog-cart, with the horse put to and the groom waiting by
it in his stable-jacket. If these unexpected appearances were to be
trusted, the examination of the house-keeper had produced important
results already.

“A fine horse, my friend,” said the Count, addressing the groom with
the most engaging familiarity of manner, “You are going to drive out?”

“I am not going, sir,” replied the man, looking at his stable-jacket,
and evidently wondering whether the foreign gentleman took it for his
livery. “My master drives himself.”

“Aha!” said the Count, “does he indeed? I wonder he gives himself the
trouble when he has got you to drive for him. Is he going to fatigue
that nice, shining, pretty horse by taking him very far to-day?”

“I don’t know, sir,” answered the man. “The horse is a mare, if you
please, sir. She’s the highest-couraged thing we’ve got in the stables.
Her name’s Brown Molly, sir, and she’ll go till she drops. Sir Percival
usually takes Isaac of York for the short distances.”

“And your shining courageous Brown Molly for the long?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Logical inference, Miss Halcombe,” continued the Count, wheeling round
briskly, and addressing me. “Sir Percival is going a long distance
to-day.”

I made no reply. I had my own inferences to draw, from what I knew
through the housekeeper and from what I saw before me, and I did not
choose to share them with Count Fosco.

When Sir Percival was in Cumberland (I thought to myself), he walked
away a long distance, on Anne’s account, to question the family at
Todd’s Corner. Now he is in Hampshire, is he going to drive away a
long distance, on Anne’s account again, to question Mrs. Catherick at
Welmingham?

We all entered the house. As we crossed the hall Sir Percival came out
from the library to meet us. He looked hurried and pale and anxious—but
for all that, he was in his most polite mood when he spoke to us.

“I am sorry to say I am obliged to leave you,” he began—“a long drive—a
matter that I can’t very well put off. I shall be back in good time
to-morrow—but before I go I should like that little business-formality,
which I spoke of this morning, to be settled. Laura, will you come into
the library? It won’t take a minute—a mere formality. Countess, may I
trouble you also? I want you and the Countess, Fosco, to be witnesses
to a signature—nothing more. Come in at once and get it over.”

He held the library door open until they had passed in, followed them,
and shut it softly.

I remained, for a moment afterwards, standing alone in the hall, with
my heart beating fast and my mind misgiving me sadly. Then I went on to
the staircase, and ascended slowly to my own room.



IV

June 17th.—Just as my hand was on the door of my room, I heard Sir
Percival’s voice calling to me from below.

“I must beg you to come downstairs again,” he said. “It is Fosco’s
fault, Miss Halcombe, not mine. He has started some nonsensical
objection to his wife being one of the witnesses, and has obliged me to
ask you to join us in the library.”

I entered the room immediately with Sir Percival. Laura was waiting
by the writing-table, twisting and turning her garden hat uneasily in
her hands. Madame Fosco sat near her, in an arm-chair, imperturbably
admiring her husband, who stood by himself at the other end of the
library, picking off the dead leaves from the flowers in the window.

The moment I appeared the Count advanced to meet me, and to offer his
explanations.

“A thousand pardons, Miss Halcombe,” he said. “You know the character
which is given to my countrymen by the English? We Italians are all
wily and suspicious by nature, in the estimation of the good John Bull.
Set me down, if you please, as being no better than the rest of my
race. I am a wily Italian and a suspicious Italian. You have thought so
yourself, dear lady, have you not? Well! it is part of my wiliness and
part of my suspicion to object to Madame Fosco being a witness to Lady
Glyde’s signature, when I am also a witness myself.”

“There is not the shadow of a reason for his objection,” interposed
Sir Percival. “I have explained to him that the law of England allows
Madame Fosco to witness a signature as well as her husband.”

“I admit it,” resumed the Count. “The law of England says, Yes, but the
conscience of Fosco says, No.” He spread out his fat fingers on the
bosom of his blouse, and bowed solemnly, as if he wished to introduce
his conscience to us all, in the character of an illustrious addition
to the society. “What this document which Lady Glyde is about to sign
may be,” he continued, “I neither know nor desire to know. I only say
this, circumstances may happen in the future which may oblige Percival,
or his representatives, to appeal to the two witnesses, in which case
it is certainly desirable that those witnesses should represent two
opinions which are perfectly independent the one of the other. This
cannot be if my wife signs as well as myself, because we have but
one opinion between us, and that opinion is mine. I will not have it
cast in my teeth, at some future day, that Madame Fosco acted under
my coercion, and was, in plain fact, no witness at all. I speak in
Percival’s interest, when I propose that my name shall appear (as the
nearest friend of the husband), and your name, Miss Halcombe (as the
nearest friend of the wife). I am a Jesuit, if you please to think so—a
splitter of straws—a man of trifles and crochets and scruples—but you
will humour me, I hope, in merciful consideration for my suspicious
Italian character, and my uneasy Italian conscience.” He bowed again,
stepped back a few paces, and withdrew his conscience from our society
as politely as he had introduced it.

The Count’s scruples might have been honourable and reasonable enough,
but there was something in his manner of expressing them which
increased my unwillingness to be concerned in the business of the
signature. No consideration of less importance than my consideration
for Laura would have induced me to consent to be a witness at all. One
look, however, at her anxious face decided me to risk anything rather
than desert her.

“I will readily remain in the room,” I said. “And if I find no reason
for starting any small scruples on my side, you may rely on me as a
witness.”

Sir Percival looked at me sharply, as if he was about to say something.
But at the same moment, Madame Fosco attracted his attention by rising
from her chair. She had caught her husband’s eye, and had evidently
received her orders to leave the room.

“You needn’t go,” said Sir Percival.

Madame Fosco looked for her orders again, got them again, said she
would prefer leaving us to our business, and resolutely walked out.
The Count lit a cigarette, went back to the flowers in the window, and
puffed little jets of smoke at the leaves, in a state of the deepest
anxiety about killing the insects.

Meanwhile Sir Percival unlocked a cupboard beneath one of the
book-cases, and produced from it a piece of parchment, folded longwise,
many times over. He placed it on the table, opened the last fold only,
and kept his hand on the rest. The last fold displayed a strip of blank
parchment with little wafers stuck on it at certain places. Every line
of the writing was hidden in the part which he still held folded up
under his hand. Laura and I looked at each other. Her face was pale,
but it showed no indecision and no fear.

Sir Percival dipped a pen in ink, and handed it to his wife. “Sign your
name there,” he said, pointing to the place. “You and Fosco are to sign
afterwards, Miss Halcombe, opposite those two wafers. Come here, Fosco!
witnessing a signature is not to be done by mooning out of window and
smoking into the flowers.”

The Count threw away his cigarette, and joined us at the table, with
his hands carelessly thrust into the scarlet belt of his blouse, and
his eyes steadily fixed on Sir Percival’s face. Laura, who was on the
other side of her husband, with the pen in her hand, looked at him too.
He stood between them holding the folded parchment down firmly on the
table, and glancing across at me, as I sat opposite to him, with such
a sinister mixture of suspicion and embarrassment on his face that he
looked more like a prisoner at the bar than a gentleman in his own
house.

“Sign there,” he repeated, turning suddenly on Laura, and pointing once
more to the place on the parchment.

“What is it I am to sign?” she asked quietly.

“I have no time to explain,” he answered. “The dog-cart is at
the door, and I must go directly. Besides, if I had time, you
wouldn’t understand. It is a purely formal document, full of legal
technicalities, and all that sort of thing. Come! come! sign your name,
and let us have done as soon as possible.”

“I ought surely to know what I am signing, Sir Percival, before I write
my name?”

“Nonsense! What have women to do with business? I tell you again, you
can’t understand it.”

“At any rate, let me try to understand it. Whenever Mr. Gilmore had
any business for me to do, he always explained it first, and I always
understood him.”

“I dare say he did. He was your servant, and was obliged to explain.
I am your husband, and am NOT obliged. How much longer do you mean
to keep me here? I tell you again, there is no time for reading
anything—the dog-cart is waiting at the door. Once for all, will you
sign or will you not?”

She still had the pen in her hand, but she made no approach to signing
her name with it.

“If my signature pledges me to anything,” she said, “surely I have some
claim to know what that pledge is?”

He lifted up the parchment, and struck it angrily on the table.

“Speak out!” he said. “You were always famous for telling the truth.
Never mind Miss Halcombe, never mind Fosco—say, in plain terms, you
distrust me.”

The Count took one of his hands out of his belt and laid it on Sir
Percival’s shoulder. Sir Percival shook it off irritably. The Count put
it on again with unruffled composure.

“Control your unfortunate temper, Percival,” he said, “Lady Glyde is
right.”

“Right!” cried Sir Percival. “A wife right in distrusting her husband!”

“It is unjust and cruel to accuse me of distrusting you,” said Laura.
“Ask Marian if I am not justified in wanting to know what this writing
requires of me before I sign it.”

“I won’t have any appeals made to Miss Halcombe,” retorted Sir
Percival. “Miss Halcombe has nothing to do with the matter.”

I had not spoken hitherto, and I would much rather not have spoken
now. But the expression of distress in Laura’s face when she turned it
towards me, and the insolent injustice of her husband’s conduct, left
me no other alternative than to give my opinion, for her sake, as soon
as I was asked for it.

“Excuse me, Sir Percival,” I said—“but as one of the witnesses to
the signature, I venture to think that I HAVE something to do with
the matter. Laura’s objection seems to me a perfectly fair one, and
speaking for myself only, I cannot assume the responsibility of
witnessing her signature, unless she first understands what the writing
is which you wish her to sign.”

“A cool declaration, upon my soul!” cried Sir Percival. “The next time
you invite yourself to a man’s house, Miss Halcombe, I recommend you
not to repay his hospitality by taking his wife’s side against him in a
matter that doesn’t concern you.”

I started to my feet as suddenly as if he had struck me. If I had been
a man, I would have knocked him down on the threshold of his own door,
and have left his house, never on any earthly consideration to enter it
again. But I was only a woman—and I loved his wife so dearly!

Thank God, that faithful love helped me, and I sat down again without
saying a word. SHE knew what I had suffered and what I had suppressed.
She ran round to me, with the tears streaming from her eyes. “Oh,
Marian!” she whispered softly. “If my mother had been alive, she could
have done no more for me!”

“Come back and sign!” cried Sir Percival from the other side of the
table.

“Shall I?” she asked in my ear; “I will, if you tell me.”

“No,” I answered. “The right and the truth are with you—sign nothing,
unless you have read it first.”

“Come back and sign!” he reiterated, in his loudest and angriest tones.

The Count, who had watched Laura and me with a close and silent
attention, interposed for the second time.

“Percival!” he said. “I remember that I am in the presence of ladies.
Be good enough, if you please, to remember it too.”

Sir Percival turned on him speechless with passion. The Count’s firm
hand slowly tightened its grasp on his shoulder, and the Count’s steady
voice quietly repeated, “Be good enough, if you please, to remember it
too.”

They both looked at each other. Sir Percival slowly drew his shoulder
from under the Count’s hand, slowly turned his face away from the
Count’s eyes, doggedly looked down for a little while at the parchment
on the table, and then spoke, with the sullen submission of a tamed
animal, rather than the becoming resignation of a convinced man.

“I don’t want to offend anybody,” he said, “but my wife’s obstinacy
is enough to try the patience of a saint. I have told her this is
merely a formal document—and what more can she want? You may say what
you please, but it is no part of a woman’s duty to set her husband at
defiance. Once more, Lady Glyde, and for the last time, will you sign
or will you not?”

Laura returned to his side of the table, and took up the pen again.

“I will sign with pleasure,” she said, “if you will only treat me as a
responsible being. I care little what sacrifice is required of me, if
it will affect no one else, and lead to no ill results—”

“Who talked of a sacrifice being required of you?” he broke in, with a
half-suppressed return of his former violence.

“I only meant,” she resumed, “that I would refuse no concession which
I could honourably make. If I have a scruple about signing my name to
an engagement of which I know nothing, why should you visit it on me so
severely? It is rather hard, I think, to treat Count Fosco’s scruples
so much more indulgently than you have treated mine.”

This unfortunate, yet most natural, reference to the Count’s
extraordinary power over her husband, indirect as it was, set Sir
Percival’s smouldering temper on fire again in an instant.

“Scruples!” he repeated. “YOUR scruples! It is rather late in the day
for you to be scrupulous. I should have thought you had got over all
weakness of that sort, when you made a virtue of necessity by marrying
me.”

The instant he spoke those words, Laura threw down the pen—looked at
him with an expression in her eyes which, throughout all my experience
of her, I had never seen in them before, and turned her back on him in
dead silence.

This strong expression of the most open and the most bitter contempt
was so entirely unlike herself, so utterly out of her character, that
it silenced us all. There was something hidden, beyond a doubt, under
the mere surface-brutality of the words which her husband had just
addressed to her. There was some lurking insult beneath them, of which
I was wholly ignorant, but which had left the mark of its profanation
so plainly on her face that even a stranger might have seen it.

The Count, who was no stranger, saw it as distinctly as I did. When I
left my chair to join Laura, I heard him whisper under his breath to
Sir Percival, “You idiot!”

Laura walked before me to the door as I advanced, and at the same time
her husband spoke to her once more.

“You positively refuse, then, to give me your signature?” he said, in
the altered tone of a man who was conscious that he had let his own
licence of language seriously injure him.

“After what you have just said to me,” she replied firmly, “I refuse my
signature until I have read every line in that parchment from the first
word to the last. Come away, Marian, we have remained here long enough.”

“One moment!” interposed the Count before Sir Percival could speak
again—“one moment, Lady Glyde, I implore you!”

Laura would have left the room without noticing him, but I stopped her.

“Don’t make an enemy of the Count!” I whispered. “Whatever you do,
don’t make an enemy of the Count!”

She yielded to me. I closed the door again, and we stood near it
waiting. Sir Percival sat down at the table, with his elbow on the
folded parchment, and his head resting on his clenched fist. The Count
stood between us—master of the dreadful position in which we were
placed, as he was master of everything else.

“Lady Glyde,” he said, with a gentleness which seemed to address itself
to our forlorn situation instead of to ourselves, “pray pardon me if
I venture to offer one suggestion, and pray believe that I speak out
of my profound respect and my friendly regard for the mistress of this
house.” He turned sharply towards Sir Percival. “Is it absolutely
necessary,” he asked, “that this thing here, under your elbow, should
be signed to-day?”

“It is necessary to my plans and wishes,” returned the other sulkily.
“But that consideration, as you may have noticed, has no influence with
Lady Glyde.”

“Answer my plain question plainly. Can the business of the signature be
put off till to-morrow—Yes or No?”

“Yes, if you will have it so.”

“Then what are you wasting your time for here? Let the signature wait
till to-morrow—let it wait till you come back.”

Sir Percival looked up with a frown and an oath.

“You are taking a tone with me that I don’t like,” he said. “A tone I
won’t bear from any man.”

“I am advising you for your good,” returned the Count, with a smile
of quiet contempt. “Give yourself time—give Lady Glyde time. Have you
forgotten that your dog-cart is waiting at the door? My tone surprises
you—ha? I dare say it does—it is the tone of a man who can keep his
temper. How many doses of good advice have I given you in my time? More
than you can count. Have I ever been wrong? I defy you to quote me an
instance of it. Go! take your drive. The matter of the signature can
wait till to-morrow. Let it wait—and renew it when you come back.”

Sir Percival hesitated and looked at his watch. His anxiety about the
secret journey which he was to take that day, revived by the Count’s
words, was now evidently disputing possession of his mind with his
anxiety to obtain Laura’s signature. e considered for a little while,
and then got up from his chair.

“It is easy to argue me down,” he said, “when I have no time to answer
you. I will take your advice, Fosco—not because I want it, or believe
in it, but because I can’t stop here any longer.” He paused, and looked
round darkly at his wife. “If you don’t give me your signature when I
come back to-morrow—!” The rest was lost in the noise of his opening
the book-case cupboard again, and locking up the parchment once more.
He took his hat and gloves off the table, and made for the door. Laura
and I drew back to let him pass. “Remember to-morrow!” he said to his
wife, and went out.

We waited to give him time to cross the hall and drive away. The Count
approached us while we were standing near the door.

“You have just seen Percival at his worst, Miss Halcombe,” he said.
“As his old friend, I am sorry for him and ashamed of him. As his old
friend, I promise you that he shall not break out to-morrow in the same
disgraceful manner in which he has broken out to-day.”

Laura had taken my arm while he was speaking and she pressed it
significantly when he had done. It would have been a hard trial to any
woman to stand by and see the office of apologist for her husband’s
misconduct quietly assumed by his male friend in her own house—and
it was a trial to HER. I thanked the Count civilly, and let her out.
Yes! I thanked him: for I felt already, with a sense of inexpressible
helplessness and humiliation, that it was either his interest or his
caprice to make sure of my continuing to reside at Blackwater Park, and
I knew after Sir Percival’s conduct to me, that without the support of
the Count’s influence, I could not hope to remain there. His influence,
the influence of all others that I dreaded most, was actually the one
tie which now held me to Laura in the hour of her utmost need!

We heard the wheels of the dog-cart crashing on the gravel of the drive
as we came into the hall. Sir Percival had started on his journey.

“Where is he going to, Marian?” Laura whispered. “Every fresh thing he
does seems to terrify me about the future. Have you any suspicions?”

After what she had undergone that morning, I was unwilling to tell her
my suspicions.

“How should I know his secrets?” I said evasively.

“I wonder if the housekeeper knows?” she persisted.

“Certainly not,” I replied. “She must be quite as ignorant as we are.”

Laura shook her head doubtfully.

“Did you not hear from the housekeeper that there was a report of Anne
Catherick having been seen in this neighbourhood? Don’t you think he
may have gone away to look for her?”

“I would rather compose myself, Laura, by not thinking about it at all,
and after what has happened, you had better follow my example. Come
into my room, and rest and quiet yourself a little.”

We sat down together close to the window, and let the fragrant summer
air breathe over our faces.

“I am ashamed to look at you, Marian,” she said, “after what you
submitted to downstairs, for my sake. Oh, my own love, I am almost
heartbroken when I think of it! But I will try to make it up to you—I
will indeed!”

“Hush! hush!” I replied; “don’t talk so. What is the trifling
mortification of my pride compared to the dreadful sacrifice of your
happiness?”

“You heard what he said to me?” she went on quickly and vehemently.
“You heard the words—but you don’t know what they meant—you don’t know
why I threw down the pen and turned my back on him.” She rose in sudden
agitation, and walked about the room. “I have kept many things from
your knowledge, Marian, for fear of distressing you, and making you
unhappy at the outset of our new lives. You don’t know how he has used
me. And yet you ought to know, for you saw how he used me to-day. You
heard him sneer at my presuming to be scrupulous—you heard him say I
had made a virtue of necessity in marrying him.” She sat down again,
her face flushed deeply, and her hands twisted and twined together in
her lap. “I can’t tell you about it now,” she said; “I shall burst
out crying if I tell you now—later, Marian, when I am more sure of
myself. My poor head aches, darling—aches, aches, aches. Where is your
smelling-bottle? Let me talk to you about yourself. I wish I had given
him my signature, for your sake. Shall I give it to him to-morrow? I
would rather compromise myself than compromise you. After your taking
my part against him, he will lay all the blame on you if I refuse
again. What shall we do? Oh, for a friend to help us and advise us!—a
friend we could really trust!”

She sighed bitterly. I saw in her face that she was thinking of
Hartright—saw it the more plainly because her last words set me
thinking of him too. In six months only from her marriage we wanted the
faithful service he had offered to us in his farewell words. How little
I once thought that we should ever want it at all!

“We must do what we can to help ourselves,” I said. “Let us try to talk
it over calmly, Laura—let us do all in our power to decide for the
best.”

Putting what she knew of her husband’s embarrassments and what I
had heard of his conversation with the lawyer together, we arrived
necessarily at the conclusion that the parchment in the library had
been drawn up for the purpose of borrowing money, and that Laura’s
signature was absolutely necessary to fit it for the attainment of Sir
Percival’s object.

The second question, concerning the nature of the legal contract
by which the money was to be obtained, and the degree of personal
responsibility to which Laura might subject herself if she signed it in
the dark, involved considerations which lay far beyond any knowledge
and experience that either of us possessed. My own convictions led
me to believe that the hidden contents of the parchment concealed a
transaction of the meanest and the most fraudulent kind.

I had not formed this conclusion in consequence of Sir Percival’s
refusal to show the writing or to explain it, for that refusal might
well have proceeded from his obstinate disposition and his domineering
temper alone. My sole motive for distrusting his honesty sprang from
the change which I had observed in his language and his manners at
Blackwater Park, a change which convinced me that he had been acting a
part throughout the whole period of his probation at Limmeridge House.
His elaborate delicacy, his ceremonious politeness which harmonised so
agreeably with Mr. Gilmore’s old-fashioned notions, his modesty with
Laura, his candour with me, his moderation with Mr. Fairlie—all these
were the artifices of a mean, cunning, and brutal man, who had dropped
his disguise when his practised duplicity had gained its end, and had
openly shown himself in the library on that very day. I say nothing of
the grief which this discovery caused me on Laura’s account, for it is
not to be expressed by any words of mine. I only refer to it at all,
because it decided me to oppose her signing the parchment, whatever the
consequences might be, unless she was first made acquainted with the
contents.

Under these circumstances, the one chance for us when to-morrow came
was to be provided with an objection to giving the signature, which
might rest on sufficiently firm commercial or legal grounds to shake
Sir Percival’s resolution, and to make him suspect that we two women
understood the laws and obligations of business as well as himself.

After some pondering, I determined to write to the only honest man
within reach whom we could trust to help us discreetly in our forlorn
situation. That man was Mr. Gilmore’s partner, Mr. Kyrle, who conducted
the business now that our old friend had been obliged to withdraw from
it, and to leave London on account of his health. I explained to Laura
that I had Mr. Gilmore’s own authority for placing implicit confidence
in his partner’s integrity, discretion, and accurate knowledge of all
her affairs, and with her full approval I sat down at once to write
the letter, I began by stating our position to Mr. Kyrle exactly as
it was, and then asked for his advice in return, expressed in plain,
downright terms which he could comprehend without any danger of
misinterpretations and mistakes. My letter was as short as I could
possibly make it, and was, I hope, unencumbered by needless apologies
and needless details.

Just as I was about to put the address on the envelope an obstacle was
discovered by Laura, which in the effort and preoccupation of writing
had escaped my mind altogether.

“How are we to get the answer in time?” she asked. “Your letter will
not be delivered in London before to-morrow morning, and the post will
not bring the reply here till the morning after.”

The only way of overcoming this difficulty was to have the answer
brought to us from the lawyer’s office by a special messenger. I wrote
a postscript to that effect, begging that the messenger might be
despatched with the reply by the eleven o’clock morning train, which
would bring him to our station at twenty minutes past one, and so
enable him to reach Blackwater Park by two o’clock at the latest. He
was to be directed to ask for me, to answer no questions addressed to
him by any one else, and to deliver his letter into no hands but mine.

“In case Sir Percival should come back to-morrow before two o’clock,”
I said to Laura, “the wisest plan for you to adopt is to be out in
the grounds all the morning with your book or your work, and not to
appear at the house till the messenger has had time to arrive with the
letter. I will wait here for him all the morning, to guard against any
misadventures or mistakes. By following this arrangement I hope and
believe we shall avoid being taken by surprise. Let us go down to the
drawing-room now. We may excite suspicion if we remain shut up together
too long.”

“Suspicion?” she repeated. “Whose suspicion can we excite, now that Sir
Percival has left the house? Do you mean Count Fosco?”

“Perhaps I do, Laura.”

“You are beginning to dislike him as much as I do, Marian.”

“No, not to dislike him. Dislike is always more or less associated with
contempt—I can see nothing in the Count to despise.”

“You are not afraid of him, are you?”

“Perhaps I am—a little.”

“Afraid of him, after his interference in our favour to-day!”

“Yes. I am more afraid of his interference than I am of Sir Percival’s
violence. Remember what I said to you in the library. Whatever you do,
Laura, don’t make an enemy of the Count!”

We went downstairs. Laura entered the drawing-room, while I proceeded
across the hall, with my letter in my hand, to put it into the
post-bag, which hung against the wall opposite to me.

The house door was open, and as I crossed past it, I saw Count Fosco
and his wife standing talking together on the steps outside, with their
faces turned towards me.

The Countess came into the hall rather hastily, and asked if I had
leisure enough for five minutes’ private conversation. Feeling a little
surprised by such an appeal from such a person, I put my letter into
the bag, and replied that I was quite at her disposal. She took my arm
with unaccustomed friendliness and familiarity, and instead of leading
me into an empty room, drew me out with her to the belt of turf which
surrounded the large fish-pond.

As we passed the Count on the steps he bowed and smiled, and then went
at once into the house, pushing the hall door to after him, but not
actually closing it.

The Countess walked me gently round the fish-pond. I expected to
be made the depositary of some extraordinary confidence, and I was
astonished to find that Madame Fosco’s communication for my private
ear was nothing more than a polite assurance of her sympathy for me,
after what had happened in the library. Her husband had told her of all
that had passed, and of the insolent manner in which Sir Percival had
spoken to me. This information had so shocked and distressed her, on my
account and on Laura’s, that she had made up her mind, if anything of
the sort happened again, to mark her sense of Sir Percival’s outrageous
conduct by leaving the house. The Count had approved of her idea, and
she now hoped that I approved of it too.

I thought this a very strange proceeding on the part of such a
remarkably reserved woman as Madame Fosco, especially after the
interchange of sharp speeches which had passed between us during the
conversation in the boat-house on that very morning. However, it was
my plain duty to meet a polite and friendly advance on the part of one
of my elders with a polite and friendly reply. I answered the Countess
accordingly in her own tone, and then, thinking we had said all that
was necessary on either side, made an attempt to get back to the house.

But Madame Fosco seemed resolved not to part with me, and to my
unspeakable amazement, resolved also to talk. Hitherto the most silent
of women, she now persecuted me with fluent conventionalities on the
subject of married life, on the subject of Sir Percival and Laura,
on the subject of her own happiness, on the subject of the late Mr.
Fairlie’s conduct to her in the matter of her legacy, and on half a
dozen other subjects besides, until she had detained me walking round
and round the fish-pond for more than half an hour, and had quite
wearied me out. Whether she discovered this or not, I cannot say, but
she stopped as abruptly as she had begun—looked towards the house
door, resumed her icy manner in a moment, and dropped my arm of her
own accord before I could think of an excuse for accomplishing my own
release from her.

As I pushed open the door and entered the hall, I found myself suddenly
face to face with the Count again. He was just putting a letter into
the post-bag.

After he had dropped it in and had closed the bag, he asked me where
I had left Madame Fosco. I told him, and he went out at the hall door
immediately to join his wife. His manner when he spoke to me was
so unusually quiet and subdued that I turned and looked after him,
wondering if he were ill or out of spirits.

Why my next proceeding was to go straight up to the post-bag and take
out my own letter and look at it again, with a vague distrust on me,
and why the looking at it for the second time instantly suggested the
idea to my mind of sealing the envelope for its greater security—are
mysteries which are either too deep or too shallow for me to fathom.
Women, as everybody knows, constantly act on impulses which they cannot
explain even to themselves, and I can only suppose that one of those
impulses was the hidden cause of my unaccountable conduct on this
occasion.

Whatever influence animated me, I found cause to congratulate myself
on having obeyed it as soon as I prepared to seal the letter in my
own room. I had originally closed the envelope in the usual way by
moistening the adhesive point and pressing it on the paper beneath,
and when I now tried it with my finger, after a lapse of full
three-quarters of an hour, the envelope opened on the instant, without
sticking or tearing. Perhaps I had fastened it insufficiently? Perhaps
there might have been some defect in the adhesive gum?

Or, perhaps——No! it is quite revolting enough to feel that third
conjecture stirring in my mind. I would rather not see it confronting
me in plain black and white.

I almost dread to-morrow—so much depends on my discretion and
self-control. There are two precautions, at all events, which I am sure
not to forget. I must be careful to keep up friendly appearances with
the Count, and I must be well on my guard when the messenger from the
office comes here with the answer to my letter.



V

June 17th.—When the dinner hour brought us together again, Count Fosco
was in his usual excellent spirits. He exerted himself to interest
and amuse us, as if he was determined to efface from our memories all
recollection of what had passed in the library that afternoon. Lively
descriptions of his adventures in travelling, amusing anecdotes of
remarkable people whom he had met with abroad, quaint comparisons
between the social customs of various nations, illustrated by
examples drawn from men and women indiscriminately all over Europe,
humorous confessions of the innocent follies of his own early life,
when he ruled the fashions of a second-rate Italian town, and wrote
preposterous romances on the French model for a second-rate Italian
newspaper—all flowed in succession so easily and so gaily from his
lips, and all addressed our various curiosities and various interests
so directly and so delicately, that Laura and I listened to him with
as much attention and, inconsistent as it may seem, with as much
admiration also, as Madame Fosco herself. Women can resist a man’s
love, a man’s fame, a man’s personal appearance, and a man’s money, but
they cannot resist a man’s tongue when he knows how to talk to them.

After dinner, while the favourable impression which he had produced on
us was still vivid in our minds, the Count modestly withdrew to read in
the library.

Laura proposed a stroll in the grounds to enjoy the close of the long
evening. It was necessary in common politeness to ask Madame Fosco
to join us, but this time she had apparently received her orders
beforehand, and she begged we would kindly excuse her. “The Count will
probably want a fresh supply of cigarettes,” she remarked by way of
apology, “and nobody can make them to his satisfaction but myself.” Her
cold blue eyes almost warmed as she spoke the words—she looked actually
proud of being the officiating medium through which her lord and master
composed himself with tobacco-smoke!

Laura and I went out together alone.

It was a misty, heavy evening. There was a sense of blight in the air;
the flowers were drooping in the garden, and the ground was parched and
dewless. The western heaven, as we saw it over the quiet trees, was of
a pale yellow hue, and the sun was setting faintly in a haze. Coming
rain seemed near—it would fall probably with the fall of night.

“Which way shall we go?” I asked

“Towards the lake, Marian, if you like,” she answered.

“You seem unaccountably fond, Laura, of that dismal lake.”

“No, not of the lake but of the scenery about it. The sand and heath
and the fir-trees are the only objects I can discover, in all this
large place, to remind me of Limmeridge. But we will walk in some other
direction if you prefer it.”

“I have no favourite walks at Blackwater Park, my love. One is the same
as another to me. Let us go to the lake—we may find it cooler in the
open space than we find it here.”

We walked through the shadowy plantation in silence. The heaviness in
the evening air oppressed us both, and when we reached the boat-house
we were glad to sit down and rest inside.

A white fog hung low over the lake. The dense brown line of the trees
on the opposite bank appeared above it, like a dwarf forest floating
in the sky. The sandy ground, shelving downward from where we sat, was
lost mysteriously in the outward layers of the fog. The silence was
horrible. No rustling of the leaves—no bird’s note in the wood—no cry
of water-fowl from the pools of the hidden lake. Even the croaking of
the frogs had ceased to-night.

“It is very desolate and gloomy,” said Laura. “But we can be more alone
here than anywhere else.”

She spoke quietly and looked at the wilderness of sand and mist with
steady, thoughtful eyes. I could see that her mind was too much
occupied to feel the dreary impressions from without which had fastened
themselves already on mine.

“I promised, Marian, to tell you the truth about my married life,
instead of leaving you any longer to guess it for yourself,” she began.
“That secret is the first I have ever had from you, love, and I am
determined it shall be the last. I was silent, as you know, for your
sake—and perhaps a little for my own sake as well. It is very hard for
a woman to confess that the man to whom she has given her whole life is
the man of all others who cares least for the gift. If you were married
yourself, Marian—and especially if you were happily married—you would
feel for me as no single woman CAN feel, however kind and true she may
be.”

What answer could I make? I could only take her hand and look at her
with my whole heart as well as my eyes would let me.

“How often,” she went on, “I have heard you laughing over what you used
to call your ‘poverty!’ how often you have made me mock-speeches of
congratulation on my wealth! Oh, Marian, never laugh again. Thank God
for your poverty—it has made you your own mistress, and has saved you
from the lot that has fallen on ME.”

A sad beginning on the lips of a young wife!—sad in its quiet
plain-spoken truth. The few days we had all passed together at
Blackwater Park had been many enough to show me—to show any one—what
her husband had married her for.

“You shall not be distressed,” she said, “by hearing how soon my
disappointments and my trials began—or even by knowing what they
were. It is bad enough to have them on my memory. If I tell you how
he received the first and last attempt at remonstrance that I ever
made, you will know how he has always treated me, as well as if I
had described it in so many words. It was one day at Rome when we
had ridden out together to the tomb of Cecilia Metella. The sky was
calm and lovely, and the grand old ruin looked beautiful, and the
remembrance that a husband’s love had raised it in the old time to a
wife’s memory, made me feel more tenderly and more anxiously towards my
husband than I had ever felt yet. ‘Would you build such a tomb for ME,
Percival?’ I asked him. ‘You said you loved me dearly before we were
married, and yet, since that time——’ I could get no farther. Marian!
he was not even looking at me! I pulled down my veil, thinking it best
not to let him see that the tears were in my eyes. I fancied he had
not paid any attention to me, but he had. He said, ‘Come away,’ and
laughed to himself as he helped me on to my horse. He mounted his own
horse and laughed again as we rode away. ‘If I do build you a tomb,’ he
said, ‘it will be done with your own money. I wonder whether Cecilia
Metella had a fortune and paid for hers.’ I made no reply—how could I,
when I was crying behind my veil? ‘Ah, you light-complexioned women are
all sulky,’ he said. ‘What do you want? compliments and soft speeches?
Well! I’m in a good humour this morning. Consider the compliments paid
and the speeches said.’ Men little know when they say hard things to us
how well we remember them, and how much harm they do us. It would have
been better for me if I had gone on crying, but his contempt dried up
my tears and hardened my heart. From that time, Marian, I never checked
myself again in thinking of Walter Hartright. I let the memory of those
happy days, when we were so fond of each other in secret, come back
and comfort me. What else had I to look to for consolation? If we had
been together you would have helped me to better things. I know it was
wrong, darling, but tell me if I was wrong without any excuse.”

I was obliged to turn my face from her. “Don’t ask me!” I said. “Have I
suffered as you have suffered? What right have I to decide?”

“I used to think of him,” she pursued, dropping her voice and moving
closer to me, “I used to think of him when Percival left me alone at
night to go among the Opera people. I used to fancy what I might have
been if it had pleased God to bless me with poverty, and if I had been
his wife. I used to see myself in my neat cheap gown, sitting at home
and waiting for him while he was earning our bread—sitting at home and
working for him and loving him all the better because I had to work
for him—seeing him come in tired and taking off his hat and coat for
him, and, Marian, pleasing him with little dishes at dinner that I had
learnt to make for his sake. Oh! I hope he is never lonely enough and
sad enough to think of me and see me as I have thought of HIM and see
HIM!”

As she said those melancholy words, all the lost tenderness returned
to her voice, and all the lost beauty trembled back into her face. Her
eyes rested as lovingly on the blighted, solitary, ill-omened view
before us, as if they saw the friendly hills of Cumberland in the dim
and threatening sky.

“Don’t speak of Walter any more,” I said, as soon as I could control
myself. “Oh, Laura, spare us both the wretchedness of talking of him
now!”

She roused herself, and looked at me tenderly.

“I would rather be silent about him for ever,” she answered, “than
cause you a moment’s pain.”

“It is in your interests,” I pleaded; “it is for your sake that I
speak. If your husband heard you——”

“It would not surprise him if he did hear me.”

She made that strange reply with a weary calmness and coldness. The
change in her manner, when she gave the answer, startled me almost as
much as the answer itself.

“Not surprise him!” I repeated. “Laura! remember what you are
saying—you frighten me!”

“It is true,” she said; “it is what I wanted to tell you to-day, when
we were talking in your room. My only secret when I opened my heart to
him at Limmeridge was a harmless secret, Marian—you said so yourself.
The name was all I kept from him, and he has discovered it.”

I heard her, but I could say nothing. Her last words had killed the
little hope that still lived in me.

“It happened at Rome,” she went on, as wearily calm and cold as ever.
“We were at a little party given to the English by some friends of Sir
Percival’s—Mr. and Mrs. Markland. Mrs. Markland had the reputation
of sketching very beautifully, and some of the guests prevailed on
her to show us her drawings. We all admired them, but something I
said attracted her attention particularly to me. ‘Surely you draw
yourself?’ she asked. ‘I used to draw a little once,’ I answered, ‘but
I have given it up.’ ‘If you have once drawn,’ she said, ‘you may take
to it again one of these days, and if you do, I wish you would let
me recommend you a master.’ I said nothing—you know why, Marian—and
tried to change the conversation. But Mrs. Markland persisted. ‘I
have had all sorts of teachers,’ she went on, ‘but the best of all,
the most intelligent and the most attentive, was a Mr. Hartright. If
you ever take up your drawing again, do try him as a master. He is
a young man—modest and gentlemanlike—I am sure you will like him.’
Think of those words being spoken to me publicly, in the presence
of strangers—strangers who had been invited to meet the bride and
bridegroom! I did all I could to control myself—I said nothing, and
looked down close at the drawings. When I ventured to raise my head
again, my eyes and my husband’s eyes met, and I knew, by his look,
that my face had betrayed me. ‘We will see about Mr. Hartright,’ he
said, looking at me all the time, ‘when we get back to England. I agree
with you, Mrs. Markland—I think Lady Glyde is sure to like him.’ He
laid an emphasis on the last words which made my cheeks burn, and set
my heart beating as if it would stifle me. Nothing more was said. We
came away early. He was silent in the carriage driving back to the
hotel. He helped me out, and followed me upstairs as usual. But the
moment we were in the drawing-room, he locked the door, pushed me down
into a chair, and stood over me with his hands on my shoulders. ‘Ever
since that morning when you made your audacious confession to me at
Limmeridge,’ he said, ‘I have wanted to find out the man, and I found
him in your face to-night. Your drawing-master was the man, and his
name is Hartright. You shall repent it, and he shall repent it, to the
last hour of your lives. Now go to bed and dream of him if you like,
with the marks of my horsewhip on his shoulders.’ Whenever he is angry
with me now he refers to what I acknowledged to him in your presence
with a sneer or a threat. I have no power to prevent him from putting
his own horrible construction on the confidence I placed in him. I have
no influence to make him believe me, or to keep him silent. You looked
surprised to-day when you heard him tell me that I had made a virtue
of necessity in marrying him. You will not be surprised again when you
hear him repeat it, the next time he is out of temper——Oh, Marian!
don’t! don’t! you hurt me!”

I had caught her in my arms, and the sting and torment of my remorse
had closed them round her like a vice. Yes! my remorse. The white
despair of Walter’s face, when my cruel words struck him to the heart
in the summer-house at Limmeridge, rose before me in mute, unendurable
reproach. My hand had pointed the way which led the man my sister
loved, step by step, far from his country and his friends. Between
those two young hearts I had stood, to sunder them for ever, the one
from the other, and his life and her life lay wasted before me alike
in witness of the deed. I had done this, and done it for Sir Percival
Glyde.

For Sir Percival Glyde.


I heard her speaking, and I knew by the tone of her voice that she was
comforting me—I, who deserved nothing but the reproach of her silence!
How long it was before I mastered the absorbing misery of my own
thoughts, I cannot tell. I was first conscious that she was kissing me,
and then my eyes seemed to wake on a sudden to their sense of outward
things, and I knew that I was looking mechanically straight before me
at the prospect of the lake.

“It is late,” I heard her whisper. “It will be dark in the plantation.”
She shook my arm and repeated, “Marian! it will be dark in the
plantation.”

“Give me a minute longer,” I said—“a minute, to get better in.”

I was afraid to trust myself to look at her yet, and I kept my eyes
fixed on the view.

It WAS late. The dense brown line of trees in the sky had faded in the
gathering darkness to the faint resemblance of a long wreath of smoke.
The mist over the lake below had stealthily enlarged, and advanced on
us. The silence was as breathless as ever, but the horror of it had
gone, and the solemn mystery of its stillness was all that remained.

“We are far from the house,” she whispered. “Let us go back.”

She stopped suddenly, and turned her face from me towards the entrance
of the boat-house.

“Marian!” she said, trembling violently. “Do you see nothing? Look!”

“Where?”

“Down there, below us.”

She pointed. My eyes followed her hand, and I saw it too.

A living figure was moving over the waste of heath in the distance.
It crossed our range of view from the boat-house, and passed darkly
along the outer edge of the mist. It stopped far off, in front of
us—waited—and passed on; moving slowly, with the white cloud of mist
behind it and above it—slowly, slowly, till it glided by the edge of
the boat-house, and we saw it no more.

We were both unnerved by what had passed between us that evening. Some
minutes elapsed before Laura would venture into the plantation, and
before I could make up my mind to lead her back to the house.

“Was it a man or a woman?” she asked in a whisper, as we moved at last
into the dark dampness of the outer air.

“I am not certain.”

“Which do you think?”

“It looked like a woman.”

“I was afraid it was a man in a long cloak.”

“It may be a man. In this dim light it is not possible to be certain.”

“Wait, Marian! I’m frightened—I don’t see the path. Suppose the figure
should follow us?”

“Not at all likely, Laura. There is really nothing to be alarmed about.
The shores of the lake are not far from the village, and they are free
to any one to walk on by day or night. It is only wonderful we have
seen no living creature there before.”

We were now in the plantation. It was very dark—so dark, that we found
some difficulty in keeping the path. I gave Laura my arm, and we walked
as fast as we could on our way back.

Before we were half-way through she stopped, and forced me to stop with
her. She was listening.

“Hush,” she whispered. “I hear something behind us.”

“Dead leaves,” I said to cheer her, “or a twig blown off the trees.”

“It is summer time, Marian, and there is not a breath of wind. Listen!”

I heard the sound too—a sound like a light footstep following us.

“No matter who it is, or what it is,” I said, “let us walk on. In
another minute, if there is anything to alarm us, we shall be near
enough to the house to be heard.”

We went on quickly—so quickly, that Laura was breathless by the time
we were nearly through the plantation, and within sight of the lighted
windows.

I waited a moment to give her breathing-time. Just as we were about to
proceed she stopped me again, and signed to me with her hand to listen
once more. We both heard distinctly a long, heavy sigh behind us, in
the black depths of the trees.

“Who’s there?” I called out.

There was no answer.

“Who’s there?” I repeated.

An instant of silence followed, and then we heard the light fall
of the footsteps again, fainter and fainter—sinking away into the
darkness—sinking, sinking, sinking—till they were lost in the silence.

We hurried out from the trees to the open lawn beyond, crossed it
rapidly; and without another word passing between us, reached the house.

In the light of the hall-lamp Laura looked at me, with white cheeks and
startled eyes.

“I am half dead with fear,” she said. “Who could it have been?”

“We will try to guess to-morrow,” I replied. “In the meantime say
nothing to any one of what we have heard and seen.”

“Why not?”

“Because silence is safe, and we have need of safety in this house.”

I sent Laura upstairs immediately, waited a minute to take off my
hat and put my hair smooth, and then went at once to make my first
investigations in the library, on pretence of searching for a book.

There sat the Count, filling out the largest easy-chair in the house,
smoking and reading calmly, with his feet on an ottoman, his cravat
across his knees, and his shirt collar wide open. And there sat Madame
Fosco, like a quiet child, on a stool by his side, making cigarettes.
Neither husband nor wife could, by any possibility, have been out late
that evening, and have just got back to the house in a hurry. I felt
that my object in visiting the library was answered the moment I set
eyes on them.

Count Fosco rose in polite confusion and tied his cravat on when I
entered the room.

“Pray don’t let me disturb you,” I said. “I have only come here to get
a book.”

“All unfortunate men of my size suffer from the heat,” said the Count,
refreshing himself gravely with a large green fan. “I wish I could
change places with my excellent wife. She is as cool at this moment as
a fish in the pond outside.”

The Countess allowed herself to thaw under the influence of her
husband’s quaint comparison. “I am never warm, Miss Halcombe,” she
remarked, with the modest air of a woman who was confessing to one of
her own merits.

“Have you and Lady Glyde been out this evening?” asked the Count, while
I was taking a book from the shelves to preserve appearances.

“Yes, we went out to get a little air.”

“May I ask in what direction?”

“In the direction of the lake—as far as the boat-house.”

“Aha? As far as the boat-house?”

Under other circumstances I might have resented his curiosity. But
to-night I hailed it as another proof that neither he nor his wife were
connected with the mysterious appearance at the lake.

“No more adventures, I suppose, this evening?” he went on. “No more
discoveries, like your discovery of the wounded dog?”

He fixed his unfathomable grey eyes on me, with that cold, clear,
irresistible glitter in them which always forces me to look at him,
and always makes me uneasy while I do look. An unutterable suspicion
that his mind is prying into mine overcomes me at these times, and it
overcame me now.

“No,” I said shortly; “no adventures—no discoveries.”

I tried to look away from him and leave the room. Strange as it seems,
I hardly think I should have succeeded in the attempt if Madame Fosco
had not helped me by causing him to move and look away first.

“Count, you are keeping Miss Halcombe standing,” she said.

The moment he turned round to get me a chair, I seized my
opportunity—thanked him—made my excuses—and slipped out.

An hour later, when Laura’s maid happened to be in her mistress’s room,
I took occasion to refer to the closeness of the night, with a view to
ascertaining next how the servants had been passing their time.

“Have you been suffering much from the heat downstairs?” I asked.

“No, miss,” said the girl, “we have not felt it to speak of.”

“You have been out in the woods then, I suppose?”

“Some of us thought of going, miss. But cook said she should take her
chair into the cool court-yard, outside the kitchen door, and on second
thoughts, all the rest of us took our chairs out there too.”

The housekeeper was now the only person who remained to be accounted
for.

“Is Mrs. Michelson gone to bed yet?” I inquired.

“I should think not, miss,” said the girl, smiling. “Mrs. Michelson is
more likely to be getting up just now than going to bed.”

“Why? What do you mean? Has Mrs. Michelson been taking to her bed in
the daytime?”

“No, miss, not exactly, but the next thing to it. She’s been asleep all
the evening on the sofa in her own room.”

Putting together what I observed for myself in the library, and what I
have just heard from Laura’s maid, one conclusion seems inevitable. The
figure we saw at the lake was not the figure of Madame Fosco, of her
husband, or of any of the servants. The footsteps we heard behind us
were not the footsteps of any one belonging to the house.

Who could it have been?

It seems useless to inquire. I cannot even decide whether the figure
was a man’s or a woman’s. I can only say that I think it was a woman’s.



VI

June 18th.—The misery of self-reproach which I suffered yesterday
evening, on hearing what Laura told me in the boat-house, returned in
the loneliness of the night, and kept me waking and wretched for hours.

I lighted my candle at last, and searched through my old journals to
see what my share in the fatal error of her marriage had really been,
and what I might have once done to save her from it. The result soothed
me a little for it showed that, however blindly and ignorantly I acted,
I acted for the best. Crying generally does me harm; but it was not so
last night—I think it relieved me. I rose this morning with a settled
resolution and a quiet mind. Nothing Sir Percival can say or do shall
ever irritate me again, or make me forget for one moment that I am
staying here in defiance of mortifications, insults, and threats, for
Laura’s service and for Laura’s sake.

The speculations in which we might have indulged this morning, on the
subject of the figure at the lake and the footsteps in the plantation,
have been all suspended by a trifling accident which has caused Laura
great regret. She has lost the little brooch I gave her for a keepsake
on the day before her marriage. As she wore it when we went out
yesterday evening we can only suppose that it must have dropped from
her dress, either in the boat-house or on our way back. The servants
have been sent to search, and have returned unsuccessful. And now Laura
herself has gone to look for it. Whether she finds it or not the loss
will help to excuse her absence from the house, if Sir Percival returns
before the letter from Mr. Gilmore’s partner is placed in my hands.

One o’clock has just struck. I am considering whether I had better
wait here for the arrival of the messenger from London, or slip away
quietly, and watch for him outside the lodge gate.

My suspicion of everybody and everything in this house inclines me
to think that the second plan may be the best. The Count is safe in
the breakfast-room. I heard him, through the door, as I ran upstairs
ten minutes since, exercising his canary-birds at their tricks:—“Come
out on my little finger, my pret-pret-pretties! Come out, and hop
upstairs! One, two, three—and up! Three, two, one—and down! One, two,
three—twit-twit-twit-tweet!” The birds burst into their usual ecstasy
of singing, and the Count chirruped and whistled at them in return,
as if he was a bird himself. My room door is open, and I can hear the
shrill singing and whistling at this very moment. If I am really to
slip out without being observed, now is my time.


FOUR O’CLOCK. The three hours that have passed since I made my last
entry have turned the whole march of events at Blackwater Park in a new
direction. Whether for good or for evil, I cannot and dare not decide.

Let me get back first to the place at which I left off, or I shall lose
myself in the confusion of my own thoughts.

I went out, as I had proposed, to meet the messenger with my letter
from London at the lodge gate. On the stairs I saw no one. In the
hall I heard the Count still exercising his birds. But on crossing
the quadrangle outside, I passed Madame Fosco, walking by herself in
her favourite circle, round and round the great fish-pond. I at once
slackened my pace, so as to avoid all appearance of being in a hurry,
and even went the length, for caution’s sake, of inquiring if she
thought of going out before lunch. She smiled at me in the friendliest
manner—said she preferred remaining near the house, nodded pleasantly,
and re-entered the hall. I looked back, and saw that she had closed the
door before I had opened the wicket by the side of the carriage gates.

In less than a quarter of an hour I reached the lodge.

The lane outside took a sudden turn to the left, ran on straight for
a hundred yards or so, and then took another sharp turn to the right
to join the high-road. Between these two turns, hidden from the lodge
on one side, and from the way to the station on the other, I waited,
walking backwards and forwards. High hedges were on either side of me,
and for twenty minutes, by my watch, I neither saw nor heard anything.
At the end of that time the sound of a carriage caught my ear, and
I was met, as I advanced towards the second turning, by a fly from
the railway. I made a sign to the driver to stop. As he obeyed me a
respectable-looking man put his head out of the window to see what was
the matter.

“I beg your pardon,” I said, “but am I right in supposing that you are
going to Blackwater Park?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“With a letter for any one?”

“With a letter for Miss Halcombe, ma’am.”

“You may give me the letter. I am Miss Halcombe.”

The man touched his hat, got out of the fly immediately, and gave me
the letter.

I opened it at once and read these lines. I copy them here, thinking it
best to destroy the original for caution’s sake.


“DEAR MADAM,—Your letter received this morning has caused me very great
anxiety. I will reply to it as briefly and plainly as possible.

“My careful consideration of the statement made by yourself, and my
knowledge of Lady Glyde’s position, as defined in the settlement,
lead me, I regret to say, to the conclusion that a loan of the
trust money to Sir Percival (or, in other words, a loan of some
portion of the twenty thousand pounds of Lady Glyde’s fortune) is in
contemplation, and that she is made a party to the deed, in order to
secure her approval of a flagrant breach of trust, and to have her
signature produced against her if she should complain hereafter. It is
impossible, on any other supposition, to account, situated as she is,
for her execution to a deed of any kind being wanted at all.

“In the event of Lady Glyde’s signing such a document, as I am
compelled to suppose the deed in question to be, her trustees would be
at liberty to advance money to Sir Percival out of her twenty thousand
pounds. If the amount so lent should not be paid back, and if Lady
Glyde should have children, their fortune will then be diminished by
the sum, large or small, so advanced. In plainer terms still, the
transaction, for anything that Lady Glyde knows to the contrary, may be
a fraud upon her unborn children.

“Under these serious circumstances, I would recommend Lady Glyde to
assign as a reason for withholding her signature, that she wishes the
deed to be first submitted to myself, as her family solicitor (in the
absence of my partner, Mr. Gilmore). No reasonable objection can be
made to taking this course—for, if the transaction is an honourable
one, there will necessarily be no difficulty in my giving my approval.

“Sincerely assuring you of my readiness to afford any additional help
or advice that may be wanted, I beg to remain, Madam, your faithful
servant,

“WILLIAM KYRLE.”


I read this kind and sensible letter very thankfully. It supplied Laura
with a reason for objecting to the signature which was unanswerable,
and which we could both of us understand. The messenger waited near me
while I was reading to receive his directions when I had done.

“Will you be good enough to say that I understand the letter, and that
I am very much obliged?” I said. “There is no other reply necessary at
present.”

Exactly at the moment when I was speaking those words, holding the
letter open in my hand, Count Fosco turned the corner of the lane from
the high-road, and stood before me as if he had sprung up out of the
earth.

The suddenness of his appearance, in the very last place under heaven
in which I should have expected to see him, took me completely by
surprise. The messenger wished me good-morning, and got into the fly
again. I could not say a word to him—I was not even able to return
his bow. The conviction that I was discovered—and by that man, of all
others—absolutely petrified me.

“Are you going back to the house, Miss Halcombe?” he inquired, without
showing the least surprise on his side, and without even looking after
the fly, which drove off while he was speaking to me.

I collected myself sufficiently to make a sign in the affirmative.

“I am going back too,” he said. “Pray allow me the pleasure of
accompanying you. Will you take my arm? You look surprised at seeing
me!”

I took his arm. The first of my scattered senses that came back was the
sense that warned me to sacrifice anything rather than make an enemy of
him.

“You look surprised at seeing me!” he repeated in his quietly
pertinacious way.

“I thought, Count, I heard you with your birds in the breakfast-room,”
I answered, as quietly and firmly as I could.

“Surely. But my little feathered children, dear lady, are only too like
other children. They have their days of perversity, and this morning
was one of them. My wife came in as I was putting them back in their
cage, and said she had left you going out alone for a walk. You told
her so, did you not?”

“Certainly.”

“Well, Miss Halcombe, the pleasure of accompanying you was too great a
temptation for me to resist. At my age there is no harm in confessing
so much as that, is there? I seized my hat, and set off to offer myself
as your escort. Even so fat an old man as Fosco is surely better than
no escort at all? I took the wrong path—I came back in despair, and
here I am, arrived (may I say it?) at the height of my wishes.”

He talked on in this complimentary strain with a fluency which left
me no exertion to make beyond the effort of maintaining my composure.
He never referred in the most distant manner to what he had seen in
the lane, or to the letter which I still had in my hand. This ominous
discretion helped to convince me that he must have surprised, by the
most dishonourable means, the secret of my application in Laura’s
interest to the lawyer; and that, having now assured himself of the
private manner in which I had received the answer, he had discovered
enough to suit his purposes, and was only bent on trying to quiet the
suspicions which he knew he must have aroused in my mind. I was wise
enough, under these circumstances, not to attempt to deceive him by
plausible explanations, and woman enough, notwithstanding my dread of
him, to feel as if my hand was tainted by resting on his arm.

On the drive in front of the house we met the dog-cart being taken
round to the stables. Sir Percival had just returned. He came out to
meet us at the house-door. Whatever other results his journey might
have had, it had not ended in softening his savage temper.

“Oh! here are two of you come back,” he said, with a lowering face.
“What is the meaning of the house being deserted in this way? Where is
Lady Glyde?”

I told him of the loss of the brooch, and said that Laura had gone into
the plantation to look for it.

“Brooch or no brooch,” he growled sulkily, “I recommend her not to
forget her appointment in the library this afternoon. I shall expect to
see her in half an hour.”

I took my hand from the Count’s arm, and slowly ascended the steps.
He honoured me with one of his magnificent bows, and then addressed
himself gaily to the scowling master of the house.

“Tell me, Percival,” he said, “have you had a pleasant drive? And has
your pretty shining Brown Molly come back at all tired?”

“Brown Molly be hanged—and the drive too! I want my lunch.”

“And I want five minutes’ talk with you, Percival, first,” returned the
Count. “Five minutes’ talk, my friend, here on the grass.”

“What about?”

“About business that very much concerns you.”

I lingered long enough in passing through the hall-door to hear this
question and answer, and to see Sir Percival thrust his hands into his
pockets in sullen hesitation.

“If you want to badger me with any more of your infernal scruples,” he
said, “I for one won’t hear them. I want my lunch.”

“Come out here and speak to me,” repeated the Count, still perfectly
uninfluenced by the rudest speech that his friend could make to him.

Sir Percival descended the steps. The Count took him by the arm, and
walked him away gently. The “business,” I was sure, referred to the
question of the signature. They were speaking of Laura and of me beyond
a doubt. I felt heart-sick and faint with anxiety. It might be of the
last importance to both of us to know what they were saying to each
other at that moment, and not one word of it could by any possibility
reach my ears.

I walked about the house, from room to room, with the lawyer’s letter
in my bosom (I was afraid by this time even to trust it under lock and
key), till the oppression of my suspense half maddened me. There were
no signs of Laura’s return, and I thought of going out to look for her.
But my strength was so exhausted by the trials and anxieties of the
morning that the heat of the day quite overpowered me, and after an
attempt to get to the door I was obliged to return to the drawing-room
and lie down on the nearest sofa to recover.

I was just composing myself when the door opened softly and the Count
looked in.

“A thousand pardons, Miss Halcombe,” he said; “I only venture to
disturb you because I am the bearer of good news. Percival—who is
capricious in everything, as you know—has seen fit to alter his mind
at the last moment, and the business of the signature is put off for
the present. A great relief to all of us, Miss Halcombe, as I see with
pleasure in your face. Pray present my best respects and felicitations,
when you mention this pleasant change of circumstances to Lady Glyde.”

He left me before I had recovered my astonishment. There could be no
doubt that this extraordinary alteration of purpose in the matter of
the signature was due to his influence, and that his discovery of my
application to London yesterday, and of my having received an answer
to it to-day, had offered him the means of interfering with certain
success.

I felt these impressions, but my mind seemed to share the exhaustion
of my body, and I was in no condition to dwell on them with any useful
reference to the doubtful present or the threatening future. I tried
a second time to run out and find Laura, but my head was giddy and my
knees trembled under me. There was no choice but to give it up again
and return to the sofa, sorely against my will.

The quiet in the house, and the low murmuring hum of summer insects
outside the open window, soothed me. My eyes closed of themselves, and
I passed gradually into a strange condition, which was not waking—for I
knew nothing of what was going on about me, and not sleeping—for I was
conscious of my own repose. In this state my fevered mind broke loose
from me, while my weary body was at rest, and in a trance, or day-dream
of my fancy—I know not what to call it—I saw Walter Hartright. I had
not thought of him since I rose that morning—Laura had not said one
word to me either directly or indirectly referring to him—and yet I saw
him now as plainly as if the past time had returned, and we were both
together again at Limmeridge House.

He appeared to me as one among many other men, none of whose faces I
could plainly discern. They were all lying on the steps of an immense
ruined temple. Colossal tropical trees—with rank creepers twining
endlessly about their trunks, and hideous stone idols glimmering and
grinning at intervals behind leaves and stalks and branches—surrounded
the temple and shut out the sky, and threw a dismal shadow over the
forlorn band of men on the steps. White exhalations twisted and curled
up stealthily from the ground, approached the men in wreaths like
smoke, touched them, and stretched them out dead, one by one, in the
places where they lay. An agony of pity and fear for Walter loosened my
tongue, and I implored him to escape. “Come back, come back!” I said.
“Remember your promise to HER and to ME. Come back to us before the
Pestilence reaches you and lays you dead like the rest!”

He looked at me with an unearthly quiet in his face. “Wait,” he said,
“I shall come back. The night when I met the lost Woman on the highway
was the night which set my life apart to be the instrument of a Design
that is yet unseen. Here, lost in the wilderness, or there, welcomed
back in the land of my birth, I am still walking on the dark road which
leads me, and you, and the sister of your love and mine, to the unknown
Retribution and the inevitable End. Wait and look. The Pestilence which
touches the rest will pass ME.”

I saw him again. He was still in the forest, and the numbers of his
lost companions had dwindled to very few. The temple was gone, and
the idols were gone—and in their place the figures of dark, dwarfish
men lurked murderously among the trees, with bows in their hands, and
arrows fitted to the string. Once more I feared for Walter, and cried
out to warn him. Once more he turned to me, with the immovable quiet in
his face.

“Another step,” he said, “on the dark road. Wait and look. The arrows
that strike the rest will spare me.”

I saw him for the third time in a wrecked ship, stranded on a wild,
sandy shore. The overloaded boats were making away from him for the
land, and he alone was left to sink with the ship. I cried to him to
hail the hindmost boat, and to make a last effort for his life. The
quiet face looked at me in return, and the unmoved voice gave me back
the changeless reply. “Another step on the journey. Wait and look. The
Sea which drowns the rest will spare me.”

I saw him for the last time. He was kneeling by a tomb of white marble,
and the shadow of a veiled woman rose out of the grave beneath and
waited by his side. The unearthly quiet of his face had changed to an
unearthly sorrow. But the terrible certainty of his words remained
the same. “Darker and darker,” he said; “farther and farther yet.
Death takes the good, the beautiful, and the young—and spares me. The
Pestilence that wastes, the Arrow that strikes, the Sea that drowns,
the Grave that closes over Love and Hope, are steps of my journey, and
take me nearer and nearer to the End.”

My heart sank under a dread beyond words, under a grief beyond tears.
The darkness closed round the pilgrim at the marble tomb—closed round
the veiled woman from the grave—closed round the dreamer who looked on
them. I saw and heard no more.

I was aroused by a hand laid on my shoulder. It was Laura’s.

She had dropped on her knees by the side of the sofa. Her face was
flushed and agitated, and her eyes met mine in a wild bewildered
manner. I started the instant I saw her.

“What has happened?” I asked. “What has frightened you?”

She looked round at the half-open door, put her lips close to my ear,
and answered in a whisper—

“Marian!—the figure at the lake—the footsteps last night—I’ve just seen
her! I’ve just spoken to her!”

“Who, for Heaven’s sake?”

“Anne Catherick.”

I was so startled by the disturbance in Laura’s face and manner, and so
dismayed by the first waking impressions of my dream, that I was not
fit to bear the revelation which burst upon me when that name passed
her lips. I could only stand rooted to the floor, looking at her in
breathless silence.

She was too much absorbed by what had happened to notice the effect
which her reply had produced on me. “I have seen Anne Catherick! I have
spoken to Anne Catherick!” she repeated as if I had not heard her. “Oh,
Marian, I have such things to tell you! Come away—we may be interrupted
here—come at once into my room.”

With those eager words she caught me by the hand, and led me through
the library, to the end room on the ground floor, which had been fitted
up for her own especial use. No third person, except her maid, could
have any excuse for surprising us here. She pushed me in before her,
locked the door, and drew the chintz curtains that hung over the inside.

The strange, stunned feeling which had taken possession of me still
remained. But a growing conviction that the complications which had
long threatened to gather about her, and to gather about me, had
suddenly closed fast round us both, was now beginning to penetrate my
mind. I could not express it in words—I could hardly even realise it
dimly in my own thoughts. “Anne Catherick!” I whispered to myself, with
useless, helpless reiteration—“Anne Catherick!”

Laura drew me to the nearest seat, an ottoman in the middle of the
room. “Look!” she said, “look here!”—and pointed to the bosom of her
dress.

I saw, for the first time, that the lost brooch was pinned in its place
again. There was something real in the sight of it, something real in
the touching of it afterwards, which seemed to steady the whirl and
confusion in my thoughts, and to help me to compose myself.

“Where did you find your brooch?” The first words I could say to her
were the words which put that trivial question at that important moment.

“SHE found it, Marian.”

“Where?”

“On the floor of the boat-house. Oh, how shall I begin—how shall I tell
you about it! She talked to me so strangely—she looked so fearfully
ill—she left me so suddenly!”

Her voice rose as the tumult of her recollections pressed upon her
mind. The inveterate distrust which weighs, night and day, on my
spirits in this house, instantly roused me to warn her—just as the
sight of the brooch had roused me to question her, the moment before.

“Speak low,” I said. “The window is open, and the garden path runs
beneath it. Begin at the beginning, Laura. Tell me, word for word, what
passed between that woman and you.”

“Shall I close the window?”

“No, only speak low—only remember that Anne Catherick is a dangerous
subject under your husband’s roof. Where did you first see her?”

“At the boat-house, Marian. I went out, as you know, to find my brooch,
and I walked along the path through the plantation, looking down on
the ground carefully at every step. In that way I got on, after a long
time, to the boat-house, and as soon as I was inside it, I went on my
knees to hunt over the floor. I was still searching with my back to
the doorway, when I heard a soft, strange voice behind me say, ‘Miss
Fairlie.’”

“Miss Fairlie!”

“Yes, my old name—the dear, familiar name that I thought I had parted
from for ever. I started up—not frightened, the voice was too kind and
gentle to frighten anybody—but very much surprised. There, looking at
me from the doorway, stood a woman, whose face I never remembered to
have seen before—”

“How was she dressed?”

“She had a neat, pretty white gown on, and over it a poor worn thin
dark shawl. Her bonnet was of brown straw, as poor and worn as the
shawl. I was struck by the difference between her gown and the rest
of her dress, and she saw that I noticed it. ‘Don’t look at my bonnet
and shawl,’ she said, speaking in a quick, breathless, sudden way;
‘if I mustn’t wear white, I don’t care what I wear. Look at my gown
as much as you please—I’m not ashamed of that.’ Very strange, was
it not? Before I could say anything to soothe her, she held out one
of her hands, and I saw my brooch in it. I was so pleased and so
grateful, that I went quite close to her to say what I really felt.
‘Are you thankful enough to do me one little kindness?’ she asked.
‘Yes, indeed,’ I answered, ‘any kindness in my power I shall be glad
to show you.’ ‘Then let me pin your brooch on for you, now I have
found it.’ Her request was so unexpected, Marian, and she made it with
such extraordinary eagerness, that I drew back a step or two, not well
knowing what to do. ‘Ah!’ she said, ‘your mother would have let me pin
on the brooch.’ There was something in her voice and her look, as well
as in her mentioning my mother in that reproachful manner, which made
me ashamed of my distrust. I took her hand with the brooch in it, and
put it up gently on the bosom of my dress. ‘You knew my mother?’ I
said. ‘Was it very long ago? have I ever seen you before?’ Her hands
were busy fastening the brooch: she stopped and pressed them against my
breast. ‘You don’t remember a fine spring day at Limmeridge,’ she said,
‘and your mother walking down the path that led to the school, with a
little girl on each side of her? I have had nothing else to think of
since, and I remember it. You were one of the little girls, and I was
the other. Pretty, clever Miss Fairlie, and poor dazed Anne Catherick
were nearer to each other then than they are now!’”

“Did you remember her, Laura, when she told you her name?”

“Yes, I remembered your asking me about Anne Catherick at Limmeridge,
and your saying that she had once been considered like me.”

“What reminded you of that, Laura?”

“SHE reminded me. While I was looking at her, while she was very close
to me, it came over my mind suddenly that we were like each other!
Her face was pale and thin and weary—but the sight of it startled me,
as if it had been the sight of my own face in the glass after a long
illness. The discovery—I don’t know why—gave me such a shock, that I
was perfectly incapable of speaking to her for the moment.”

“Did she seem hurt by your silence?”

“I am afraid she was hurt by it. ‘You have not got your mother’s face,’
she said, ‘or your mother’s heart. Your mother’s face was dark, and
your mother’s heart, Miss Fairlie, was the heart of an angel.’ ‘I am
sure I feel kindly towards you,’ I said, ‘though I may not be able to
express it as I ought. Why do you call me Miss Fairlie?——’ ‘Because I
love the name of Fairlie and hate the name of Glyde,’ she broke out
violently. I had seen nothing like madness in her before this, but I
fancied I saw it now in her eyes. ‘I only thought you might not know I
was married,’ I said, remembering the wild letter she wrote to me at
Limmeridge, and trying to quiet her. She sighed bitterly, and turned
away from me. ‘Not know you were married?’ she repeated. ‘I am here
BECAUSE you are married. I am here to make atonement to you, before I
meet your mother in the world beyond the grave.’ She drew farther and
farther away from me, till she was out of the boat-house, and then she
watched and listened for a little while. When she turned round to speak
again, instead of coming back, she stopped where she was, looking in at
me, with a hand on each side of the entrance. ‘Did you see me at the
lake last night?’ she said. ‘Did you hear me following you in the wood?
I have been waiting for days together to speak to you alone—I have left
the only friend I have in the world, anxious and frightened about me—I
have risked being shut up again in the mad-house—and all for your sake,
Miss Fairlie, all for your sake.’ Her words alarmed me, Marian, and yet
there was something in the way she spoke that made me pity her with
all my heart. I am sure my pity must have been sincere, for it made me
bold enough to ask the poor creature to come in, and sit down in the
boat-house, by my side.”

“Did she do so?”

“No. She shook her head, and told me she must stop where she was, to
watch and listen, and see that no third person surprised us. And from
first to last, there she waited at the entrance, with a hand on each
side of it, sometimes bending in suddenly to speak to me, sometimes
drawing back suddenly to look about her. ‘I was here yesterday,’ she
said, ‘before it came dark, and I heard you, and the lady with you,
talking together. I heard you tell her about your husband. I heard you
say you had no influence to make him believe you, and no influence
to keep him silent. Ah! I knew what those words meant—my conscience
told me while I was listening. Why did I ever let you marry him! Oh,
my fear—my mad, miserable, wicked fear!’ She covered up her face in
her poor worn shawl, and moaned and murmured to herself behind it. I
began to be afraid she might break out into some terrible despair which
neither she nor I could master. ‘Try to quiet yourself,’ I said; ‘try
to tell me how you might have prevented my marriage.’ She took the
shawl from her face, and looked at me vacantly. ‘I ought to have had
heart enough to stop at Limmeridge,’ she answered. ‘I ought never to
have let the news of his coming there frighten me away. I ought to have
warned you and saved you before it was too late. Why did I only have
courage enough to write you that letter? Why did I only do harm, when
I wanted and meant to do good? Oh, my fear—my mad, miserable, wicked
fear!’ She repeated those words again, and hid her face again in the
end of her poor worn shawl. It was dreadful to see her, and dreadful to
hear her.”

“Surely, Laura, you asked what the fear was which she dwelt on so
earnestly?”

“Yes, I asked that.”

“And what did she say?”

“She asked me in return, if I should not be afraid of a man who had
shut me up in a mad-house, and who would shut me up again, if he could?
I said, ‘Are you afraid still? Surely you would not be here if you
were afraid now?’ ‘No,’ she said, ‘I am not afraid now.’ I asked why
not. She suddenly bent forward into the boat-house, and said, ‘Can’t
you guess why?’ I shook my head. ‘Look at me,’ she went on. I told
her I was grieved to see that she looked very sorrowful and very ill.
She smiled for the first time. ‘Ill?’ she repeated; ‘I’m dying. You
know why I’m not afraid of him now. Do you think I shall meet your
mother in heaven? Will she forgive me if I do?’ I was so shocked and
so startled, that I could make no reply. ‘I have been thinking of it,’
she went on, ‘all the time I have been in hiding from your husband,
all the time I lay ill. My thoughts have driven me here—I want to make
atonement—I want to undo all I can of the harm I once did.’ I begged
her as earnestly as I could to tell me what she meant. She still looked
at me with fixed vacant eyes. ‘SHALL I undo the harm?’ she said to
herself doubtfully. ‘You have friends to take your part. If YOU know
his Secret, he will be afraid of you, he won’t dare use you as he used
me. He must treat you mercifully for his own sake, if he is afraid of
you and your friends. And if he treats you mercifully, and if I can
say it was my doing——’ I listened eagerly for more, but she stopped at
those words.”

“You tried to make her go on?”

“I tried, but she only drew herself away from me again, and leaned
her face and arms against the side of the boat-house. ‘Oh!’ I heard
her say, with a dreadful, distracted tenderness in her voice, ‘oh! if
I could only be buried with your mother! If I could only wake at her
side, when the angel’s trumpet sounds, and the graves give up their
dead at the resurrection!‘—Marian! I trembled from head to foot—it was
horrible to hear her. ‘But there is no hope of that,’ she said, moving
a little, so as to look at me again, ‘no hope for a poor stranger like
me. I shall not rest under the marble cross that I washed with my own
hands, and made so white and pure for her sake. Oh no! oh no! God’s
mercy, not man’s, will take me to her, where the wicked cease from
troubling and the weary are at rest.’ She spoke those words quietly and
sorrowfully, with a heavy, hopeless sigh, and then waited a little. Her
face was confused and troubled, she seemed to be thinking, or trying
to think. ‘What was it I said just now?’ she asked after a while.
‘When your mother is in my mind, everything else goes out of it. What
was I saying? what was I saying?’ I reminded the poor creature, as
kindly and delicately as I could. ‘Ah, yes, yes,’ she said, still in a
vacant, perplexed manner. ‘You are helpless with your wicked husband.
Yes. And I must do what I have come to do here—I must make it up to
you for having been afraid to speak out at a better time.’ ‘What IS it
you have to tell me?’ I asked. ‘The Secret that your cruel husband is
afraid of,’ she answered. ‘I once threatened him with the Secret, and
frightened him. You shall threaten him with the Secret, and frighten
him too.’ Her face darkened, and a hard, angry stare fixed itself
in her eyes. She began waving her hand at me in a vacant, unmeaning
manner. ‘My mother knows the Secret,’ she said. ‘My mother has wasted
under the Secret half her lifetime. One day, when I was grown up, she
said something to ME. And the next day your husband——’”

“Yes! yes! Go on. What did she tell you about your husband?”

“She stopped again, Marian, at that point——”

“And said no more?”

“And listened eagerly. ‘Hush!’ she whispered, still waving her hand
at me. ‘Hush!’ She moved aside out of the doorway, moved slowly
and stealthily, step by step, till I lost her past the edge of the
boat-house.”

“Surely you followed her?”

“Yes, my anxiety made me bold enough to rise and follow her. Just as
I reached the entrance, she appeared again suddenly, round the side
of the boat-house. ‘The Secret,’ I whispered to her—‘wait and tell me
the Secret!’ She caught hold of my arm, and looked at me with wild
frightened eyes. ‘Not now,’ she said, ‘we are not alone—we are watched.
Come here to-morrow at this time—by yourself—mind—by yourself.’ She
pushed me roughly into the boat-house again, and I saw her no more.”

“Oh, Laura, Laura, another chance lost! If I had only been near you she
should not have escaped us. On which side did you lose sight of her?”

“On the left side, where the ground sinks and the wood is thickest.”

“Did you run out again? did you call after her?”

“How could I? I was too terrified to move or speak.”

“But when you DID move—when you came out?”

“I ran back here, to tell you what had happened.”

“Did you see any one, or hear any one, in the plantation?”

“No, it seemed to be all still and quiet when I passed through it.”

I waited for a moment to consider. Was this third person, supposed to
have been secretly present at the interview, a reality, or the creature
of Anne Catherick’s excited fancy? It was impossible to determine. The
one thing certain was, that we had failed again on the very brink of
discovery—failed utterly and irretrievably, unless Anne Catherick kept
her appointment at the boat-house for the next day.

“Are you quite sure you have told me everything that passed? Every word
that was said?” I inquired.

“I think so,” she answered. “My powers of memory, Marian, are not like
yours. But I was so strongly impressed, so deeply interested, that
nothing of any importance can possibly have escaped me.”

“My dear Laura, the merest trifles are of importance where Anne
Catherick is concerned. Think again. Did no chance reference escape her
as to the place in which she is living at the present time?”

“None that I can remember.”

“Did she not mention a companion and friend—a woman named Mrs.
Clements?”

“Oh yes! yes! I forgot that. She told me Mrs. Clements wanted sadly to
go with her to the lake and take care of her, and begged and prayed
that she would not venture into this neighbourhood alone.”

“Was that all she said about Mrs. Clements?”

“Yes, that was all.”

“She told you nothing about the place in which she took refuge after
leaving Todd’s Corner?”

“Nothing—I am quite sure.”

“Nor where she has lived since? Nor what her illness had been?”

“No, Marian, not a word. Tell me, pray tell me, what you think about
it. I don’t know what to think, or what to do next.”

“You must do this, my love: You must carefully keep the appointment at
the boat-house to-morrow. It is impossible to say what interests may
not depend on your seeing that woman again. You shall not be left to
yourself a second time. I will follow you at a safe distance. Nobody
shall see me, but I will keep within hearing of your voice, if anything
happens. Anne Catherick has escaped Walter Hartright, and has escaped
you. Whatever happens, she shall not escape ME.”

Laura’s eyes read mine attentively.

“You believe,” she said, “in this secret that my husband is afraid of?
Suppose, Marian, it should only exist after all in Anne Catherick’s
fancy? Suppose she only wanted to see me and to speak to me, for the
sake of old remembrances? Her manner was so strange—I almost doubted
her. Would you trust her in other things?”

“I trust nothing, Laura, but my own observation of your husband’s
conduct. I judge Anne Catherick’s words by his actions, and I believe
there is a secret.”

I said no more, and got up to leave the room. Thoughts were troubling
me which I might have told her if we had spoken together longer, and
which it might have been dangerous for her to know. The influence of
the terrible dream from which she had awakened me hung darkly and
heavily over every fresh impression which the progress of her narrative
produced on my mind. I felt the ominous future coming close, chilling
me with an unutterable awe, forcing on me the conviction of an unseen
design in the long series of complications which had now fastened
round us. I thought of Hartright—as I saw him in the body when he said
farewell; as I saw him in the spirit in my dream—and I too began to
doubt now whether we were not advancing blindfold to an appointed and
an inevitable end.

Leaving Laura to go upstairs alone, I went out to look about me in the
walks near the house. The circumstances under which Anne Catherick had
parted from her had made me secretly anxious to know how Count Fosco
was passing the afternoon, and had rendered me secretly distrustful
of the results of that solitary journey from which Sir Percival had
returned but a few hours since.

After looking for them in every direction and discovering nothing, I
returned to the house, and entered the different rooms on the ground
floor one after another. They were all empty. I came out again into
the hall, and went upstairs to return to Laura. Madame Fosco opened
her door as I passed it in my way along the passage, and I stopped to
see if she could inform me of the whereabouts of her husband and Sir
Percival. Yes, she had seen them both from her window more than an hour
since. The Count had looked up with his customary kindness, and had
mentioned with his habitual attention to her in the smallest trifles,
that he and his friend were going out together for a long walk.

For a long walk! They had never yet been in each other’s company
with that object in my experience of them. Sir Percival cared for no
exercise but riding, and the Count (except when he was polite enough to
be my escort) cared for no exercise at all.

When I joined Laura again, I found that she had called to mind in my
absence the impending question of the signature to the deed, which,
in the interest of discussing her interview with Anne Catherick, we
had hitherto overlooked. Her first words when I saw her expressed her
surprise at the absence of the expected summons to attend Sir Percival
in the library.

“You may make your mind easy on that subject,” I said. “For the
present, at least, neither your resolution nor mine will be exposed to
any further trial. Sir Percival has altered his plans—the business of
the signature is put off.”

“Put off?” Laura repeated amazedly. “Who told you so?”

“My authority is Count Fosco. I believe it is to his interference that
we are indebted for your husband’s sudden change of purpose.”

“It seems impossible, Marian. If the object of my signing was, as we
suppose, to obtain money for Sir Percival that he urgently wanted, how
can the matter be put off?”

“I think, Laura, we have the means at hand of setting that doubt at
rest. Have you forgotten the conversation that I heard between Sir
Percival and the lawyer as they were crossing the hall?”

“No, but I don’t remember——”

“I do. There were two alternatives proposed. One was to obtain your
signature to the parchment. The other was to gain time by giving bills
at three months. The last resource is evidently the resource now
adopted, and we may fairly hope to be relieved from our share in Sir
Percival’s embarrassments for some time to come.”

“Oh, Marian, it sounds too good to be true!”

“Does it, my love? You complimented me on my ready memory not long
since, but you seem to doubt it now. I will get my journal, and you
shall see if I am right or wrong.”

I went away and got the book at once.

On looking back to the entry referring to the lawyer’s visit, we found
that my recollection of the two alternatives presented was accurately
correct. It was almost as great a relief to my mind as to Laura’s, to
find that my memory had served me, on this occasion, as faithfully as
usual. In the perilous uncertainty of our present situation, it is hard
to say what future interests may not depend upon the regularity of the
entries in my journal, and upon the reliability of my recollection at
the time when I make them.

Laura’s face and manner suggested to me that this last consideration
had occurred to her as well as to myself. Anyway, it is only a trifling
matter, and I am almost ashamed to put it down here in writing—it seems
to set the forlornness of our situation in such a miserably vivid
light. We must have little indeed to depend on, when the discovery that
my memory can still be trusted to serve us is hailed as if it was the
discovery of a new friend!

The first bell for dinner separated us. Just as it had done ringing,
Sir Percival and the Count returned from their walk. We heard the
master of the house storming at the servants for being five minutes
late, and the master’s guest interposing, as usual, in the interests of
propriety, patience, and peace.

*    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *

The evening has come and gone. No extraordinary event has happened. But
I have noticed certain peculiarities in the conduct of Sir Percival and
the Count, which have sent me to my bed feeling very anxious and uneasy
about Anne Catherick, and about the results which to-morrow may produce.

I know enough by this time, to be sure, that the aspect of Sir Percival
which is the most false, and which, therefore, means the worst, is his
polite aspect. That long walk with his friend had ended in improving
his manners, especially towards his wife. To Laura’s secret surprise
and to my secret alarm, he called her by her Christian name, asked if
she had heard lately from her uncle, inquired when Mrs. Vesey was to
receive her invitation to Blackwater, and showed her so many other
little attentions that he almost recalled the days of his hateful
courtship at Limmeridge House. This was a bad sign to begin with, and
I thought it more ominous still that he should pretend after dinner to
fall asleep in the drawing-room, and that his eyes should cunningly
follow Laura and me when he thought we neither of us suspected him. I
have never had any doubt that his sudden journey by himself took him to
Welmingham to question Mrs. Catherick—but the experience of to-night
has made me fear that the expedition was not undertaken in vain, and
that he has got the information which he unquestionably left us to
collect. If I knew where Anne Catherick was to be found, I would be up
to-morrow with sunrise and warn her.

While the aspect under which Sir Percival presented himself to-night
was unhappily but too familiar to me, the aspect under which the Count
appeared was, on the other hand, entirely new in my experience of
him. He permitted me, this evening, to make his acquaintance, for the
first time, in the character of a Man of Sentiment—of sentiment, as I
believe, really felt, not assumed for the occasion.

For instance, he was quiet and subdued—his eyes and his voice expressed
a restrained sensibility. He wore (as if there was some hidden
connection between his showiest finery and his deepest feeling) the
most magnificent waistcoat he has yet appeared in—it was made of
pale sea-green silk, and delicately trimmed with fine silver braid.
His voice sank into the tenderest inflections, his smile expressed
a thoughtful, fatherly admiration, whenever he spoke to Laura or to
me. He pressed his wife’s hand under the table when she thanked him
for trifling little attentions at dinner. He took wine with her.
“Your health and happiness, my angel!” he said, with fond glistening
eyes. He ate little or nothing, and sighed, and said “Good Percival!”
when his friend laughed at him. After dinner, he took Laura by the
hand, and asked her if she would be “so sweet as to play to him.” She
complied, through sheer astonishment. He sat by the piano, with his
watch-chain resting in folds, like a golden serpent, on the sea-green
protuberance of his waistcoat. His immense head lay languidly on one
side, and he gently beat time with two of his yellow-white fingers.
He highly approved of the music, and tenderly admired Laura’s manner
of playing—not as poor Hartright used to praise it, with an innocent
enjoyment of the sweet sounds, but with a clear, cultivated, practical
knowledge of the merits of the composition, in the first place, and of
the merits of the player’s touch in the second. As the evening closed
in, he begged that the lovely dying light might not be profaned, just
yet, by the appearance of the lamps. He came, with his horribly silent
tread, to the distant window at which I was standing, to be out of his
way and to avoid the very sight of him—he came to ask me to support his
protest against the lamps. If any one of them could only have burnt him
up at that moment, I would have gone down to the kitchen and fetched it
myself.

“Surely you like this modest, trembling English twilight?” he said
softly. “Ah! I love it. I feel my inborn admiration of all that is
noble, and great, and good, purified by the breath of heaven on
an evening like this. Nature has such imperishable charms, such
inextinguishable tenderness for me!—I am an old, fat man—talk which
would become your lips, Miss Halcombe, sounds like a derision and
a mockery on mine. It is hard to be laughed at in my moments of
sentiment, as if my soul was like myself, old and overgrown. Observe,
dear lady, what a light is dying on the trees! Does it penetrate your
heart, as it penetrates mine?”

He paused, looked at me, and repeated the famous lines of Dante on the
Evening-time, with a melody and tenderness which added a charm of their
own to the matchless beauty of the poetry itself.

“Bah!” he cried suddenly, as the last cadence of those noble Italian
words died away on his lips; “I make an old fool of myself, and only
weary you all! Let us shut up the window in our bosoms and get back to
the matter-of-fact world. Percival! I sanction the admission of the
lamps. Lady Glyde—Miss Halcombe—Eleanor, my good wife—which of you will
indulge me with a game at dominoes?”

He addressed us all, but he looked especially at Laura.

She had learnt to feel my dread of offending him, and she accepted his
proposal. It was more than I could have done at that moment. I could
not have sat down at the same table with him for any consideration. His
eyes seemed to reach my inmost soul through the thickening obscurity
of the twilight. His voice trembled along every nerve in my body,
and turned me hot and cold alternately. The mystery and terror of my
dream, which had haunted me at intervals all through the evening, now
oppressed my mind with an unendurable foreboding and an unutterable
awe. I saw the white tomb again, and the veiled woman rising out of it
by Hartright’s side. The thought of Laura welled up like a spring in
the depths of my heart, and filled it with waters of bitterness, never,
never known to it before. I caught her by the hand as she passed me on
her way to the table, and kissed her as if that night was to part us
for ever. While they were all gazing at me in astonishment, I ran out
through the low window which was open before me to the ground—ran out
to hide from them in the darkness, to hide even from myself.


We separated that evening later than usual. Towards midnight the
summer silence was broken by the shuddering of a low, melancholy wind
among the trees. We all felt the sudden chill in the atmosphere, but
the Count was the first to notice the stealthy rising of the wind. He
stopped while he was lighting my candle for me, and held up his hand
warningly—

“Listen!” he said. “There will be a change to-morrow.”



VII

June 19th.—The events of yesterday warned me to be ready, sooner or
later, to meet the worst. To-day is not yet at an end, and the worst
has come.

Judging by the closest calculation of time that Laura and I could
make, we arrived at the conclusion that Anne Catherick must have
appeared at the boat-house at half-past two o’clock on the afternoon
of yesterday. I accordingly arranged that Laura should just show
herself at the luncheon-table to-day, and should then slip out at the
first opportunity, leaving me behind to preserve appearances, and to
follow her as soon as I could safely do so. This mode of proceeding,
if no obstacles occurred to thwart us, would enable her to be at the
boat-house before half-past two, and (when I left the table, in my
turn) would take me to a safe position in the plantation before three.

The change in the weather, which last night’s wind warned us to expect,
came with the morning. It was raining heavily when I got up, and it
continued to rain until twelve o’clock—when the clouds dispersed, the
blue sky appeared, and the sun shone again with the bright promise of a
fine afternoon.

My anxiety to know how Sir Percival and the Count would occupy the
early part of the day was by no means set at rest, so far as Sir
Percival was concerned, by his leaving us immediately after breakfast,
and going out by himself, in spite of the rain. He neither told us
where he was going nor when we might expect him back. We saw him
pass the breakfast-room window hastily, with his high boots and his
waterproof coat on—and that was all.

The Count passed the morning quietly indoors, some part of it in the
library, some part in the drawing-room, playing odds and ends of music
on the piano, and humming to himself. Judging by appearances, the
sentimental side of his character was persistently inclined to betray
itself still. He was silent and sensitive, and ready to sigh and
languish ponderously (as only fat men CAN sigh and languish) on the
smallest provocation.

Luncheon-time came and Sir Percival did not return. The Count took his
friend’s place at the table, plaintively devoured the greater part of a
fruit tart, submerged under a whole jugful of cream, and explained the
full merit of the achievement to us as soon as he had done. “A taste
for sweets,” he said in his softest tones and his tenderest manner,
“is the innocent taste of women and children. I love to share it with
them—it is another bond, dear ladies, between you and me.”

Laura left the table in ten minutes’ time. I was sorely tempted to
accompany her. But if we had both gone out together we must have
excited suspicion, and worse still, if we allowed Anne Catherick to
see Laura, accompanied by a second person who was a stranger to her,
we should in all probability forfeit her confidence from that moment,
never to regain it again.

I waited, therefore, as patiently as I could, until the servant came in
to clear the table. When I quitted the room, there were no signs, in
the house or out of it, of Sir Percival’s return. I left the Count with
a piece of sugar between his lips, and the vicious cockatoo scrambling
up his waistcoat to get at it, while Madame Fosco, sitting opposite
to her husband, watched the proceedings of his bird and himself as
attentively as if she had never seen anything of the sort before in her
life. On my way to the plantation I kept carefully beyond the range of
view from the luncheon-room window. Nobody saw me and nobody followed
me. It was then a quarter to three o’clock by my watch.

Once among the trees I walked rapidly, until I had advanced more than
half-way through the plantation. At that point I slackened my pace and
proceeded cautiously, but I saw no one, and heard no voices. By little
and little I came within view of the back of the boat-house—stopped
and listened—then went on, till I was close behind it, and must have
heard any persons who were talking inside. Still the silence was
unbroken—still far and near no sign of a living creature appeared
anywhere.

After skirting round by the back of the building, first on one side and
then on the other, and making no discoveries, I ventured in front of
it, and fairly looked in. The place was empty.

I called, “Laura!”—at first softly, then louder and louder. No one
answered and no one appeared. For all that I could see and hear, the
only human creature in the neighbourhood of the lake and the plantation
was myself.

My heart began to beat violently, but I kept my resolution, and
searched, first the boat-house and then the ground in front of it, for
any signs which might show me whether Laura had really reached the
place or not. No mark of her presence appeared inside the building, but
I found traces of her outside it, in footsteps on the sand.

I detected the footsteps of two persons—large footsteps like a man’s,
and small footsteps, which, by putting my own feet into them and
testing their size in that manner, I felt certain were Laura’s. The
ground was confusedly marked in this way just before the boat-house.
Close against one side of it, under shelter of the projecting roof, I
discovered a little hole in the sand—a hole artificially made, beyond a
doubt. I just noticed it, and then turned away immediately to trace the
footsteps as far as I could, and to follow the direction in which they
might lead me.

They led me, starting from the left-hand side of the boat-house, along
the edge of the trees, a distance, I should think, of between two and
three hundred yards, and then the sandy ground showed no further trace
of them. Feeling that the persons whose course I was tracking must
necessarily have entered the plantation at this point, I entered it
too. At first I could find no path, but I discovered one afterwards,
just faintly traced among the trees, and followed it. It took me, for
some distance, in the direction of the village, until I stopped at a
point where another foot-track crossed it. The brambles grew thickly
on either side of this second path. I stood looking down it, uncertain
which way to take next, and while I looked I saw on one thorny branch
some fragments of fringe from a woman’s shawl. A closer examination of
the fringe satisfied me that it had been torn from a shawl of Laura’s,
and I instantly followed the second path. It brought me out at last, to
my great relief, at the back of the house. I say to my great relief,
because I inferred that Laura must, for some unknown reason, have
returned before me by this roundabout way. I went in by the court-yard
and the offices. The first person whom I met in crossing the servants’
hall was Mrs. Michelson, the housekeeper.

“Do you know,” I asked, “whether Lady Glyde has come in from her walk
or not?”

“My lady came in a little while ago with Sir Percival,” answered the
housekeeper. “I am afraid, Miss Halcombe, something very distressing
has happened.”

My heart sank within me. “You don’t mean an accident?” I said faintly.

“No, no—thank God, no accident. But my lady ran upstairs to her own
room in tears, and Sir Percival has ordered me to give Fanny warning to
leave in an hour’s time.”

Fanny was Laura’s maid—a good affectionate girl who had been with her
for years—the only person in the house whose fidelity and devotion we
could both depend upon.

“Where is Fanny?” I inquired.

“In my room, Miss Halcombe. The young woman is quite overcome, and I
told her to sit down and try to recover herself.”

I went to Mrs. Michelson’s room, and found Fanny in a corner, with her
box by her side, crying bitterly.

She could give me no explanation whatever of her sudden dismissal. Sir
Percival had ordered that she should have a month’s wages, in place of
a month’s warning, and go. No reason had been assigned—no objection
had been made to her conduct. She had been forbidden to appeal to her
mistress, forbidden even to see her for a moment to say good-bye. She
was to go without explanations or farewells, and to go at once.

After soothing the poor girl by a few friendly words, I asked where she
proposed to sleep that night. She replied that she thought of going to
the little inn in the village, the landlady of which was a respectable
woman, known to the servants at Blackwater Park. The next morning, by
leaving early, she might get back to her friends in Cumberland without
stopping in London, where she was a total stranger.

I felt directly that Fanny’s departure offered us a safe means of
communication with London and with Limmeridge House, of which it might
be very important to avail ourselves. Accordingly, I told her that she
might expect to hear from her mistress or from me in the course of the
evening, and that she might depend on our both doing all that lay in
our power to help her, under the trial of leaving us for the present.
Those words said, I shook hands with her and went upstairs.

The door which led to Laura’s room was the door of an ante-chamber
opening on to the passage. When I tried it, it was bolted on the inside.

I knocked, and the door was opened by the same heavy, overgrown
housemaid whose lumpish insensibility had tried my patience so severely
on the day when I found the wounded dog.

I had, since that time, discovered that her name was Margaret Porcher,
and that she was the most awkward, slatternly, and obstinate servant in
the house.

On opening the door she instantly stepped out to the threshold, and
stood grinning at me in stolid silence.

“Why do you stand there?” I said. “Don’t you see that I want to come
in?”

“Ah, but you mustn’t come in,” was the answer, with another and a
broader grin still.

“How dare you talk to me in that way? Stand back instantly!”

She stretched out a great red hand and arm on each side of her, so as
to bar the doorway, and slowly nodded her addle head at me.

“Master’s orders,” she said, and nodded again.

I had need of all my self-control to warn me against contesting the
matter with HER, and to remind me that the next words I had to say must
be addressed to her master. I turned my back on her, and instantly
went downstairs to find him. My resolution to keep my temper under all
the irritations that Sir Percival could offer was, by this time, as
completely forgotten—I say so to my shame—as if I had never made it. It
did me good, after all I had suffered and suppressed in that house—it
actually did me good to feel how angry I was.

The drawing-room and the breakfast-room were both empty. I went on to
the library, and there I found Sir Percival, the Count, and Madame
Fosco. They were all three standing up, close together, and Sir
Percival had a little slip of paper in his hand. As I opened the door I
heard the Count say to him, “No—a thousand times over, no.”

I walked straight up to him, and looked him full in the face.

“Am I to understand, Sir Percival, that your wife’s room is a prison,
and that your housemaid is the gaoler who keeps it?” I asked.

“Yes, that is what you are to understand,” he answered. “Take care my
gaoler hasn’t got double duty to do—take care your room is not a prison
too.”

“Take YOU care how you treat your wife, and how you threaten ME,”
I broke out in the heat of my anger. “There are laws in England to
protect women from cruelty and outrage. If you hurt a hair of Laura’s
head, if you dare to interfere with my freedom, come what may, to those
laws I will appeal.”

Instead of answering me he turned round to the Count.

“What did I tell you?” he asked. “What do you say now?”

“What I said before,” replied the Count—“No.”

Even in the vehemence of my anger I felt his calm, cold, grey eyes on
my face. They turned away from me as soon as he had spoken, and looked
significantly at his wife. Madame Fosco immediately moved close to my
side, and in that position addressed Sir Percival before either of us
could speak again.

“Favour me with your attention for one moment,” she said, in her clear
icily-suppressed tones. “I have to thank you, Sir Percival, for your
hospitality, and to decline taking advantage of it any longer. I remain
in no house in which ladies are treated as your wife and Miss Halcombe
have been treated here to-day!”

Sir Percival drew back a step, and stared at her in dead silence. The
declaration he had just heard—a declaration which he well knew, as I
well knew, Madame Fosco would not have ventured to make without her
husband’s permission—seemed to petrify him with surprise. The Count
stood by, and looked at his wife with the most enthusiastic admiration.

“She is sublime!” he said to himself. He approached her while he spoke,
and drew her hand through his arm. “I am at your service, Eleanor,” he
went on, with a quiet dignity that I had never noticed in him before.
“And at Miss Halcombe’s service, if she will honour me by accepting all
the assistance I can offer her.”

“Damn it! what do you mean?” cried Sir Percival, as the Count quietly
moved away with his wife to the door.

“At other times I mean what I say, but at this time I mean what my
wife says,” replied the impenetrable Italian. “We have changed places,
Percival, for once, and Madame Fosco’s opinion is—mine.”

Sir Percival crumpled up the paper in his hand, and pushing past the
Count, with another oath, stood between him and the door.

“Have your own way,” he said, with baffled rage in his low,
half-whispering tones. “Have your own way—and see what comes of it.”
With those words he left the room.

Madame Fosco glanced inquiringly at her husband. “He has gone away very
suddenly,” she said. “What does it mean?”

“It means that you and I together have brought the worst-tempered man
in all England to his senses,” answered the Count. “It means, Miss
Halcombe, that Lady Glyde is relieved from a gross indignity, and you
from the repetition of an unpardonable insult. Suffer me to express my
admiration of your conduct and your courage at a very trying moment.”

“Sincere admiration,” suggested Madame Fosco.

“Sincere admiration,” echoed the Count.

I had no longer the strength of my first angry resistance to outrage
and injury to support me. My heart-sick anxiety to see Laura, my
sense of my own helpless ignorance of what had happened at the
boat-house, pressed on me with an intolerable weight. I tried to keep
up appearances by speaking to the Count and his wife in the tone which
they had chosen to adopt in speaking to me, but the words failed on
my lips—my breath came short and thick—my eyes looked longingly, in
silence, at the door. The Count, understanding my anxiety, opened it,
went out, and pulled it to after him. At the same time Sir Percival’s
heavy step descended the stairs. I heard them whispering together
outside, while Madame Fosco was assuring me, in her calmest and most
conventional manner, that she rejoiced, for all our sakes, that Sir
Percival’s conduct had not obliged her husband and herself to leave
Blackwater Park. Before she had done speaking the whispering ceased,
the door opened, and the Count looked in.

“Miss Halcombe,” he said, “I am happy to inform you that Lady Glyde is
mistress again in her own house. I thought it might be more agreeable
to you to hear of this change for the better from me than from Sir
Percival, and I have therefore expressly returned to mention it.”

“Admirable delicacy!” said Madame Fosco, paying back her husband’s
tribute of admiration with the Count’s own coin, in the Count’s own
manner. He smiled and bowed as if he had received a formal compliment
from a polite stranger, and drew back to let me pass out first.

Sir Percival was standing in the hall. As I hurried to the stairs I
heard him call impatiently to the Count to come out of the library.

“What are you waiting there for?” he said. “I want to speak to you.”

“And I want to think a little by myself,” replied the other. “Wait till
later, Percival, wait till later.”

Neither he nor his friend said any more. I gained the top of the stairs
and ran along the passage. In my haste and my agitation I left the door
of the ante-chamber open, but I closed the door of the bedroom the
moment I was inside it.

Laura was sitting alone at the far end of the room, her arms resting
wearily on a table, and her face hidden in her hands. She started up
with a cry of delight when she saw me.

“How did you get here?” she asked. “Who gave you leave? Not Sir
Percival?”

In my overpowering anxiety to hear what she had to tell me, I could not
answer her—I could only put questions on my side. Laura’s eagerness
to know what had passed downstairs proved, however, too strong to be
resisted. She persistently repeated her inquiries.

“The Count, of course,” I answered impatiently. “Whose influence in the
house——”

She stopped me with a gesture of disgust.

“Don’t speak of him,” she cried. “The Count is the vilest creature
breathing! The Count is a miserable Spy——!”

Before we could either of us say another word we were alarmed by a soft
knocking at the door of the bedroom.

I had not yet sat down, and I went first to see who it was. When I
opened the door Madame Fosco confronted me with my handkerchief in her
hand.

“You dropped this downstairs, Miss Halcombe,” she said, “and I thought
I could bring it to you, as I was passing by to my own room.”

Her face, naturally pale, had turned to such a ghastly whiteness that
I started at the sight of it. Her hands, so sure and steady at all
other times, trembled violently, and her eyes looked wolfishly past me
through the open door, and fixed on Laura.

She had been listening before she knocked! I saw it in her white face,
I saw it in her trembling hands, I saw it in her look at Laura.

After waiting an instant she turned from me in silence, and slowly
walked away.

I closed the door again. “Oh, Laura! Laura! We shall both rue the day
when you called the Count a Spy!”

“You would have called him so yourself, Marian, if you had known what I
know. Anne Catherick was right. There was a third person watching us in
the plantation yesterday, and that third person—-”

“Are you sure it was the Count?”

“I am absolutely certain. He was Sir Percival’s spy—he was Sir
Percival’s informer—he set Sir Percival watching and waiting, all the
morning through, for Anne Catherick and for me.”

“Is Anne found? Did you see her at the lake?”

“No. She has saved herself by keeping away from the place. When I got
to the boat-house no one was there.”

“Yes? Yes?”

“I went in and sat waiting for a few minutes. But my restlessness made
me get up again, to walk about a little. As I passed out I saw some
marks on the sand, close under the front of the boat-house. I stooped
down to examine them, and discovered a word written in large letters on
the sand. The word was—LOOK.”

“And you scraped away the sand, and dug a hollow place in it?”

“How do you know that, Marian?”

“I saw the hollow place myself when I followed you to the boat-house.
Go on—go on!”

“Yes, I scraped away the sand on the surface, and in a little while I
came to a strip of paper hidden beneath, which had writing on it. The
writing was signed with Anne Catherick’s initials.”

“Where is it?”

“Sir Percival has taken it from me.”

“Can you remember what the writing was? Do you think you can repeat it
to me?”

“In substance I can, Marian. It was very short. You would have
remembered it, word for word.”

“Try to tell me what the substance was before we go any further.”

She complied. I write the lines down here exactly as she repeated them
to me. They ran thus—


“I was seen with you, yesterday, by a tall, stout old man, and had to
run to save myself. He was not quick enough on his feet to follow me,
and he lost me among the trees. I dare not risk coming back here to-day
at the same time. I write this, and hide it in the sand, at six in the
morning, to tell you so. When we speak next of your wicked husband’s
Secret we must speak safely, or not at all. Try to have patience. I
promise you shall see me again and that soon.—A. C.”


The reference to the “tall, stout old man” (the terms of which Laura
was certain that she had repeated to me correctly) left no doubt as
to who the intruder had been. I called to mind that I had told Sir
Percival, in the Count’s presence the day before, that Laura had gone
to the boat-house to look for her brooch. In all probability he had
followed her there, in his officious way, to relieve her mind about
the matter of the signature, immediately after he had mentioned the
change in Sir Percival’s plans to me in the drawing-room. In this
case he could only have got to the neighbourhood of the boat-house at
the very moment when Anne Catherick discovered him. The suspiciously
hurried manner in which she parted from Laura had no doubt prompted his
useless attempt to follow her. Of the conversation which had previously
taken place between them he could have heard nothing. The distance
between the house and the lake, and the time at which he left me in
the drawing-room, as compared with the time at which Laura and Anne
Catherick had been speaking together, proved that fact to us at any
rate, beyond a doubt.

Having arrived at something like a conclusion so far, my next great
interest was to know what discoveries Sir Percival had made after Count
Fosco had given him his information.

“How came you to lose possession of the letter?” I asked. “What did you
do with it when you found it in the sand?”

“After reading it once through,” she replied, “I took it into the
boat-house with me to sit down and look over it a second time. While I
was reading a shadow fell across the paper. I looked up, and saw Sir
Percival standing in the doorway watching me.”

“Did you try to hide the letter?”

“I tried, but he stopped me. ‘You needn’t trouble to hide that,’ he
said. ‘I happen to have read it.’ I could only look at him helplessly—I
could say nothing. ‘You understand?’ he went on; ‘I have read it. I dug
it up out of the sand two hours since, and buried it again, and wrote
the word above it again, and left it ready to your hands. You can’t
lie yourself out of the scrape now. You saw Anne Catherick in secret
yesterday, and you have got her letter in your hand at this moment. I
have not caught HER yet, but I have caught YOU. Give me the letter.’ He
stepped close up to me—I was alone with him, Marian—what could I do?—I
gave him the letter.”

“What did he say when you gave it to him?”

“At first he said nothing. He took me by the arm, and led me out of the
boat-house, and looked about him on all sides, as if he was afraid of
our being seen or heard. Then he clasped his hand fast round my arm,
and whispered to me, ‘What did Anne Catherick say to you yesterday? I
insist on hearing every word, from first to last.’”

“Did you tell him?”

“I was alone with him, Marian—his cruel hand was bruising my arm—what
could I do?”

“Is the mark on your arm still? Let me see it.”

“Why do you want to see it?”

“I want to see it, Laura, because our endurance must end, and our
resistance must begin to-day. That mark is a weapon to strike him with.
Let me see it now—I may have to swear to it at some future time.”

“Oh, Marian, don’t look so—don’t talk so! It doesn’t hurt me now!”

“Let me see it!”

She showed me the marks. I was past grieving over them, past crying
over them, past shuddering over them. They say we are either better
than men, or worse. If the temptation that has fallen in some women’s
way, and made them worse, had fallen in mine at that moment—Thank
God! my face betrayed nothing that his wife could read. The gentle,
innocent, affectionate creature thought I was frightened for her and
sorry for her, and thought no more.

“Don’t think too seriously of it, Marian,” she said simply, as she
pulled her sleeve down again. “It doesn’t hurt me now.”

“I will try to think quietly of it, my love, for your sake.—Well! well!
And you told him all that Anne Catherick had said to you—all that you
told me?”

“Yes, all. He insisted on it—I was alone with him—I could conceal
nothing.”

“Did he say anything when you had done?”

“He looked at me, and laughed to himself in a mocking, bitter way. ‘I
mean to have the rest out of you,’ he said, ‘do you hear?—the rest.’ I
declared to him solemnly that I had told him everything I knew. ‘Not
you,’ he answered, ‘you know more than you choose to tell. Won’t you
tell it? You shall! I’ll wring it out of you at home if I can’t wring
it out of you here.’ He led me away by a strange path through the
plantation—a path where there was no hope of our meeting you—and he
spoke no more till we came within sight of the house. Then he stopped
again, and said, ‘Will you take a second chance, if I give it to you?
Will you think better of it, and tell me the rest?’ I could only repeat
the same words I had spoken before. He cursed my obstinacy, and went
on, and took me with him to the house. ‘You can’t deceive me,’ he said,
‘you know more than you choose to tell. I’ll have your secret out of
you, and I’ll have it out of that sister of yours as well. There shall
be no more plotting and whispering between you. Neither you nor she
shall see each other again till you have confessed the truth. I’ll have
you watched morning, noon, and night, till you confess the truth.’ He
was deaf to everything I could say. He took me straight upstairs into
my own room. Fanny was sitting there, doing some work for me, and he
instantly ordered her out. ‘I’ll take good care YOU’RE not mixed up in
the conspiracy,’ he said. ‘You shall leave this house to-day. If your
mistress wants a maid, she shall have one of my choosing.’ He pushed me
into the room, and locked the door on me. He set that senseless woman
to watch me outside, Marian! He looked and spoke like a madman. You may
hardly understand it—he did indeed.”

“I do understand it, Laura. He is mad—mad with the terrors of a guilty
conscience. Every word you have said makes me positively certain
that when Anne Catherick left you yesterday you were on the eve of
discovering a secret which might have been your vile husband’s ruin,
and he thinks you HAVE discovered it. Nothing you can say or do will
quiet that guilty distrust, and convince his false nature of your
truth. I don’t say this, my love, to alarm you. I say it to open your
eyes to your position, and to convince you of the urgent necessity of
letting me act, as I best can, for your protection while the chance
is our own. Count Fosco’s interference has secured me access to you
to-day, but he may withdraw that interference to-morrow. Sir Percival
has already dismissed Fanny because she is a quick-witted girl, and
devotedly attached to you, and has chosen a woman to take her place who
cares nothing for your interests, and whose dull intelligence lowers
her to the level of the watch-dog in the yard. It is impossible to say
what violent measures he may take next, unless we make the most of our
opportunities while we have them.”

“What can we do, Marian? Oh, if we could only leave this house, never
to see it again!”

“Listen to me, my love, and try to think that you are not quite
helpless so long as I am here with you.”

“I will think so—I do think so. Don’t altogether forget poor Fanny in
thinking of me. She wants help and comfort too.”

“I will not forget her. I saw her before I came up here, and I have
arranged to communicate with her to-night. Letters are not safe in the
post-bag at Blackwater Park, and I shall have two to write to-day, in
your interests, which must pass through no hands but Fanny’s.”

“What letters?”

“I mean to write first, Laura, to Mr. Gilmore’s partner, who has
offered to help us in any fresh emergency. Little as I know of the law,
I am certain that it can protect a woman from such treatment as that
ruffian has inflicted on you to-day. I will go into no details about
Anne Catherick, because I have no certain information to give. But the
lawyer shall know of those bruises on your arm, and of the violence
offered to you in this room—he shall, before I rest to-night!”

“But think of the exposure, Marian!”

“I am calculating on the exposure. Sir Percival has more to dread from
it than you have. The prospect of an exposure may bring him to terms
when nothing else will.”

I rose as I spoke, but Laura entreated me not to leave her. “You will
drive him to desperation,” she said, “and increase our dangers tenfold.”

I felt the truth—the disheartening truth—of those words. But I could
not bring myself plainly to acknowledge it to her. In our dreadful
position there was no help and no hope for us but in risking the worst.
I said so in guarded terms. She sighed bitterly, but did not contest
the matter. She only asked about the second letter that I had proposed
writing. To whom was it to be addressed?

“To Mr. Fairlie,” I said. “Your uncle is your nearest male relative,
and the head of the family. He must and shall interfere.”

Laura shook her head sorrowfully.

“Yes, yes,” I went on, “your uncle is a weak, selfish, worldly man,
I know, but he is not Sir Percival Glyde, and he has no such friend
about him as Count Fosco. I expect nothing from his kindness or his
tenderness of feeling towards you or towards me, but he will do
anything to pamper his own indolence, and to secure his own quiet. Let
me only persuade him that his interference at this moment will save him
inevitable trouble and wretchedness and responsibility hereafter, and
he will bestir himself for his own sake. I know how to deal with him,
Laura—I have had some practice.”

“If you could only prevail on him to let me go back to Limmeridge for a
little while and stay there quietly with you, Marian, I could be almost
as happy again as I was before I was married!”

Those words set me thinking in a new direction. Would it be possible
to place Sir Percival between the two alternatives of either exposing
himself to the scandal of legal interference on his wife’s behalf,
or of allowing her to be quietly separated from him for a time under
pretext of a visit to her uncle’s house? And could he, in that case, be
reckoned on as likely to accept the last resource? It was doubtful—more
than doubtful. And yet, hopeless as the experiment seemed, surely it
was worth trying. I resolved to try it in sheer despair of knowing what
better to do.

“Your uncle shall know the wish you have just expressed,” I said, “and
I will ask the lawyer’s advice on the subject as well. Good may come of
it—and will come of it, I hope.”

Saying that I rose again, and again Laura tried to make me resume my
seat.

“Don’t leave me,” she said uneasily. “My desk is on that table. You can
write here.”

It tried me to the quick to refuse her, even in her own interests.
But we had been too long shut up alone together already. Our chance
of seeing each other again might entirely depend on our not exciting
any fresh suspicions. It was full time to show myself, quietly and
unconcernedly, among the wretches who were at that very moment,
perhaps, thinking of us and talking of us downstairs. I explained the
miserable necessity to Laura, and prevailed on her to recognise it as I
did.

“I will come back again, love, in an hour or less,” I said. “The worst
is over for to-day. Keep yourself quiet and fear nothing.”

“Is the key in the door, Marian? Can I lock it on the inside?”

“Yes, here is the key. Lock the door, and open it to nobody until I
come upstairs again.”

I kissed her and left her. It was a relief to me as I walked away to
hear the key turned in the lock, and to know that the door was at her
own command.



VIII


June 19th.—I had only got as far as the top of the stairs when the
locking of Laura’s door suggested to me the precaution of also locking
my own door, and keeping the key safely about me while I was out of
the room. My journal was already secured with other papers in the
table drawer, but my writing materials were left out. These included a
seal bearing the common device of two doves drinking out of the same
cup, and some sheets of blotting-paper, which had the impression on
them of the closing lines of my writing in these pages traced during
the past night. Distorted by the suspicion which had now become a
part of myself, even such trifles as these looked too dangerous to be
trusted without a guard—even the locked table drawer seemed to be not
sufficiently protected in my absence until the means of access to it
had been carefully secured as well.

I found no appearance of any one having entered the room while I had
been talking with Laura. My writing materials (which I had given the
servant instructions never to meddle with) were scattered over the
table much as usual. The only circumstance in connection with them that
at all struck me was that the seal lay tidily in the tray with the
pencils and the wax. It was not in my careless habits (I am sorry to
say) to put it there, neither did I remember putting it there. But as
I could not call to mind, on the other hand, where else I had thrown
it down, and as I was also doubtful whether I might not for once have
laid it mechanically in the right place, I abstained from adding to the
perplexity with which the day’s events had filled my mind by troubling
it afresh about a trifle. I locked the door, put the key in my pocket,
and went downstairs.

Madame Fosco was alone in the hall looking at the weather-glass.

“Still falling,” she said. “I am afraid we must expect more rain.”

Her face was composed again to its customary expression and its
customary colour. But the hand with which she pointed to the dial of
the weather-glass still trembled.

Could she have told her husband already that she had overheard Laura
reviling him, in my company, as a “spy?” My strong suspicion that she
must have told him, my irresistible dread (all the more overpowering
from its very vagueness) of the consequences which might follow,
my fixed conviction, derived from various little self-betrayals
which women notice in each other, that Madame Fosco, in spite of
her well-assumed external civility, had not forgiven her niece for
innocently standing between her and the legacy of ten thousand
pounds—all rushed upon my mind together, all impelled me to speak in
the vain hope of using my own influence and my own powers of persuasion
for the atonement of Laura’s offence.

“May I trust to your kindness to excuse me, Madame Fosco, if I venture
to speak to you on an exceedingly painful subject?”

She crossed her hands in front of her and bowed her head solemnly,
without uttering a word, and without taking her eyes off mine for a
moment.

“When you were so good as to bring me back my handkerchief,” I went on,
“I am very, very much afraid you must have accidentally heard Laura say
something which I am unwilling to repeat, and which I will not attempt
to defend. I will only venture to hope that you have not thought it of
sufficient importance to be mentioned to the Count?”

“I think it of no importance whatever,” said Madame Fosco sharply and
suddenly. “But,” she added, resuming her icy manner in a moment, “I
have no secrets from my husband even in trifles. When he noticed just
now that I looked distressed, it was my painful duty to tell him why I
was distressed, and I frankly acknowledge to you, Miss Halcombe, that I
HAVE told him.”

I was prepared to hear it, and yet she turned me cold all over when she
said those words.

“Let me earnestly entreat you, Madame Fosco—let me earnestly entreat
the Count—to make some allowances for the sad position in which my
sister is placed. She spoke while she was smarting under the insult and
injustice inflicted on her by her husband, and she was not herself when
she said those rash words. May I hope that they will be considerately
and generously forgiven?”

“Most assuredly,” said the Count’s quiet voice behind me. He had stolen
on us with his noiseless tread and his book in his hand from the
library.

“When Lady Glyde said those hasty words,” he went on, “she did me
an injustice which I lament—and forgive. Let us never return to the
subject, Miss Halcombe; let us all comfortably combine to forget it
from this moment.”

“You are very kind,” I said, “you relieve me inexpressibly.”

I tried to continue, but his eyes were on me; his deadly smile that
hides everything was set, hard, and unwavering on his broad, smooth
face. My distrust of his unfathomable falseness, my sense of my
own degradation in stooping to conciliate his wife and himself, so
disturbed and confused me, that the next words failed on my lips, and I
stood there in silence.

“I beg you on my knees to say no more, Miss Halcombe—I am truly shocked
that you should have thought it necessary to say so much.” With that
polite speech he took my hand—oh, how I despise myself! oh, how little
comfort there is even in knowing that I submitted to it for Laura’s
sake!—he took my hand and put it to his poisonous lips. Never did I
know all my horror of him till then. That innocent familiarity turned
my blood as if it had been the vilest insult that a man could offer me.
Yet I hid my disgust from him—I tried to smile—I, who once mercilessly
despised deceit in other women, was as false as the worst of them, as
false as the Judas whose lips had touched my hand.

I could not have maintained my degrading self-control—it is all that
redeems me in my own estimation to know that I could not—if he had
still continued to keep his eyes on my face. His wife’s tigerish
jealousy came to my rescue and forced his attention away from me the
moment he possessed himself of my hand. Her cold blue eyes caught
light, her dull white cheeks flushed into bright colour, she looked
years younger than her age in an instant.

“Count!” she said. “Your foreign forms of politeness are not understood
by Englishwomen.”

“Pardon me, my angel! The best and dearest Englishwoman in the world
understands them.” With those words he dropped my hand and quietly
raised his wife’s hand to his lips in place of it.

I ran back up the stairs to take refuge in my own room. If there had
been time to think, my thoughts, when I was alone again, would have
caused me bitter suffering. But there was no time to think. Happily
for the preservation of my calmness and my courage there was time for
nothing but action.

The letters to the lawyer and to Mr. Fairlie were still to be written,
and I sat down at once without a moment’s hesitation to devote myself
to them.

There was no multitude of resources to perplex me—there was absolutely
no one to depend on, in the first instance, but myself. Sir Percival
had neither friends nor relatives in the neighbourhood whose
intercession I could attempt to employ. He was on the coldest terms—in
some cases on the worst terms—with the families of his own rank and
station who lived near him. We two women had neither father nor brother
to come to the house and take our parts. There was no choice but to
write those two doubtful letters, or to put Laura in the wrong and
myself in the wrong, and to make all peaceable negotiation in the
future impossible by secretly escaping from Blackwater Park. Nothing
but the most imminent personal peril could justify our taking that
second course. The letters must be tried first, and I wrote them.

I said nothing to the lawyer about Anne Catherick, because (as I had
already hinted to Laura) that topic was connected with a mystery which
we could not yet explain, and which it would therefore be useless to
write about to a professional man. I left my correspondent to attribute
Sir Percival’s disgraceful conduct, if he pleased, to fresh disputes
about money matters, and simply consulted him on the possibility of
taking legal proceedings for Laura’s protection in the event of her
husband’s refusal to allow her to leave Blackwater Park for a time
and return with me to Limmeridge. I referred him to Mr. Fairlie for
the details of this last arrangement—I assured him that I wrote with
Laura’s authority—and I ended by entreating him to act in her name to
the utmost extent of his power and with the least possible loss of time.

The letter to Mr. Fairlie occupied me next. I appealed to him on
the terms which I had mentioned to Laura as the most likely to make
him bestir himself; I enclosed a copy of my letter to the lawyer to
show him how serious the case was, and I represented our removal to
Limmeridge as the only compromise which would prevent the danger and
distress of Laura’s present position from inevitably affecting her
uncle as well as herself at no very distant time.

When I had done, and had sealed and directed the two envelopes, I went
back with the letters to Laura’s room, to show her that they were
written.

“Has anybody disturbed you?” I asked, when she opened the door to me.

“Nobody has knocked,” she replied. “But I heard some one in the outer
room.”

“Was it a man or a woman?”

“A woman. I heard the rustling of her gown.”

“A rustling like silk?”

“Yes, like silk.”

Madame Fosco had evidently been watching outside. The mischief she
might do by herself was little to be feared. But the mischief she might
do, as a willing instrument in her husband’s hands, was too formidable
to be overlooked.

“What became of the rustling of the gown when you no longer heard it in
the ante-room?” I inquired. “Did you hear it go past your wall, along
the passage?”

“Yes. I kept still and listened, and just heard it.”

“Which way did it go?”

“Towards your room.”

I considered again. The sound had not caught my ears. But I was then
deeply absorbed in my letters, and I write with a heavy hand and a
quill pen, scraping and scratching noisily over the paper. It was more
likely that Madame Fosco would hear the scraping of my pen than that I
should hear the rustling of her dress. Another reason (if I had wanted
one) for not trusting my letters to the post-bag in the hall.

Laura saw me thinking. “More difficulties!” she said wearily; “more
difficulties and more dangers!”

“No dangers,” I replied. “Some little difficulty, perhaps. I am
thinking of the safest way of putting my two letters into Fanny’s
hands.”

“You have really written them, then? Oh, Marian, run no risks—pray,
pray run no risks!”

“No, no—no fear. Let me see—what o’clock is it now?”

It was a quarter to six. There would be time for me to get to the
village inn, and to come back again before dinner. If I waited till the
evening I might find no second opportunity of safely leaving the house.

“Keep the key turned in the lock, Laura,” I said, “and don’t be afraid
about me. If you hear any inquiries made, call through the door, and
say that I am gone out for a walk.”

“When shall you be back?”

“Before dinner, without fail. Courage, my love. By this time to-morrow
you will have a clear-headed, trustworthy man acting for your good. Mr.
Gilmore’s partner is our next best friend to Mr. Gilmore himself.”

A moment’s reflection, as soon as I was alone, convinced me that I had
better not appear in my walking-dress until I had first discovered what
was going on in the lower part of the house. I had not ascertained yet
whether Sir Percival was indoors or out.

The singing of the canaries in the library, and the smell of
tobacco-smoke that came through the door, which was not closed, told
me at once where the Count was. I looked over my shoulder as I passed
the doorway, and saw to my surprise that he was exhibiting the docility
of the birds in his most engagingly polite manner to the housekeeper.
He must have specially invited her to see them—for she would never
have thought of going into the library of her own accord. The man’s
slightest actions had a purpose of some kind at the bottom of every one
of them. What could be his purpose here?

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 closed 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 be
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 I 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 to-morrow. 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 to-morrow 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 to-day? 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.”

He had not found Anne! We were safe for that night—he had not found her
yet.

“You are going downstairs, Marian? Come up again in the evening.”

“Yes, yes. Don’t be uneasy if I am a little late—I must be careful not
to give offence by leaving them too soon.”

The dinner-bell rang and I hastened away.

Sir Percival took Madame Fosco into the dining-room, and the Count
gave me his arm. He was hot and flushed, and was not dressed with his
customary care and completeness. Had he, too, been out before dinner,
and been late in getting back? or was he only suffering from the heat a
little more severely than usual?

However this might be, he was unquestionably troubled by some secret
annoyance or anxiety, which, with all his powers of deception, he
was not able entirely to conceal. Through the whole of dinner he was
almost as silent as Sir Percival himself, and he, every now and then,
looked at his wife with an expression of furtive uneasiness which was
quite new in my experience of him. The one social obligation which he
seemed to be self-possessed enough to perform as carefully as ever
was the obligation of being persistently civil and attentive to me.
What vile object he has in view I cannot still discover, but be the
design what it may, invariable politeness towards myself, invariable
humility towards Laura, and invariable suppression (at any cost) of
Sir Percival’s clumsy violence, have been the means he has resolutely
and impenetrably used to get to his end ever since he set foot in this
house. I suspected it when he first interfered in our favour, on the
day when the deed was produced in the library, and I feel certain of it
now.

When Madame Fosco and I rose to leave the table, the Count rose also to
accompany us back to the drawing-room.

“What are you going away for?” asked Sir Percival—“I mean YOU, Fosco.”

“I am going away because I have had dinner enough, and wine enough,”
answered the Count. “Be so kind, Percival, as to make allowances for my
foreign habit of going out with the ladies, as well as coming in with
them.”

“Nonsense! Another glass of claret won’t hurt you. Sit down again like
an Englishman. I want half an hour’s quiet talk with you over our wine.”

“A quiet talk, Percival, with all my heart, but not now, and not over
the wine. Later in the evening, if you please—later in the evening.”

“Civil!” said Sir Percival savagely. “Civil behaviour, upon my soul, to
a man in his own house!”

I had more than once seen him look at the Count uneasily during
dinner-time, and had observed that the Count carefully abstained
from looking at him in return. This circumstance, coupled with the
host’s anxiety for a little quiet talk over the wine, and the guest’s
obstinate resolution not to sit down again at the table, revived in
my memory the request which Sir Percival had vainly addressed to his
friend earlier in the day to come out of the library and speak to him.
The Count had deferred granting that private interview, when it was
first asked for in the afternoon, and had again deferred granting it,
when it was a second time asked for at the dinner-table. Whatever the
coming subject of discussion between them might be, it was clearly an
important subject in Sir Percival’s estimation—and perhaps (judging
from his evident reluctance to approach it) a dangerous subject as
well, in the estimation of the Count.

These considerations occurred to me while we were passing from the
dining-room to the drawing-room. Sir Percival’s angry commentary on his
friend’s desertion of him had not produced the slightest effect. The
Count obstinately accompanied us to the tea-table—waited a minute or
two in the room—went out into the hall—and returned with the post-bag
in his hands. It was then eight o’clock—the hour at which the letters
were always despatched from Blackwater Park.

“Have you any letter for the post, Miss Halcombe?” he asked,
approaching me with the bag.

I saw Madame Fosco, who was making the tea, pause, with the sugar-tongs
in her hand, to listen for my answer.

“No, Count, thank you. No letters to-day.”

He gave the bag to the servant, who was then in the room; sat down at
the piano, and played the air of the lively Neapolitan street-song,
“La mia Carolina,” twice over. His wife, who was usually the most
deliberate of women in all her movements, made the tea as quickly as
I could have made it myself—finished her own cup in two minutes, and
quietly glided out of the room.

I rose to follow her example—partly because I suspected her of
attempting some treachery upstairs with Laura, partly because I was
resolved not to remain alone in the same room with her husband.

Before I could get to the door the Count stopped me, by a request for a
cup of tea. I gave him the cup of tea, and tried a second time to get
away. He stopped me again—this time by going back to the piano, and
suddenly appealing to me on a musical question in which he declared
that the honour of his country was concerned.

I vainly pleaded my own total ignorance of music, and total want of
taste in that direction. He only appealed to me again with a vehemence
which set all further protest on my part at defiance. “The English and
the Germans (he indignantly declared) were always reviling the Italians
for their inability to cultivate the higher kinds of music. We were
perpetually talking of our Oratorios, and they were perpetually talking
of their Symphonies. Did we forget and did they forget his immortal
friend and countryman, Rossini? What was Moses in Egypt but a sublime
oratorio, which was acted on the stage instead of being coldly sung in
a concert-room? What was the overture to Guillaume Tell but a symphony
under another name? Had I heard Moses in Egypt? Would I listen to this,
and this, and this, and say if anything more sublimely sacred and grand
had ever been composed by mortal man?”—And without waiting for a word
of assent or dissent on my part, looking me hard in the face all the
time, he began thundering on the piano, and singing to it with loud and
lofty enthusiasm—only interrupting himself, at intervals, to announce
to me fiercely the titles of the different pieces of music: “Chorus
of Egyptians in the Plague of Darkness, Miss Halcombe!”—“Recitativo
of Moses with the tables of the Law.”—“Prayer of Israelites, at the
passage of the Red Sea. Aha! Aha! Is that sacred? is that sublime?” The
piano trembled under his powerful hands, and the teacups on the table
rattled, as his big bass voice thundered out the notes, and his heavy
foot beat time on the floor.

There was something horrible—something fierce and devilish—in the
outburst of his delight at his own singing and playing, and in the
triumph with which he watched its effect upon me as I shrank nearer
and nearer to the door. I was released at last, not by my own efforts,
but by Sir Percival’s interposition. He opened the dining-room door,
and called out angrily to know what “that infernal noise” meant. The
Count instantly got up from the piano. “Ah! if Percival is coming,” he
said, “harmony and melody are both at an end. The Muse of Music, Miss
Halcombe, deserts us in dismay, and I, the fat old minstrel, exhale
the rest of my enthusiasm in the open air!” He stalked out into the
verandah, put his hands in his pockets, and resumed the “Recitativo of
Moses”, sotto voce, in the garden.

I heard Sir Percival call after him from the dining-room window. But
he took no notice—he seemed determined not to hear. That long-deferred
quiet talk between them was still to be put off, was still to wait for
the Count’s absolute will and pleasure.

He had detained me in the drawing-room nearly half an hour from the
time when his wife left us. Where had she been, and what had she been
doing in that interval?

I went upstairs to ascertain, but I made no discoveries, and when I
questioned Laura, I found that she had not heard anything. Nobody had
disturbed her, no faint rustling of the silk dress had been audible,
either in the ante-room or in the passage.

It was then twenty minutes to nine. After going to my room to get my
journal, I returned, and sat with Laura, sometimes writing, sometimes
stopping to talk with her. Nobody came near us, and nothing happened.
We remained together till ten o’clock. I then rose, said my last
cheering words, and wished her good-night. She locked her door again
after we had arranged that I should come in and see her the first thing
in the morning.

I had a few sentences more to add to my diary before going to bed
myself, and as I went down again to the drawing-room after leaving
Laura for the last time that weary day, I resolved merely to show
myself there, to make my excuses, and then to retire an hour earlier
than usual for the night.

Sir Percival, and the Count and his wife, were sitting together. Sir
Percival was yawning in an easy-chair, the Count was reading, Madame
Fosco was fanning herself. Strange to say, HER face was flushed now.
She, who never suffered from the heat, was most undoubtedly suffering
from it to-night.

“I am afraid, Countess, you are not quite so well as usual?” I said.

“The very remark I was about to make to you,” she replied. “You are
looking pale, my dear.”

My dear! It was the first time she had ever addressed me with that
familiarity! There was an insolent smile too on her face when she said
the words.

“I am suffering from one of my bad headaches,” I answered coldly.

“Ah, indeed? Want of exercise, I suppose? A walk before dinner would
have been just the thing for you.” She referred to the “walk” with a
strange emphasis. Had she seen me go out? No matter if she had. The
letters were safe now in Fanny’s hands.

“Come and have a smoke, Fosco,” said Sir Percival, rising, with another
uneasy look at his friend.

“With pleasure, Percival, when the ladies have gone to bed,” replied
the Count.

“Excuse me, Countess, if I set you the example of retiring,” I said.
“The only remedy for such a headache as mine is going to bed.”

I took my leave. There was the same insolent smile on the woman’s face
when I shook hands with her. Sir Percival paid no attention to me. He
was looking impatiently at Madame Fosco, who showed no signs of leaving
the room with me. The Count smiled to himself behind his book. There
was yet another delay to that quiet talk with Sir Percival—and the
Countess was the impediment this time.



IX

June 19th.—Once safely shut into my own room, I opened these pages, and
prepared to go on with that part of the day’s record which was still
left to write.

For ten minutes or more I sat idle, with the pen in my hand, thinking
over the events of the last twelve hours. When I at last addressed
myself to my task, I found a difficulty in proceeding with it which
I had never experienced before. In spite of my efforts to fix my
thoughts on the matter in hand, they wandered away with the strangest
persistency in the one direction of Sir Percival and the Count, and
all the interest which I tried to concentrate on my journal centred
instead in that private interview between them which had been put off
all through the day, and which was now to take place in the silence and
solitude of the night.

In this perverse state of my mind, the recollection of what had passed
since the morning would not come back to me, and there was no resource
but to close my journal and to get away from it for a little while.

I opened the door which led from my bedroom into my sitting-room, and
having passed through, pulled it to again, to prevent any accident
in case of draught with the candle left on the dressing-table. My
sitting-room window was wide open, and I leaned out listlessly to look
at the night.

It was dark and quiet. Neither moon nor stars were visible. There was
a smell like rain in the still, heavy air, and I put my hand out of
window. No. The rain was only threatening, it had not come yet.

I remained leaning on the window-sill for nearly a quarter of an hour,
looking out absently into the black darkness, and hearing nothing,
except now and then the voices of the servants, or the distant sound of
a closing door, in the lower part of the house.

Just as I was turning away wearily from the window to go back to the
bedroom and make a second attempt to complete the unfinished entry in
my journal, I smelt the odour of tobacco-smoke stealing towards me on
the heavy night air. The next moment I saw a tiny red spark advancing
from the farther end of the house in the pitch darkness. I heard no
footsteps, and I could see nothing but the spark. It travelled along
in the night, passed the window at which I was standing, and stopped
opposite my bedroom window, inside which I had left the light burning
on the dressing-table.

The spark remained stationary for a moment, then moved back again in
the direction from which it had advanced. As I followed its progress
I saw a second red spark, larger than the first, approaching from the
distance. The two met together in the darkness. Remembering who smoked
cigarettes and who smoked cigars, I inferred immediately that the Count
had come out first to look and listen under my window, and that Sir
Percival had afterwards joined him. They must both have been walking
on the lawn—or I should certainly have heard Sir Percival’s heavy
footfall, though the Count’s soft step might have escaped me, even on
the gravel walk.

I waited quietly at the window, certain that they could neither of them
see me in the darkness of the room.

“What’s the matter?” I heard Sir Percival say in a low voice. “Why
don’t you come in and sit down?”

“I want to see the light out of that window,” replied the Count softly.

“What harm does the light do?”

“It shows she is not in bed yet. She is sharp enough to suspect
something, and bold enough to come downstairs and listen, if she can
get the chance. Patience, Percival—patience.”

“Humbug! You’re always talking of patience.”

“I shall talk of something else presently. My good friend, you are on
the edge of your domestic precipice, and if I let you give the women
one other chance, on my sacred word of honour they will push you over
it!”

“What the devil do you mean?”

“We will come to our explanations, Percival, when the light is out of
that window, and when I have had one little look at the rooms on each
side of the library, and a peep at the staircase as well.”

They slowly moved away, and the rest of the conversation between them
(which had been conducted throughout in the same low tones) ceased to
be audible. It was no matter. I had heard enough to determine me on
justifying the Count’s opinion of my sharpness and my courage. Before
the red sparks were out of sight in the darkness I had made up my mind
that there should be a listener when those two men sat down to their
talk—and that the listener, in spite of all the Count’s precautions to
the contrary, should be myself. I wanted but one motive to sanction the
act to my own conscience, and to give me courage enough for performing
it—and that motive I had. Laura’s honour, Laura’s happiness—Laura’s
life itself—might depend on my quick ears and my faithful memory
to-night.

I had heard the Count say that he meant to examine the rooms on each
side of the library, and the staircase as well, before he entered on
any explanation with Sir Percival. This expression of his intentions
was necessarily sufficient to inform me that the library was the room
in which he proposed that the conversation should take place. The one
moment of time which was long enough to bring me to that conclusion was
also the moment which showed me a means of baffling his precautions—or,
in other words, of hearing what he and Sir Percival said to each other,
without the risk of descending at all into the lower regions of the
house.

In speaking of the rooms on the ground floor I have mentioned
incidentally the verandah outside them, on which they all opened by
means of French windows, extending from the cornice to the floor. The
top of this verandah was flat, the rain-water being carried off from
it by pipes into tanks which helped to supply the house. On the narrow
leaden roof, which ran along past the bedrooms, and which was rather
less, I should think, than three feet below the sills of the window, a
row of flower-pots was ranged, with wide intervals between each pot—the
whole being protected from falling in high winds by an ornamental iron
railing along the edge of the roof.

The plan which had now occurred to me was to get out at my sitting-room
window on to this roof, to creep along noiselessly till I reached
that part of it which was immediately over the library window, and to
crouch down between the flower-pots, with my ear against the outer
railing. If Sir Percival and the Count sat and smoked to-night, as I
had seen them sitting and smoking many nights before, with their chairs
close at the open window, and their feet stretched on the zinc garden
seats which were placed under the verandah, every word they said to
each other above a whisper (and no long conversation, as we all know
by experience, can be carried on IN a whisper) must inevitably reach
my ears. If, on the other hand, they chose to-night to sit far back
inside the room, then the chances were that I should hear little or
nothing—and in that case, I must run the far more serious risk of
trying to outwit them downstairs.

Strongly as I was fortified in my resolution by the desperate nature
of our situation, I hoped most fervently that I might escape this last
emergency. My courage was only a woman’s courage after all, and it was
very near to failing me when I thought of trusting myself on the ground
floor, at the dead of night, within reach of Sir Percival and the Count.

I went softly back to my bedroom to try the safer experiment of the
verandah roof first.

A complete change in my dress was imperatively necessary for many
reasons. I took off my silk gown to begin with, because the slightest
noise from it on that still night might have betrayed me. I next
removed the white and cumbersome parts of my underclothing, and
replaced them by a petticoat of dark flannel. Over this I put my black
travelling cloak, and pulled the hood on to my head. In my ordinary
evening costume I took up the room of three men at least. In my present
dress, when it was held close about me, no man could have passed
through the narrowest spaces more easily than I. The little breadth
left on the roof of the verandah, between the flower-pots on one side
and the wall and the windows of the house on the other, made this a
serious consideration. If I knocked anything down, if I made the least
noise, who could say what the consequences might be?

I only waited to put the matches near the candle before I extinguished
it, and groped my way back into the sitting-room. I locked that door,
as I had locked my bedroom door—then quietly got out of the window, and
cautiously set my feet on the leaden roof of the verandah.

My two rooms were at the inner extremity of the new wing of the house
in which we all lived, and I had five windows to pass before I could
reach the position it was necessary to take up immediately over the
library. The first window belonged to a spare room which was empty. The
second and third windows belonged to Laura’s room. The fourth window
belonged to Sir Percival’s room. The fifth belonged to the Countess’s
room. The others, by which it was not necessary for me to pass, were
the windows of the Count’s dressing-room, of the bathroom, and of the
second empty spare room.

No sound reached my ears—the black blinding darkness of the night was
all round me when I first stood on the verandah, except at that part
of it which Madame Fosco’s window overlooked. There, at the very place
above the library to which my course was directed—there I saw a gleam
of light! The Countess was not yet in bed.

It was too late to draw back—it was no time to wait. I determined to go
on at all hazards, and trust for security to my own caution and to the
darkness of the night. “For Laura’s sake!” I thought to myself, as I
took the first step forward on the roof, with one hand holding my cloak
close round me, and the other groping against the wall of the house.
It was better to brush close by the wall than to risk striking my feet
against the flower-pots within a few inches of me, on the other side.

I passed the dark window of the spare room, trying the leaden roof
at each step with my foot before I risked resting my weight on it. I
passed the dark windows of Laura’s room (“God bless her and keep her
to-night!”). I passed the dark window of Sir Percival’s room. Then I
waited a moment, knelt down with my hands to support me, and so crept
to my position, under the protection of the low wall between the bottom
of the lighted window and the verandah roof.

When I ventured to look up at the window itself I found that the top of
it only was open, and that the blind inside was drawn down. While I was
looking I saw the shadow of Madame Fosco pass across the white field
of the blind—then pass slowly back again. Thus far she could not have
heard me, or the shadow would surely have stopped at the blind, even if
she had wanted courage enough to open the window and look out?

I placed myself sideways against the railing of the verandah—first
ascertaining, by touching them, the position of the flower-pots on
either side of me. There was room enough for me to sit between them and
no more. The sweet-scented leaves of the flower on my left hand just
brushed my cheek as I lightly rested my head against the railing.

The first sounds that reached me from below were caused by the opening
or closing (most probably the latter) of three doors in succession—the
doors, no doubt, leading into the hall and into the rooms on each side
of the library, which the Count had pledged himself to examine. The
first object that I saw was the red spark again travelling out into the
night from under the verandah, moving away towards my window, waiting a
moment, and then returning to the place from which it had set out.

“The devil take your restlessness! When do you mean to sit down?”
growled Sir Percival’s voice beneath me.

“Ouf! how hot it is!” said the Count, sighing and puffing wearily.

His exclamation was followed by the scraping of the garden chairs on
the tiled pavement under the verandah—the welcome sound which told me
they were going to sit close at the window as usual. So far the chance
was mine. The clock in the turret struck the quarter to twelve as they
settled themselves in their chairs. I heard Madame Fosco through the
open window yawning, and saw her shadow pass once more across the white
field of the blind.

Meanwhile, Sir Percival and the Count began talking together below, now
and then dropping their voices a little lower than usual, but never
sinking them to a whisper. The strangeness and peril of my situation,
the dread, which I could not master, of Madame Fosco’s lighted window,
made it difficult, almost impossible, for me, at first, to keep my
presence of mind, and to fix my attention solely on the conversation
beneath. For some minutes I could only succeed in gathering the general
substance of it. I understood the Count to say that the one window
alight was his wife’s, that the ground floor of the house was quite
clear, and that they might now speak to each other without fear of
accidents. Sir Percival merely answered by upbraiding his friend with
having unjustifiably slighted his wishes and neglected his interests
all through the day. The Count thereupon defended himself by declaring
that he had been beset by certain troubles and anxieties which had
absorbed all his attention, and that the only safe time to come to an
explanation was a time when they could feel certain of being neither
interrupted nor overheard. “We are at a serious crisis in our affairs,
Percival,” he said, “and if we are to decide on the future at all, we
must decide secretly to-night.”

That sentence of the Count’s was the first which my attention was
ready enough to master exactly as it was spoken. From this point, with
certain breaks and interruptions, my whole interest fixed breathlessly
on the conversation, and I followed it word for word.

“Crisis?” repeated Sir Percival. “It’s a worse crisis than you think
for, I can tell you.”

“So I should suppose, from your behaviour for the last day or two,”
returned the other coolly. “But wait a little. Before we advance to
what I do NOT know, let us be quite certain of what I DO know. Let us
first see if I am right about the time that is past, before I make any
proposal to you for the time that is to come.”

“Stop till I get the brandy and water. Have some yourself.”

“Thank you, Percival. The cold water with pleasure, a spoon, and the
basin of sugar. Eau sucrée, my friend—nothing more.”

“Sugar-and-water for a man of your age!—There! mix your sickly mess.
You foreigners are all alike.”

“Now listen, Percival. I will put our position plainly before you, as
I understand it, and you shall say if I am right or wrong. You and I
both came back to this house from the Continent with our affairs very
seriously embarrassed—”

“Cut it short! I wanted some thousands and you some hundreds, and
without the money we were both in a fair way to go to the dogs
together. There’s the situation. Make what you can of it. Go on.”

“Well, Percival, in your own solid English words, you wanted some
thousands and I wanted some hundreds, and the only way of getting them
was for you to raise the money for your own necessity (with a small
margin beyond for my poor little hundreds) by the help of your wife.
What did I tell you about your wife on our way to England?—and what did
I tell you again when we had come here, and when I had seen for myself
the sort of woman Miss Halcombe was?”

“How should I know? You talked nineteen to the dozen, I suppose, just
as usual.”

“I said this: Human ingenuity, my friend, has hitherto only discovered
two ways in which a man can manage a woman. One way is to knock her
down—a method largely adopted by the brutal lower orders of the people,
but utterly abhorrent to the refined and educated classes above them.
The other way (much longer, much more difficult, but in the end not
less certain) is never to accept a provocation at a woman’s hands. It
holds with animals, it holds with children, and it holds with women,
who are nothing but children grown up. Quiet resolution is the one
quality the animals, the children, and the women all fail in. If they
can once shake this superior quality in their master, they get the
better of HIM. If they can never succeed in disturbing it, he gets
the better of THEM. I said to you, Remember that plain truth when you
want your wife to help you to the money. I said, Remember it doubly
and trebly in the presence of your wife’s sister, Miss Halcombe. Have
you remembered it? Not once in all the implications that have twisted
themselves about us in this house. Every provocation that your wife and
her sister could offer to you, you instantly accepted from them. Your
mad temper lost the signature to the deed, lost the ready money, set
Miss Halcombe writing to the lawyer for the first time.”

“First time! Has she written again?”

“Yes, she has written again to-day.”

A chair fell on the pavement of the verandah—fell with a crash, as if
it had been kicked down.

It was well for me that the Count’s revelation roused Sir Percival’s
anger as it did. On hearing that I had been once more discovered I
started so that the railing against which I leaned cracked again. Had
he followed me to the inn? Did he infer that I must have given my
letters to Fanny when I told him I had none for the post-bag? Even if
it was so, how could he have examined the letters when they had gone
straight from my hand to the bosom of the girl’s dress?

“Thank your lucky star,” I heard the Count say next, “that you have me
in the house to undo the harm as fast as you do it. Thank your lucky
star that I said No when you were mad enough to talk of turning the key
to-day on Miss Halcombe, as you turned it in your mischievous folly on
your wife. Where are your eyes? Can you look at Miss Halcombe and not
see that she has the foresight and the resolution of a man? With that
woman for my friend I would snap these fingers of mine at the world.
With that woman for my enemy, I, with all my brains and experience—I,
Fosco, cunning as the devil himself, as you have told me a hundred
times—I walk, in your English phrase, upon egg-shells! And this grand
creature—I drink her health in my sugar-and-water—this grand creature,
who stands in the strength of her love and her courage, firm as a rock,
between us two and that poor, flimsy, pretty blonde wife of yours—this
magnificent woman, whom I admire with all my soul, though I oppose her
in your interests and in mine, you drive to extremities as if she was
no sharper and no bolder than the rest of her sex. Percival! Percival!
you deserve to fail, and you HAVE failed.”

There was a pause. I write the villain’s words about myself because I
mean to remember them—because I hope yet for the day when I may speak
out once for all in his presence, and cast them back one by one in his
teeth.

Sir Percival was the first to break the silence again.

“Yes, yes, bully and bluster as much as you like,” he said sulkily;
“the difficulty about the money is not the only difficulty. You would
be for taking strong measures with the women yourself—if you knew as
much as I do.”

“We will come to that second difficulty all in good time,” rejoined
the Count. “You may confuse yourself, Percival, as much as you please,
but you shall not confuse me. Let the question of the money be settled
first. Have I convinced your obstinacy? have I shown you that your
temper will not let you help yourself?—Or must I go back, and (as you
put it in your dear straightforward English) bully and bluster a little
more?”

“Pooh! It’s easy enough to grumble at ME. Say what is to be done—that’s
a little harder.”

“Is it? Bah! This is what is to be done: You give up all direction in
the business from to-night—you leave it for the future in my hands
only. I am talking to a Practical British man—ha? Well, Practical, will
that do for you?”

“What do you propose if I leave it all to you?”

“Answer me first. Is it to be in my hands or not?”

“Say it is in your hands—what then?”

“A few questions, Percival, to begin with. I must wait a little yet,
to let circumstances guide me, and I must know, in every possible way,
what those circumstances are likely to be. There is no time to lose.
I have told you already that Miss Halcombe has written to the lawyer
to-day for the second time.”

“How did you find it out? What did she say?”

“If I told you, Percival, we should only come back at the end to where
we are now. Enough that I have found it out—and the finding has caused
that trouble and anxiety which made me so inaccessible to you all
through to-day. Now, to refresh my memory about your affairs—it is some
time since I talked them over with you. The money has been raised,
in the absence of your wife’s signature, by means of bills at three
months—raised at a cost that makes my poverty-stricken foreign hair
stand on end to think of it! When the bills are due, is there really
and truly no earthly way of paying them but by the help of your wife?”

“None.”

“What! You have no money at the bankers?”

“A few hundreds, when I want as many thousands.”

“Have you no other security to borrow upon?”

“Not a shred.”

“What have you actually got with your wife at the present moment?”

“Nothing but the interest of her twenty thousand pounds—barely enough
to pay our daily expenses.”

“What do you expect from your wife?”

“Three thousand a year when her uncle dies.”

“A fine fortune, Percival. What sort of a man is this uncle? Old?”

“No—neither old nor young.”

“A good-tempered, freely-living man? Married? No—I think my wife told
me, not married.”

“Of course not. If he was married, and had a son, Lady Glyde would not
be next heir to the property. I’ll tell you what he is. He’s a maudlin,
twaddling, selfish fool, and bores everybody who comes near him about
the state of his health.”

“Men of that sort, Percival, live long, and marry malevolently when you
least expect it. I don’t give you much, my friend, for your chance of
the three thousand a year. Is there nothing more that comes to you from
your wife?”

“Nothing.”

“Absolutely nothing?”

“Absolutely nothing—except in case of her death.”

“Aha! in the case of her death.”

There was another pause. The Count moved from the verandah to the
gravel walk outside. I knew that he had moved by his voice. “The rain
has come at last,” I heard him say. It had come. The state of my cloak
showed that it had been falling thickly for some little time.

The Count went back under the verandah—I heard the chair creak beneath
his weight as he sat down in it again.

“Well, Percival,” he said, “and in the case of Lady Glyde’s death, what
do you get then?”

“If she leaves no children——”

“Which she is likely to do?”

“Which she is not in the least likely to do——”

“Yes?”

“Why, then I get her twenty thousand pounds.”

“Paid down?”

“Paid down.”

They were silent once more. As their voices ceased Madame Fosco’s
shadow darkened the blind again. Instead of passing this time, it
remained, for a moment, quite still. I saw her fingers steal round the
corner of the blind, and draw it on one side. The dim white outline of
her face, looking out straight over me, appeared behind the window. I
kept still, shrouded from head to foot in my black cloak. The rain,
which was fast wetting me, dripped over the glass, blurred it, and
prevented her from seeing anything. “More rain!” I heard her say to
herself. She dropped the blind, and I breathed again freely.

The talk went on below me, the Count resuming it this time.

“Percival! do you care about your wife?”

“Fosco! that’s rather a downright question.”

“I am a downright man, and I repeat it.”

“Why the devil do you look at me in that way?”

“You won’t answer me? Well, then, let us say your wife dies before the
summer is out——”

“Drop it, Fosco!”

“Let us say your wife dies——”

“Drop it, I tell you!”

“In that case, you would gain twenty thousand pounds, and you would
lose——”

“I should lose the chance of three thousand a year.”

“The REMOTE chance, Percival—the remote chance only. And you want
money, at once. In your position the gain is certain—the loss doubtful.”

“Speak for yourself as well as for me. Some of the money I want has
been borrowed for you. And if you come to gain, my wife’s death would
be ten thousand pounds in your wife’s pocket. Sharp as you are, you
seem to have conveniently forgotten Madame Fosco’s legacy. Don’t look
at me in that way! I won’t have it! What with your looks and your
questions, upon my soul, you make my flesh creep!”

“Your flesh? Does flesh mean conscience in English? I speak of your
wife’s death as I speak of a possibility. Why not? The respectable
lawyers who scribble-scrabble your deeds and your wills look the deaths
of living people in the face. Do lawyers make your flesh creep? Why
should I? It is my business to-night to clear up your position beyond
the possibility of mistake, and I have now done it. Here is your
position. If your wife lives, you pay those bills with her signature to
the parchment. If your wife dies, you pay them with her death.”

As he spoke the light in Madame Fosco’s room was extinguished, and the
whole second floor of the house was now sunk in darkness.

“Talk! talk!” grumbled Sir Percival. “One would think, to hear you,
that my wife’s signature to the deed was got already.”

“You have left the matter in my hands,” retorted the Count, “and I
have more than two months before me to turn round in. Say no more
about it, if you please, for the present. When the bills are due, you
will see for yourself if my ‘talk! talk!’ is worth something, or if
it is not. And now, Percival, having done with the money matters for
to-night, I can place my attention at your disposal, if you wish to
consult me on that second difficulty which has mixed itself up with
our little embarrassments, and which has so altered you for the worse,
that I hardly know you again. Speak, my friend—and pardon me if I
shock your fiery national tastes by mixing myself a second glass of
sugar-and-water.”

“It’s very well to say speak,” replied Sir Percival, in a far more
quiet and more polite tone than he had yet adopted, “but it’s not so
easy to know how to begin.”

“Shall I help you?” suggested the Count. “Shall I give this private
difficulty of yours a name? What if I call it—Anne Catherick?”

“Look here, Fosco, you and I have known each other for a long time, and
if you have helped me out of one or two scrapes before this, I have
done the best I could to help you in return, as far as money would go.
We have made as many friendly sacrifices, on both sides, as men could,
but we have had our secrets from each other, of course—haven’t we?”

“You have had a secret from me, Percival. There is a skeleton in your
cupboard here at Blackwater Park that has peeped out in these last few
days at other people besides yourself.”

“Well, suppose it has. If it doesn’t concern you, you needn’t be
curious about it, need you?”

“Do I look curious about it?”

“Yes, you do.”

“So! so! my face speaks the truth, then? What an immense foundation
of good there must be in the nature of a man who arrives at my age,
and whose face has not yet lost the habit of speaking the truth!—Come,
Glyde! let us be candid one with the other. This secret of yours has
sought me: I have not sought it. Let us say I am curious—do you ask me,
as your old friend, to respect your secret, and to leave it, once for
all, in your own keeping?”

“Yes—that’s just what I do ask.”

“Then my curiosity is at an end. It dies in me from this moment.”

“Do you really mean that?”

“What makes you doubt me?”

“I have had some experience, Fosco, of your roundabout ways, and I am
not so sure that you won’t worm it out of me after all.”

The chair below suddenly creaked again—I felt the trellis-work pillar
under me shake from top to bottom. The Count had started to his feet,
and had struck it with his hand in indignation.

“Percival! Percival!” he cried passionately, “do you know me no better
than that? Has all your experience shown you nothing of my character
yet? I am a man of the antique type! I am capable of the most exalted
acts of virtue—when I have the chance of performing them. It has been
the misfortune of my life that I have had few chances. My conception of
friendship is sublime! Is it my fault that your skeleton has peeped out
at me? Why do I confess my curiosity? You poor superficial Englishman,
it is to magnify my own self-control. I could draw your secret out of
you, if I liked, as I draw this finger out of the palm of my hand—you
know I could! But you have appealed to my friendship, and the duties of
friendship are sacred to me. See! I trample my base curiosity under my
feet. My exalted sentiments lift me above it. Recognise them, Percival!
imitate them, Percival! Shake hands—I forgive you.”

His voice faltered over the last words—faltered, as if he were actually
shedding tears!

Sir Percival confusedly attempted to excuse himself, but the Count was
too magnanimous to listen to him.

“No!” he said. “When my friend has wounded me, I can pardon him without
apologies. Tell me, in plain words, do you want my help?”

“Yes, badly enough.”

“And you can ask for it without compromising yourself?”

“I can try, at any rate.”

“Try, then.”

“Well, this is how it stands:—I told you to-day that I had done my best
to find Anne Catherick, and failed.”

“Yes, you did.”

“Fosco! I’m a lost man if I DON’T find her.”

“Ha! Is it so serious as that?”

A little stream of light travelled out under the verandah, and fell
over the gravel-walk. The Count had taken the lamp from the inner part
of the room to see his friend clearly by the light of it.

“Yes!” he said. “Your face speaks the truth this time. Serious,
indeed—as serious as the money matters themselves.”

“More serious. As true as I sit here, more serious!”

The light disappeared again and the talk went on.

“I showed you the letter to my wife that Anne Catherick hid in the
sand,” Sir Percival continued. “There’s no boasting in that letter,
Fosco—she DOES know the Secret.”

“Say as little as possible, Percival, in my presence, of the Secret.
Does she know it from you?”

“No, from her mother.”

“Two women in possession of your private mind—bad, bad, bad, my
friend! One question here, before we go any farther. The motive of
your shutting up the daughter in the asylum is now plain enough to me,
but the manner of her escape is not quite so clear. Do you suspect
the people in charge of her of closing their eyes purposely, at the
instance of some enemy who could afford to make it worth their while?”

“No, she was the best-behaved patient they had—and, like fools, they
trusted her. She’s just mad enough to be shut up, and just sane enough
to ruin me when she’s at large—if you understand that?”

“I do understand it. Now, Percival, come at once to the point, and then
I shall know what to do. Where is the danger of your position at the
present moment?”

“Anne Catherick is in this neighbourhood, and in communication with
Lady Glyde—there’s the danger, plain enough. Who can read the letter
she hid in the sand, and not see that my wife is in possession of the
Secret, deny it as she may?”

“One moment, Percival. If Lady Glyde does know the Secret, she must
know also that it is a compromising secret for you. As your wife,
surely it is her interest to keep it?”

“Is it? I’m coming to that. It might be her interest if she cared
two straws about me. But I happen to be an encumbrance in the way of
another man. She was in love with him before she married me—she’s in
love with him now—an infernal vagabond of a drawing-master, named
Hartright.”

“My dear friend! what is there extraordinary in that? They are all in
love with some other man. Who gets the first of a woman’s heart? In all
my experience I have never yet met with the man who was Number One.
Number Two, sometimes. Number Three, Four, Five, often. Number One,
never! He exists, of course—but I have not met with him.”

“Wait! I haven’t done yet. Who do you think helped Anne Catherick to
get the start, when the people from the mad-house were after her?
Hartright. Who do you think saw her again in Cumberland? Hartright.
Both times he spoke to her alone. Stop! don’t interrupt me. The
scoundrel’s as sweet on my wife as she is on him. He knows the Secret,
and she knows the Secret. Once let them both get together again, and
it’s her interest and his interest to turn their information against
me.”

“Gently, Percival—gently! Are you insensible to the virtue of Lady
Glyde?”

“That for the virtue of Lady Glyde! I believe in nothing about her but
her money. Don’t you see how the case stands? She might be harmless
enough by herself; but if she and that vagabond Hartright——”

“Yes, yes, I see. Where is Mr. Hartright?”

“Out of the country. If he means to keep a whole skin on his bones, I
recommend him not to come back in a hurry.”

“Are you sure he is out of the country?”

“Certain. I had him watched from the time he left Cumberland to the
time he sailed. Oh, I’ve been careful, I can tell you! Anne Catherick
lived with some people at a farmhouse near Limmeridge. I went there
myself, after she had given me the slip, and made sure that they knew
nothing. I gave her mother a form of letter to write to Miss Halcombe,
exonerating me from any bad motive in putting her under restraint. I’ve
spent, I’m afraid to say how much, in trying to trace her, and in spite
of it all, she turns up here and escapes me on my own property! How do
I know who else may see her, who else may speak to her? That prying
scoundrel, Hartright, may come back without my knowing it, and may make
use of her to-morrow——”

“Not he, Percival! While I am on the spot, and while that woman is in
the neighbourhood, I will answer for our laying hands on her before
Mr. Hartright—even if he does come back. I see! yes, yes, I see! The
finding of Anne Catherick is the first necessity—make your mind easy
about the rest. Your wife is here, under your thumb—Miss Halcombe is
inseparable from her, and is, therefore, under your thumb also—and Mr.
Hartright is out of the country. This invisible Anne of yours is all we
have to think of for the present. You have made your inquiries?”

“Yes. I have been to her mother, I have ransacked the village—and all
to no purpose.”

“Is her mother to be depended on?”

“Yes.”

“She has told your secret once.”

“She won’t tell it again.”

“Why not? Are her own interests concerned in keeping it, as well as
yours?”

“Yes—deeply concerned.”

“I am glad to hear it, Percival, for your sake. Don’t be discouraged,
my friend. Our money matters, as I told you, leave me plenty of time to
turn round in, and I may search for Anne Catherick to-morrow to better
purpose than you. One last question before we go to bed.”

“What is it?”

“It is this. When I went to the boat-house to tell Lady Glyde that the
little difficulty of her signature was put off, accident took me there
in time to see a strange woman parting in a very suspicious manner from
your wife. But accident did not bring me near enough to see this same
woman’s face plainly. I must know how to recognise our invisible Anne.
What is she like?”

“Like? Come! I’ll tell you in two words. She’s a sickly likeness of my
wife.”

The chair creaked, and the pillar shook once more. The Count was on his
feet again—this time in astonishment.

“What!!!” he exclaimed eagerly.

“Fancy my wife, after a bad illness, with a touch of something wrong in
her head—and there is Anne Catherick for you,” answered Sir Percival.

“Are they related to each other?”

“Not a bit of it.”

“And yet so like?”

“Yes, so like. What are you laughing about?”

There was no answer, and no sound of any kind. The Count was laughing
in his smooth silent internal way.

“What are you laughing about?” reiterated Sir Percival.

“Perhaps at my own fancies, my good friend. Allow me my Italian
humour—do I not come of the illustrious nation which invented the
exhibition of Punch? Well, well, well, I shall know Anne Catherick when
I see her—and so enough for to-night. Make your mind easy, Percival.
Sleep, my son, the sleep of the just, and see what I will do for
you when daylight comes to help us both. I have my projects and my
plans here in my big head. You shall pay those bills and find Anne
Catherick—my sacred word of honour on it, but you shall! Am I a friend
to be treasured in the best corner of your heart, or am I not? Am I
worth those loans of money which you so delicately reminded me of a
little while since? Whatever you do, never wound me in my sentiments
any more. Recognise them, Percival! imitate them, Percival! I forgive
you again—I shake hands again. Good-night!”


Not another word was spoken. I heard the Count close the library door.
I heard Sir Percival barring up the window-shutters. It had been
raining, raining all the time. I was cramped by my position and chilled
to the bones. When I first tried to move, the effort was so painful to
me that I was obliged to desist. I tried a second time, and succeeded
in rising to my knees on the wet roof.

As I crept to the wall, and raised myself against it, I looked back,
and saw the window of the Count’s dressing-room gleam into light. My
sinking courage flickered up in me again, and kept my eyes fixed on
his window, as I stole my way back, step by step, past the wall of the
house.

The clock struck the quarter after one, when I laid my hands on the
window-sill of my own room. I had seen nothing and heard nothing which
could lead me to suppose that my retreat had been discovered.



X

June 20th.—Eight o’clock. The sun is shining in a clear sky. I have not
been near my bed—I have not once closed my weary wakeful eyes. From the
same window at which I looked out into the darkness of last night, I
look out now at the bright stillness of the morning.

I count the hours that have passed since I escaped to the shelter of
this room by my own sensations—and those hours seem like weeks.

How short a time, and yet how long to ME—since I sank down in the
darkness, here, on the floor—drenched to the skin, cramped in every
limb, cold to the bones, a useless, helpless, panic-stricken creature.

I hardly know when I roused myself. I hardly know when I groped my
way back to the bedroom, and lighted the candle, and searched (with a
strange ignorance, at first, of where to look for them) for dry clothes
to warm me. The doing of these things is in my mind, but not the time
when they were done.

Can I even remember when the chilled, cramped feeling left me, and the
throbbing heat came in its place?

Surely it was before the sun rose? Yes, I heard the clock strike
three. I remember the time by the sudden brightness and clearness, the
feverish strain and excitement of all my faculties which came with
it. I remember my resolution to control myself, to wait patiently
hour after hour, till the chance offered of removing Laura from this
horrible place, without the danger of immediate discovery and pursuit.
I remember the persuasion settling itself in my mind that the words
those two men had said to each other would furnish us, not only with
our justification for leaving the house, but with our weapons of
defence against them as well. I recall the impulse that awakened in
me to preserve those words in writing, exactly as they were spoken,
while the time was my own, and while my memory vividly retained them.
All this I remember plainly: there is no confusion in my head yet. The
coming in here from the bedroom, with my pen and ink and paper, before
sunrise—the sitting down at the widely-opened window to get all the air
I could to cool me—the ceaseless writing, faster and faster, hotter and
hotter, driving on more and more wakefully, all through the dreadful
interval before the house was astir again—how clearly I recall it, from
the beginning by candle-light, to the end on the page before this, in
the sunshine of the new day!

Why do I sit here still? Why do I weary my hot eyes and my burning head
by writing more? Why not lie down and rest myself, and try to quench
the fever that consumes me, in sleep?

I dare not attempt it. A fear beyond all other fears has got possession
of me. I am afraid of this heat that parches my skin. I am afraid of
the creeping and throbbing that I feel in my head. If I lie down now,
how do I know that I may have the sense and the strength to rise again?

Oh, the rain, the rain—the cruel rain that chilled me last night!

Nine o’clock. Was it nine struck, or eight? Nine, surely? I am
shivering again—shivering, from head to foot, in the summer air. Have I
been sitting here asleep? I don’t know what I have been doing.

Oh, my God! am I going to be ill?


Ill, at such a time as this!

My head—I am sadly afraid of my head. I can write, but the lines all
run together. I see the words. Laura—I can write Laura, and see I write
it. Eight or nine—which was it?

So cold, so cold—oh, that rain last night!—and the strokes of the
clock, the strokes I can’t count, keep striking in my head——

*    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *

Note [At this place the entry in the Diary ceases to be legible. The
two or three lines which follow contain fragments of words only,
mingled with blots and scratches of the pen. The last marks on the
paper bear some resemblance to the first two letters (L and A) of the
name of Lady Glyde.

On the next page of the Diary, another entry appears. It is in a man’s
handwriting, large, bold, and firmly regular, and the date is “June the
21st.” It contains these lines—]


POSTSCRIPT BY A SINCERE FRIEND

The illness of our excellent Miss Halcombe has afforded me the
opportunity of enjoying an unexpected intellectual pleasure.

I refer to the perusal (which I have just completed) of this
interesting Diary.

There are many hundred pages here. I can lay my hand on my heart, and
declare that every page has charmed, refreshed, delighted me.

To a man of my sentiments it is unspeakably gratifying to be able to
say this.

Admirable woman!

I allude to Miss Halcombe.

Stupendous effort!

I refer to the Diary.

Yes! these pages are amazing. The tact which I find here, the
discretion, the rare courage, the wonderful power of memory, the
accurate observation of character, the easy grace of style, the
charming outbursts of womanly feeling, have all inexpressibly increased
my admiration of this sublime creature, of this magnificent Marian. The
presentation of my own character is masterly in the extreme. I certify,
with my whole heart, to the fidelity of the portrait. I feel how vivid
an impression I must have produced to have been painted in such strong,
such rich, such massive colours as these. I lament afresh the cruel
necessity which sets our interests at variance, and opposes us to each
other. Under happier circumstances how worthy I should have been of
Miss Halcombe—how worthy Miss Halcombe would have been of ME.

The sentiments which animate my heart assure me that the lines I have
just written express a Profound Truth.

Those sentiments exalt me above all merely personal considerations. I
bear witness, in the most disinterested manner, to the excellence of
the stratagem by which this unparalleled woman surprised the private
interview between Percival and myself—also to the marvellous accuracy
of her report of the whole conversation from its beginning to its end.

Those sentiments have induced me to offer to the unimpressionable
doctor who attends on her my vast knowledge of chemistry, and my
luminous experience of the more subtle resources which medical and
magnetic science have placed at the disposal of mankind. He has
hitherto declined to avail himself of my assistance. Miserable man!

Finally, those sentiments dictate the lines—grateful, sympathetic,
paternal lines—which appear in this place. I close the book. My strict
sense of propriety restores it (by the hands of my wife) to its place
on the writer’s table. Events are hurrying me away. Circumstances are
guiding me to serious issues. Vast perspectives of success unroll
themselves before my eyes. I accomplish my destiny with a calmness
which is terrible to myself. Nothing but the homage of my admiration
is my own. I deposit it with respectful tenderness at the feet of Miss
Halcombe.

I breathe my wishes for her recovery.

I condole with her on the inevitable failure of every plan that she has
formed for her sister’s benefit. At the same time, I entreat her to
believe that the information which I have derived from her Diary will
in no respect help me to contribute to that failure. It simply confirms
the plan of conduct which I had previously arranged. I have to thank
these pages for awakening the finest sensibilities in my nature—nothing
more.

To a person of similar sensibility this simple assertion will explain
and excuse everything.

Miss Halcombe is a person of similar sensibility.

In that persuasion I sign myself,
                                    Fosco.


THE STORY CONTINUED BY FREDERICK FAIRLIE, ESQ., OF LIMMERIDGE HOUSE[2]

[2] The manner in which Mr. Fairlie’s Narrative, and other Narratives
that are shortly to follow it, were originally obtained, forms the
subject of an explanation which will appear at a later period.


It is the grand misfortune of my life that nobody will let me alone.

Why—I ask everybody—why worry ME? Nobody answers that question, and
nobody lets me alone. Relatives, friends, and strangers all combine
to annoy me. What have I done? I ask myself, I ask my servant, Louis,
fifty times a day—what have I done? Neither of us can tell. Most
extraordinary!

The last annoyance that has assailed me is the annoyance of being
called upon to write this Narrative. Is a man in my state of nervous
wretchedness capable of writing narratives? When I put this extremely
reasonable objection, I am told that certain very serious events
relating to my niece have happened within my experience, and that I am
the fit person to describe them on that account. I am threatened if I
fail to exert myself in the manner required, with consequences which I
cannot so much as think of without perfect prostration. There is really
no need to threaten me. Shattered by my miserable health and my family
troubles, I am incapable of resistance. If you insist, you take your
unjust advantage of me, and I give way immediately. I will endeavour
to remember what I can (under protest), and to write what I can (also
under protest), and what I can’t remember and can’t write, Louis must
remember and write for me. He is an ass, and I am an invalid, and we
are likely to make all sorts of mistakes between us. How humiliating!

I am told to remember dates. Good heavens! I never did such a thing in
my life—how am I to begin now?

I have asked Louis. He is not quite such an ass as I have hitherto
supposed. He remembers the date of the event, within a week or
two—and I remember the name of the person. The date was towards the
end of June, or the beginning of July, and the name (in my opinion a
remarkably vulgar one) was Fanny.

At the end of June, or the beginning of July, then, I was reclining in
my customary state, surrounded by the various objects of Art which I
have collected about me to improve the taste of the barbarous people
in my neighbourhood. That is to say, I had the photographs of my
pictures, and prints, and coins, and so forth, all about me, which I
intend, one of these days, to present (the photographs, I mean, if
the clumsy English language will let me mean anything) to present to
the institution at Carlisle (horrid place!), with a view to improving
the tastes of the members (Goths and Vandals to a man). It might be
supposed that a gentleman who was in course of conferring a great
national benefit on his countrymen was the last gentleman in the
world to be unfeelingly worried about private difficulties and family
affairs. Quite a mistake, I assure you, in my case.

However, there I was, reclining, with my art-treasures about me, and
wanting a quiet morning. Because I wanted a quiet morning, of course
Louis came in. It was perfectly natural that I should inquire what the
deuce he meant by making his appearance when I had not rung my bell.
I seldom swear—it is such an ungentlemanlike habit—but when Louis
answered by a grin, I think it was also perfectly natural that I should
damn him for grinning. At any rate, I did.

This rigorous mode of treatment, I have observed, invariably brings
persons in the lower class of life to their senses. It brought Louis to
HIS senses. He was so obliging as to leave off grinning, and inform me
that a Young Person was outside wanting to see me. He added (with the
odious talkativeness of servants), that her name was Fanny.

“Who is Fanny?”

“Lady Glyde’s maid, sir.”

“What does Lady Glyde’s maid want with me?”

“A letter, sir——”

“Take it.”

“She refuses to give it to anybody but you, sir.”

“Who sends the letter?”

“Miss Halcombe, sir.”

The moment I heard Miss Halcombe’s name I gave up. It is a habit of
mine always to give up to Miss Halcombe. I find, by experience, that it
saves noise. I gave up on this occasion. Dear Marian!

“Let Lady Glyde’s maid come in, Louis. Stop! Do her shoes creak?”

I was obliged to ask the question. Creaking shoes invariably upset me
for the day. I was resigned to see the Young Person, but I was NOT
resigned to let the Young Person’s shoes upset me. There is a limit
even to my endurance.

Louis affirmed distinctly that her shoes were to be depended upon.
I waved my hand. He introduced her. Is it necessary to say that she
expressed her sense of embarrassment by shutting up her mouth and
breathing through her nose? To the student of female human nature in
the lower orders, surely not.

Let me do the girl justice. Her shoes did NOT creak. But why do Young
Persons in service all perspire at the hands? Why have they all got fat
noses and hard cheeks? And why are their faces so sadly unfinished,
especially about the corners of the eyelids? I am not strong enough to
think deeply myself on any subject, but I appeal to professional men,
who are. Why have we no variety in our breed of Young Persons?

“You have a letter for me, from Miss Halcombe? Put it down on the
table, please, and don’t upset anything. How is Miss Halcombe?”

“Very well, thank you, sir.”

“And Lady Glyde?”

I received no answer. The Young Person’s face became more unfinished
than ever, and I think she began to cry. I certainly saw something
moist about her eyes. Tears or perspiration? Louis (whom I have just
consulted) is inclined to think, tears. He is in her class of life, and
he ought to know best. Let us say, tears.

Except when the refining process of Art judiciously removes from
them all resemblance to Nature, I distinctly object to tears. Tears
are scientifically described as a Secretion. I can understand that a
secretion may be healthy or unhealthy, but I cannot see the interest of
a secretion from a sentimental point of view. Perhaps my own secretions
being all wrong together, I am a little prejudiced on the subject. No
matter. I behaved, on this occasion, with all possible propriety and
feeling. I closed my eyes and said to Louis—

“Endeavour to ascertain what she means.”

Louis endeavoured, and the Young Person endeavoured. They succeeded
in confusing each other to such an extent that I am bound in common
gratitude to say, they really amused me. I think I shall send for them
again when I am in low spirits. I have just mentioned this idea to
Louis. Strange to say, it seems to make him uncomfortable. Poor devil!

Surely I am not expected to repeat my niece’s maid’s explanation of
her tears, interpreted in the English of my Swiss valet? The thing
is manifestly impossible. I can give my own impressions and feelings
perhaps. Will that do as well? Please say, Yes.

My idea is that she began by telling me (through Louis) that her master
had dismissed her from her mistress’s service. (Observe, throughout,
the strange irrelevancy of the Young Person. Was it my fault that she
had lost her place?) On her dismissal, she had gone to the inn to
sleep. (I don’t keep the inn—why mention it to ME?) Between six o’clock
and seven Miss Halcombe had come to say good-bye, and had given her
two letters, one for me, and one for a gentleman in London. (I am not
a gentleman in London—hang the gentleman in London!) She had carefully
put the two letters into her bosom (what have I to do with her bosom?);
she had been very unhappy, when Miss Halcombe had gone away again;
she had not had the heart to put bit or drop between her lips till it
was near bedtime, and then, when it was close on nine o’clock, she
had thought she should like a cup of tea. (Am I responsible for any
of these vulgar fluctuations, which begin with unhappiness and end
with tea?) Just as she was WARMING THE POT (I give the words on the
authority of Louis, who says he knows what they mean, and wishes to
explain, but I snub him on principle)—just as she was warming the pot
the door opened, and she was STRUCK OF A HEAP (her own words again, and
perfectly unintelligible this time to Louis, as well as to myself) by
the appearance in the inn parlour of her ladyship the Countess. I give
my niece’s maid’s description of my sister’s title with a sense of the
highest relish. My poor dear sister is a tiresome woman who married
a foreigner. To resume: the door opened, her ladyship the Countess
appeared in the parlour, and the Young Person was struck of a heap.
Most remarkable!


I must really rest a little before I can get on any farther. When I
have reclined for a few minutes, with my eyes closed, and when Louis
has refreshed my poor aching temples with a little eau-de-Cologne, I
may be able to proceed.

Her ladyship the Countess——

No. I am able to proceed, but not to sit up. I will recline and
dictate. Louis has a horrid accent, but he knows the language, and can
write. How very convenient!


Her ladyship, the Countess, explained her unexpected appearance at
the inn by telling Fanny that she had come to bring one or two little
messages which Miss Halcombe in her hurry had forgotten. The Young
Person thereupon waited anxiously to hear what the messages were,
but the Countess seemed disinclined to mention them (so like my
sister’s tiresome way!) until Fanny had had her tea. Her ladyship was
surprisingly kind and thoughtful about it (extremely unlike my sister),
and said, “I am sure, my poor girl, you must want your tea. We can let
the messages wait till afterwards. Come, come, if nothing else will
put you at your ease, I’ll make the tea and have a cup with you.” I
think those were the words, as reported excitably, in my presence, by
the Young Person. At any rate, the Countess insisted on making the
tea, and carried her ridiculous ostentation of humility so far as to
take one cup herself, and to insist on the girl’s taking the other.
The girl drank the tea, and according to her own account, solemnised
the extraordinary occasion five minutes afterwards by fainting dead
away for the first time in her life. Here again I use her own words.
Louis thinks they were accompanied by an increased secretion of tears.
I can’t say myself. The effort of listening being quite as much as I
could manage, my eyes were closed.

Where did I leave off? Ah, yes—she fainted after drinking a cup of tea
with the Countess—a proceeding which might have interested me if I had
been her medical man, but being nothing of the sort I felt bored by
hearing of it, nothing more. When she came to herself in half an hour’s
time she was on the sofa, and nobody was with her but the landlady. The
Countess, finding it too late to remain any longer at the inn, had gone
away as soon as the girl showed signs of recovering, and the landlady
had been good enough to help her upstairs to bed.

Left by herself, she had felt in her bosom (I regret the necessity of
referring to this part of the subject a second time), and had found
the two letters there quite safe, but strangely crumpled. She had
been giddy in the night, but had got up well enough to travel in the
morning. She had put the letter addressed to that obtrusive stranger,
the gentleman in London into the post, and had now delivered the other
letter into my hands as she was told. This was the plain truth, and
though she could not blame herself for any intentional neglect, she
was sadly troubled in her mind, and sadly in want of a word of advice.
At this point Louis thinks the secretions appeared again. Perhaps they
did, but it is of infinitely greater importance to mention that at this
point also I lost my patience, opened my eyes, and interfered.

“What is the purport of all this?” I inquired.

My niece’s irrelevant maid stared, and stood speechless.

“Endeavour to explain,” I said to my servant. “Translate me, Louis.”

Louis endeavoured and translated. In other words, he descended
immediately into a bottomless pit of confusion, and the Young Person
followed him down. I really don’t know when I have been so amused. I
left them at the bottom of the pit as long as they diverted me. When
they ceased to divert me, I exerted my intelligence, and pulled them up
again.

It is unnecessary to say that my interference enabled me, in due course
of time, to ascertain the purport of the Young Person’s remarks.

I discovered that she was uneasy in her mind, because the train of
events that she had just described to me had prevented her from
receiving those supplementary messages which Miss Halcombe had
intrusted to the Countess to deliver. She was afraid the messages might
have been of great importance to her mistress’s interests. Her dread
of Sir Percival had deterred her from going to Blackwater Park late
at night to inquire about them, and Miss Halcombe’s own directions to
her, on no account to miss the train in the morning, had prevented her
from waiting at the inn the next day. She was most anxious that the
misfortune of her fainting-fit should not lead to the second misfortune
of making her mistress think her neglectful, and she would humbly
beg to ask me whether I would advise her to write her explanations
and excuses to Miss Halcombe, requesting to receive the messages by
letter, if it was not too late. I make no apologies for this extremely
prosy paragraph. I have been ordered to write it. There are people,
unaccountable as it may appear, who actually take more interest in what
my niece’s maid said to me on this occasion than in what I said to my
niece’s maid. Amusing perversity!

“I should feel very much obliged to you, sir, if you would kindly tell
me what I had better do,” remarked the Young Person.

“Let things stop as they are,” I said, adapting my language to my
listener. “I invariably let things stop as they are. Yes. Is that all?”

“If you think it would be a liberty in me, sir, to write, of course I
wouldn’t venture to do so. But I am so very anxious to do all I can to
serve my mistress faithfully——”

People in the lower class of life never know when or how to go out of
a room. They invariably require to be helped out by their betters. I
thought it high time to help the Young Person out. I did it with two
judicious words—

“Good-morning.”

Something outside or inside this singular girl suddenly creaked. Louis,
who was looking at her (which I was not), says she creaked when she
curtseyed. Curious. Was it her shoes, her stays, or her bones? Louis
thinks it was her stays. Most extraordinary!



As soon as I was left by myself I had a little nap—I really wanted it.
When I awoke again I noticed dear Marian’s letter. If I had had the
least idea of what it contained I should certainly not have attempted
to open it. Being, unfortunately for myself, quite innocent of all
suspicion, I read the letter. It immediately upset me for the day.

I am, by nature, one of the most easy-tempered creatures that ever
lived—I make allowances for everybody, and I take offence at nothing.
But as I have before remarked, there are limits to my endurance. I laid
down Marian’s letter, and felt myself—justly felt myself—an injured man.

I am about to make a remark. It is, of course, applicable to the very
serious matter now under notice, or I should not allow it to appear in
this place.

Nothing, in my opinion, sets the odious selfishness of mankind in such
a repulsively vivid light as the treatment, in all classes of society,
which the Single people receive at the hands of the Married people.
When you have once shown yourself too considerate and self-denying to
add a family of your own to an already overcrowded population, you are
vindictively marked out by your married friends, who have no similar
consideration and no similar self-denial, as the recipient of half
their conjugal troubles, and the born friend of all their children.
Husbands and wives TALK of the cares of matrimony, and bachelors and
spinsters BEAR them. Take my own case. I considerately remain single,
and my poor dear brother Philip inconsiderately marries. What does he
do when he dies? He leaves his daughter to ME. She is a sweet girl—she
is also a dreadful responsibility. Why lay her on my shoulders? Because
I am bound, in the harmless character of a single man, to relieve my
married connections of all their own troubles. I do my best with my
brother’s responsibility—I marry my niece, with infinite fuss and
difficulty, to the man her father wanted her to marry. She and her
husband disagree, and unpleasant consequences follow. What does she do
with those consequences? She transfers them to ME. Why transfer them to
ME? Because I am bound, in the harmless character of a single man, to
relieve my married connections of all their own troubles. Poor single
people! Poor human nature!

It is quite unnecessary to say that Marian’s letter threatened me.
Everybody threatens me. All sorts of horrors were to fall on my devoted
head if I hesitated to turn Limmeridge House into an asylum for my
niece and her misfortunes. I did hesitate, nevertheless.

I have mentioned that my usual course, hitherto, had been to submit to
dear Marian, and save noise. But on this occasion, the consequences
involved in her extremely inconsiderate proposal were of a nature to
make me pause. If I opened Limmeridge House as an asylum to Lady Glyde,
what security had I against Sir Percival Glyde’s following her here in
a state of violent resentment against ME for harbouring his wife? I
saw such a perfect labyrinth of troubles involved in this proceeding
that I determined to feel my ground, as it were. I wrote, therefore, to
dear Marian to beg (as she had no husband to lay claim to her) that she
would come here by herself, first, and talk the matter over with me.
If she could answer my objections to my own perfect satisfaction, then
I assured her that I would receive our sweet Laura with the greatest
pleasure, but not otherwise.

I felt, of course, at the time, that this temporising on my part
would probably end in bringing Marian here in a state of virtuous
indignation, banging doors. But then, the other course of proceeding
might end in bringing Sir Percival here in a state of virtuous
indignation, banging doors also, and of the two indignations and
bangings I preferred Marian’s, because I was used to her. Accordingly
I despatched the letter by return of post. It gained me time, at all
events—and, oh dear me! what a point that was to begin with.

When I am totally prostrated (did I mention that I was totally
prostrated by Marian’s letter?) it always takes me three days to get
up again. I was very unreasonable—I expected three days of quiet. Of
course I didn’t get them.

The third day’s post brought me a most impertinent letter from a
person with whom I was totally unacquainted. He described himself as
the acting partner of our man of business—our dear, pig-headed old
Gilmore—and he informed me that he had lately received, by the post, a
letter addressed to him in Miss Halcombe’s handwriting. On opening the
envelope, he had discovered, to his astonishment, that it contained
nothing but a blank sheet of note-paper. This circumstance appeared
to him so suspicious (as suggesting to his restless legal mind that
the letter had been tampered with) that he had at once written to
Miss Halcombe, and had received no answer by return of post. In this
difficulty, instead of acting like a sensible man and letting things
take their proper course, his next absurd proceeding, on his own
showing, was to pester me by writing to inquire if I knew anything
about it. What the deuce should I know about it? Why alarm me as well
as himself? I wrote back to that effect. It was one of my keenest
letters. I have produced nothing with a sharper epistolary edge to it
since I tendered his dismissal in writing to that extremely troublesome
person, Mr. Walter Hartright.

My letter produced its effect. I heard nothing more from the lawyer.

This perhaps was not altogether surprising. But it was certainly a
remarkable circumstance that no second letter reached me from Marian,
and that no warning signs appeared of her arrival. Her unexpected
absence did me amazing good. It was so very soothing and pleasant to
infer (as I did of course) that my married connections had made it
up again. Five days of undisturbed tranquillity, of delicious single
blessedness, quite restored me. On the sixth day I felt strong enough
to send for my photographer, and to set him at work again on the
presentation copies of my art-treasures, with a view, as I have already
mentioned, to the improvement of taste in this barbarous neighbourhood.
I had just dismissed him to his workshop, and had just begun coquetting
with my coins, when Louis suddenly made his appearance with a card in
his hand.

“Another Young Person?” I said. “I won’t see her. In my state of health
Young Persons disagree with me. Not at home.”

“It is a gentleman this time, sir.”

A gentleman of course made a difference. I looked at the card.

Gracious Heaven! my tiresome sister’s foreign husband, Count Fosco.


Is it necessary to say what my first impression was when I looked at my
visitor’s card? Surely not! My sister having married a foreigner, there
was but one impression that any man in his senses could possibly feel.
Of course the Count had come to borrow money of me.

“Louis,” I said, “do you think he would go away if you gave him five
shillings?”

Louis looked quite shocked. He surprised me inexpressibly by declaring
that my sister’s foreign husband was dressed superbly, and looked the
picture of prosperity. Under these circumstances my first impression
altered to a certain extent. I now took it for granted that the Count
had matrimonial difficulties of his own to contend with, and that he
had come, like the rest of the family, to cast them all on my shoulders.

“Did he mention his business?” I asked.

“Count Fosco said he had come here, sir, because Miss Halcombe was
unable to leave Blackwater Park.”

Fresh troubles, apparently. Not exactly his own, as I had supposed, but
dear Marian’s. Troubles, anyway. Oh dear!

“Show him in,” I said resignedly.

The Count’s first appearance really startled me. He was such an
alarmingly large person that I quite trembled. I felt certain that
he would shake the floor and knock down my art-treasures. He did
neither the one nor the other. He was refreshingly dressed in summer
costume—his manner was delightfully self-possessed and quiet—he had
a charming smile. My first impression of him was highly favourable.
It is not creditable to my penetration—as the sequel will show—to
acknowledge this, but I am a naturally candid man, and I DO acknowledge
it notwithstanding.

“Allow me to present myself, Mr. Fairlie,” he said. “I come from
Blackwater Park, and I have the honour and the happiness of being
Madame Fosco’s husband. Let me take my first and last advantage of that
circumstance by entreating you not to make a stranger of me. I beg you
will not disturb yourself—I beg you will not move.”

“You are very good,” I replied. “I wish I was strong enough to get up.
Charmed to see you at Limmeridge. Please take a chair.”

“I am afraid you are suffering to-day,” said the Count.

“As usual,” I said. “I am nothing but a bundle of nerves dressed up to
look like a man.”

“I have studied many subjects in my time,” remarked this sympathetic
person. “Among others the inexhaustible subject of nerves. May I make a
suggestion, at once the simplest and the most profound? Will you let me
alter the light in your room?”

“Certainly—if you will be so very kind as not to let any of it in on
me.”

He walked to the window. Such a contrast to dear Marian! so extremely
considerate in all his movements!

“Light,” he said, in that delightfully confidential tone which is so
soothing to an invalid, “is the first essential. Light stimulates,
nourishes, preserves. You can no more do without it, Mr. Fairlie,
than if you were a flower. Observe. Here, where you sit, I close the
shutters to compose you. There, where you do NOT sit, I draw up the
blind and let in the invigorating sun. Admit the light into your room
if you cannot bear it on yourself. Light, sir, is the grand decree of
Providence. You accept Providence with your own restrictions. Accept
light on the same terms.”

I thought this very convincing and attentive. He had taken me in up to
that point about the light, he had certainly taken me in.

“You see me confused,” he said, returning to his place—“on my word of
honour, Mr. Fairlie, you see me confused in your presence.”

“Shocked to hear it, I am sure. May I inquire why?”

“Sir, can I enter this room (where you sit a sufferer), and see you
surrounded by these admirable objects of Art, without discovering
that you are a man whose feelings are acutely impressionable, whose
sympathies are perpetually alive? Tell me, can I do this?”

If I had been strong enough to sit up in my chair I should, of course,
have bowed. Not being strong enough, I smiled my acknowledgments
instead. It did just as well, we both understood one another.

“Pray follow my train of thought,” continued the Count. “I sit here,
a man of refined sympathies myself, in the presence of another man of
refined sympathies also. I am conscious of a terrible necessity for
lacerating those sympathies by referring to domestic events of a very
melancholy kind. What is the inevitable consequence? I have done myself
the honour of pointing it out to you already. I sit confused.”

Was it at this point that I began to suspect he was going to bore me? I
rather think it was.

“Is it absolutely necessary to refer to these unpleasant matters?” I
inquired. “In our homely English phrase, Count Fosco, won’t they keep?”

The Count, with the most alarming solemnity, sighed and shook his head.

“Must I really hear them?”

He shrugged his shoulders (it was the first foreign thing he had done
since he had been in the room), and looked at me in an unpleasantly
penetrating manner. My instincts told me that I had better close my
eyes. I obeyed my instincts.

“Please break it gently,” I pleaded. “Anybody dead?”

“Dead!” cried the Count, with unnecessary foreign fierceness. “Mr.
Fairlie, your national composure terrifies me. In the name of Heaven,
what have I said or done to make you think me the messenger of death?”

“Pray accept my apologies,” I answered. “You have said and done
nothing. I make it a rule in these distressing cases always to
anticipate the worst. It breaks the blow by meeting it half-way, and
so on. Inexpressibly relieved, I am sure, to hear that nobody is dead.
Anybody ill?”

I opened my eyes and looked at him. Was he very yellow when he came in,
or had he turned very yellow in the last minute or two? I really can’t
say, and I can’t ask Louis, because he was not in the room at the time.

“Anybody ill?” I repeated, observing that my national composure still
appeared to affect him.

“That is part of my bad news, Mr. Fairlie. Yes. Somebody is ill.”

“Grieved, I am sure. Which of them is it?”

“To my profound sorrow, Miss Halcombe. Perhaps you were in some degree
prepared to hear this? Perhaps when you found that Miss Halcombe did
not come here by herself, as you proposed, and did not write a second
time, your affectionate anxiety may have made you fear that she was
ill?”

I have no doubt my affectionate anxiety had led to that melancholy
apprehension at some time or other, but at the moment my wretched
memory entirely failed to remind me of the circumstance. However, I
said yes, in justice to myself. I was much shocked. It was so very
uncharacteristic of such a robust person as dear Marian to be ill, that
I could only suppose she had met with an accident. A horse, or a false
step on the stairs, or something of that sort.

“Is it serious?” I asked.

“Serious—beyond a doubt,” he replied. “Dangerous—I hope and trust not.
Miss Halcombe unhappily exposed herself to be wetted through by a heavy
rain. The cold that followed was of an aggravated kind, and it has now
brought with it the worst consequence—fever.”

When I heard the word fever, and when I remembered at the same moment
that the unscrupulous person who was now addressing me had just come
from Blackwater Park, I thought I should have fainted on the spot.

“Good God!” I said. “Is it infectious?”

“Not at present,” he answered, with detestable composure. “It may turn
to infection—but no such deplorable complication had taken place when I
left Blackwater Park. I have felt the deepest interest in the case, Mr.
Fairlie—I have endeavoured to assist the regular medical attendant in
watching it—accept my personal assurances of the uninfectious nature of
the fever when I last saw it.”

Accept his assurances! I never was farther from accepting anything in
my life. I would not have believed him on his oath. He was too yellow
to be believed. He looked like a walking-West-Indian-epidemic. He was
big enough to carry typhus by the ton, and to dye the very carpet
he walked on with scarlet fever. In certain emergencies my mind is
remarkably soon made up. I instantly determined to get rid of him.

“You will kindly excuse an invalid,” I said—“but long conferences of
any kind invariably upset me. May I beg to know exactly what the object
is to which I am indebted for the honour of your visit?”

I fervently hoped that this remarkably broad hint would throw him off
his balance—confuse him—reduce him to polite apologies—in short, get
him out of the room. On the contrary, it only settled him in his chair.
He became additionally solemn, and dignified, and confidential. He held
up two of his horrid fingers and gave me another of his unpleasantly
penetrating looks. What was I to do? I was not strong enough to quarrel
with him. Conceive my situation, if you please. Is language adequate to
describe it? I think not.

“The objects of my visit,” he went on, quite irrepressibly, “are
numbered on my fingers. They are two. First, I come to bear my
testimony, with profound sorrow, to the lamentable disagreements
between Sir Percival and Lady Glyde. I am Sir Percival’s oldest
friend—I am related to Lady Glyde by marriage—I am an eye-witness of
all that has happened at Blackwater Park. In those three capacities I
speak with authority, with confidence, with honourable regret. Sir,
I inform you, as the head of Lady Glyde’s family, that Miss Halcombe
has exaggerated nothing in the letter which she wrote to your address.
I affirm that the remedy which that admirable lady has proposed is
the only remedy that will spare you the horrors of public scandal. A
temporary separation between husband and wife is the one peaceable
solution of this difficulty. Part them for the present, and when
all causes of irritation are removed, I, who have now the honour of
addressing you—I will undertake to bring Sir Percival to reason.
Lady Glyde is innocent, Lady Glyde is injured, but—follow my thought
here!—she is, on that very account (I say it with shame), the cause of
irritation while she remains under her husband’s roof. No other house
can receive her with propriety but yours. I invite you to open it.”

Cool. Here was a matrimonial hailstorm pouring in the South of England,
and I was invited, by a man with fever in every fold of his coat, to
come out from the North of England and take my share of the pelting. I
tried to put the point forcibly, just as I have put it here. The Count
deliberately lowered one of his horrid fingers, kept the other up, and
went on—rode over me, as it were, without even the common coachmanlike
attention of crying “Hi!” before he knocked me down.

“Follow my thought once more, if you please,” he resumed. “My first
object you have heard. My second object in coming to this house is
to do what Miss Halcombe’s illness has prevented her from doing for
herself. My large experience is consulted on all difficult matters
at Blackwater Park, and my friendly advice was requested on the
interesting subject of your letter to Miss Halcombe. I understood at
once—for my sympathies are your sympathies—why you wished to see her
here before you pledged yourself to inviting Lady Glyde. You are most
right, sir, in hesitating to receive the wife until you are quite
certain that the husband will not exert his authority to reclaim her.
I agree to that. I also agree that such delicate explanations as this
difficulty involves are not explanations which can be properly disposed
of by writing only. My presence here (to my own great inconvenience) is
the proof that I speak sincerely. As for the explanations themselves,
I—Fosco—I, who know Sir Percival much better than Miss Halcombe knows
him, affirm to you, on my honour and my word, that he will not come
near this house, or attempt to communicate with this house, while
his wife is living in it. His affairs are embarrassed. Offer him his
freedom by means of the absence of Lady Glyde. I promise you he will
take his freedom, and go back to the Continent at the earliest moment
when he can get away. Is this clear to you as crystal? Yes, it is. Have
you questions to address to me? Be it so, I am here to answer. Ask, Mr.
Fairlie—oblige me by asking to your heart’s content.”

He had said so much already in spite of me, and he looked so dreadfully
capable of saying a great deal more also in spite of me, that I
declined his amiable invitation in pure self-defence.

“Many thanks,” I replied. “I am sinking fast. In my state of health
I must take things for granted. Allow me to do so on this occasion.
We quite understand each other. Yes. Much obliged, I am sure, for
your kind interference. If I ever get better, and ever have a second
opportunity of improving our acquaintance—”

He got up. I thought he was going. No. More talk, more time for the
development of infectious influences—in my room, too—remember that, in
my room!

“One moment yet,” he said, “one moment before I take my leave. I ask
permission at parting to impress on you an urgent necessity. It is
this, sir. You must not think of waiting till Miss Halcombe recovers
before you receive Lady Glyde. Miss Halcombe has the attendance of the
doctor, of the housekeeper at Blackwater Park, and of an experienced
nurse as well—three persons for whose capacity and devotion I answer
with my life. I tell you that. I tell you, also, that the anxiety
and alarm of her sister’s illness has already affected the health
and spirits of Lady Glyde, and has made her totally unfit to be of
use in the sick-room. Her position with her husband grows more and
more deplorable and dangerous every day. If you leave her any longer
at Blackwater Park, you do nothing whatever to hasten her sister’s
recovery, and at the same time, you risk the public scandal, which
you and I, and all of us, are bound in the sacred interests of the
family to avoid. With all my soul, I advise you to remove the serious
responsibility of delay from your own shoulders by writing to Lady
Glyde to come here at once. Do your affectionate, your honourable, your
inevitable duty, and whatever happens in the future, no one can lay
the blame on you. I speak from my large experience—I offer my friendly
advice. Is it accepted—Yes, or No?”

I looked at him—merely looked at him—with my sense of his amazing
assurance, and my dawning resolution to ring for Louis and have him
shown out of the room expressed in every line of my face. It is
perfectly incredible, but quite true, that my face did not appear to
produce the slightest impression on him. Born without nerves—evidently
born without nerves.

“You hesitate?” he said. “Mr. Fairlie! I understand that hesitation.
You object—see, sir, how my sympathies look straight down into your
thoughts!—you object that Lady Glyde is not in health and not in
spirits to take the long journey, from Hampshire to this place, by
herself. Her own maid is removed from her, as you know, and of other
servants fit to travel with her, from one end of England to another,
there are none at Blackwater Park. You object, again, that she cannot
comfortably stop and rest in London, on her way here, because she
cannot comfortably go alone to a public hotel where she is a total
stranger. In one breath, I grant both objections—in another breath, I
remove them. Follow me, if you please, for the last time. It was my
intention, when I returned to England with Sir Percival, to settle
myself in the neighbourhood of London. That purpose has just been
happily accomplished. I have taken, for six months, a little furnished
house in the quarter called St. John’s Wood. Be so obliging as to
keep this fact in your mind, and observe the programme I now propose.
Lady Glyde travels to London (a short journey)—I myself meet her
at the station—I take her to rest and sleep at my house, which is
also the house of her aunt—when she is restored I escort her to the
station again—she travels to this place, and her own maid (who is now
under your roof) receives her at the carriage-door. Here is comfort
consulted—here are the interests of propriety consulted—here is your
own duty—duty of hospitality, sympathy, protection, to an unhappy lady
in need of all three—smoothed and made easy, from the beginning to the
end. I cordially invite you, sir, to second my efforts in the sacred
interests of the family. I seriously advise you to write, by my hands,
offering the hospitality of your house (and heart), and the hospitality
of my house (and heart), to that injured and unfortunate lady whose
cause I plead to-day.”

He waved his horrid hand at me—he struck his infectious breast—he
addressed me oratorically, as if I was laid up in the House of Commons.
It was high time to take a desperate course of some sort. It was also
high time to send for Louis, and adopt the precaution of fumigating the
room.

In this trying emergency an idea occurred to me—an inestimable idea
which, so to speak, killed two intrusive birds with one stone. I
determined to get rid of the Count’s tiresome eloquence, and of Lady
Glyde’s tiresome troubles, by complying with this odious foreigner’s
request, and writing the letter at once. There was not the least danger
of the invitation being accepted, for there was not the least chance
that Laura would consent to leave Blackwater Park while Marian was
lying there ill. How this charmingly convenient obstacle could have
escaped the officious penetration of the Count, it was impossible to
conceive—but it HAD escaped him. My dread that he might yet discover
it, if I allowed him any more time to think, stimulated me to such an
amazing degree, that I struggled into a sitting position—seized, really
seized, the writing materials by my side, and produced the letter as
rapidly as if I had been a common clerk in an office. “Dearest Laura,
Please come, whenever you like. Break the journey by sleeping in
London at your aunt’s house. Grieved to hear of dear Marian’s illness.
Ever affectionately yours.” I handed these lines, at arm’s length, to
the Count—I sank back in my chair—I said, “Excuse me—I am entirely
prostrated—I can do no more. Will you rest and lunch downstairs? Love
to all, and sympathy, and so on. Good-morning.”

He made another speech—the man was absolutely inexhaustible. I closed
my eyes—I endeavoured to hear as little as possible. In spite of my
endeavours I was obliged to hear a great deal. My sister’s endless
husband congratulated himself, and congratulated me, on the result
of our interview—he mentioned a great deal more about his sympathies
and mine—he deplored my miserable health—he offered to write me a
prescription—he impressed on me the necessity of not forgetting what
he had said about the importance of light—he accepted my obliging
invitation to rest and lunch—he recommended me to expect Lady Glyde
in two or three days’ time—he begged my permission to look forward
to our next meeting, instead of paining himself and paining me, by
saying farewell—he added a great deal more, which, I rejoice to think,
I did not attend to at the time, and do not remember now. I heard his
sympathetic voice travelling away from me by degrees—but, large as he
was, I never heard him. He had the negative merit of being absolutely
noiseless. I don’t know when he opened the door, or when he shut it. I
ventured to make use of my eyes again, after an interval of silence—and
he was gone.

I rang for Louis, and retired to my bathroom. Tepid water, strengthened
with aromatic vinegar, for myself, and copious fumigation for my study,
were the obvious precautions to take, and of course I adopted them. I
rejoice to say they proved successful. I enjoyed my customary siesta. I
awoke moist and cool.

My first inquiries were for the Count. Had we really got rid of him?
Yes—he had gone away by the afternoon train. Had he lunched, and if
so, upon what? Entirely upon fruit-tart and cream. What a man! What a
digestion!



Am I expected to say anything more? I believe not. I believe I have
reached the limits assigned to me. The shocking circumstances which
happened at a later period did not, I am thankful to say, happen in my
presence. I do beg and entreat that nobody will be so very unfeeling
as to lay any part of the blame of those circumstances on me. I did
everything for the best. I am not answerable for a deplorable calamity,
which it was quite impossible to foresee. I am shattered by it—I have
suffered under it, as nobody else has suffered. My servant, Louis
(who is really attached to me in his unintelligent way), thinks I
shall never get over it. He sees me dictating at this moment, with my
handkerchief to my eyes. I wish to mention, in justice to myself, that
it was not my fault, and that I am quite exhausted and heartbroken.
Need I say more?



THE STORY CONTINUED BY ELIZA MICHELSON

(Housekeeper at Blackwater Park)



I


I am asked to state plainly what I know of the progress of Miss
Halcombe’s illness and of the circumstances under which Lady Glyde left
Blackwater Park for London.

The reason given for making this demand on me is, that my testimony is
wanted in the interests of truth. As the widow of a clergyman of the
Church of England (reduced by misfortune to the necessity of accepting
a situation), I have been taught to place the claims of truth above all
other considerations. I therefore comply with a request which I might
otherwise, through reluctance to connect myself with distressing family
affairs, have hesitated to grant.

I made no memorandum at the time, and I cannot therefore be sure to
a day of the date, but I believe I am correct in stating that Miss
Halcombe’s serious illness began during the last fortnight or ten days
in June. The breakfast hour was late at Blackwater Park—sometimes as
late as ten, never earlier than half-past nine. On the morning to which
I am now referring, Miss Halcombe (who was usually the first to come
down) did not make her appearance at the table. After the family had
waited a quarter of an hour, the upper housemaid was sent to see after
her, and came running out of the room dreadfully frightened. I met the
servant on the stairs, and went at once to Miss Halcombe to see what
was the matter. The poor lady was incapable of telling me. She was
walking about her room with a pen in her hand, quite light-headed, in a
state of burning fever.

Lady Glyde (being no longer in Sir Percival’s service, I may, without
impropriety, mention my former mistress by her name, instead of calling
her my lady) was the first to come in from her own bedroom. She was
so dreadfully alarmed and distressed that she was quite useless. The
Count Fosco, and his lady, who came upstairs immediately afterwards,
were both most serviceable and kind. Her ladyship assisted me to get
Miss Halcombe to her bed. His lordship the Count remained in the
sitting-room, and having sent for my medicine-chest, made a mixture for
Miss Halcombe, and a cooling lotion to be applied to her head, so as
to lose no time before the doctor came. We applied the lotion, but we
could not get her to take the mixture. Sir Percival undertook to send
for the doctor. He despatched a groom, on horseback, for the nearest
medical man, Mr. Dawson, of Oak Lodge.

Mr. Dawson arrived in less than an hour’s time. He was a respectable
elderly man, well known all round the country, and we were much alarmed
when we found that he considered the case to be a very serious one.

His lordship the Count affably entered into conversation with Mr.
Dawson, and gave his opinions with a judicious freedom. Mr. Dawson,
not over-courteously, inquired if his lordship’s advice was the advice
of a doctor, and being informed that it was the advice of one who had
studied medicine unprofessionally, replied that he was not accustomed
to consult with amateur physicians. The Count, with truly Christian
meekness of temper, smiled and left the room. Before he went out he
told me that he might be found, in case he was wanted in the course of
the day, at the boat-house on the banks of the lake. Why he should have
gone there, I cannot say. But he did go, remaining away the whole day
till seven o’clock, which was dinner-time. Perhaps he wished to set the
example of keeping the house as quiet as possible. It was entirely in
his character to do so. He was a most considerate nobleman.

Miss Halcombe passed a very bad night, the fever coming and going,
and getting worse towards the morning instead of better. No nurse fit
to wait on her being at hand in the neighbourhood, her ladyship the
Countess and myself undertook the duty, relieving each other. Lady
Glyde, most unwisely, insisted on sitting up with us. She was much
too nervous and too delicate in health to bear the anxiety of Miss
Halcombe’s illness calmly. She only did herself harm, without being of
the least real assistance. A more gentle and affectionate lady never
lived—but she cried, and she was frightened, two weaknesses which made
her entirely unfit to be present in a sick-room.

Sir Percival and the Count came in the morning to make their inquiries.

Sir Percival (from distress, I presume, at his lady’s affliction and at
Miss Halcombe’s illness) appeared much confused and unsettled in his
mind. His lordship testified, on the contrary, a becoming composure
and interest. He had his straw hat in one hand, and his book in the
other, and he mentioned to Sir Percival in my hearing that he would
go out again and study at the lake. “Let us keep the house quiet,” he
said. “Let us not smoke indoors, my friend, now Miss Halcombe is ill.
You go your way, and I will go mine. When I study I like to be alone.
Good-morning, Mrs. Michelson.”

Sir Percival was not civil enough—perhaps I ought in justice to say,
not composed enough—to take leave of me with the same polite attention.
The only person in the house, indeed, who treated me, at that time or
at any other, on the footing of a lady in distressed circumstances, was
the Count. He had the manners of a true nobleman—he was considerate
towards every one. Even the young person (Fanny by name) who attended
on Lady Glyde was not beneath his notice. When she was sent away by
Sir Percival, his lordship (showing me his sweet little birds at the
time) was most kindly anxious to know what had become of her, where
she was to go the day she left Blackwater Park, and so on. It is in
such little delicate attentions that the advantages of aristocratic
birth always show themselves. I make no apology for introducing these
particulars—they are brought forward in justice to his lordship,
whose character, I have reason to know, is viewed rather harshly in
certain quarters. A nobleman who can respect a lady in distressed
circumstances, and can take a fatherly interest in the fortunes of an
humble servant girl, shows principles and feelings of too high an order
to be lightly called in question. I advance no opinions—I offer facts
only. My endeavour through life is to judge not that I be not judged.
One of my beloved husband’s finest sermons was on that text. I read it
constantly—in my own copy of the edition printed by subscription, in
the first days of my widowhood—and at every fresh perusal I derive an
increase of spiritual benefit and edification.

There was no improvement in Miss Halcombe, and the second night was
even worse than the first. Mr. Dawson was constant in his attendance.
The practical duties of nursing were still divided between the Countess
and myself, Lady Glyde persisting in sitting up with us, though we both
entreated her to take some rest. “My place is by Marian’s bedside,” was
her only answer. “Whether I am ill, or well, nothing will induce me to
lose sight of her.”

Towards midday I went downstairs to attend to some of my regular
duties. An hour afterwards, on my way back to the sick-room, I saw the
Count (who had gone out again early, for the third time) entering the
hall, to all appearance in the highest good spirits. Sir Percival, at
the same moment, put his head out of the library door, and addressed
his noble friend, with extreme eagerness, in these words—

“Have you found her?”

His lordship’s large face became dimpled all over with placid smiles,
but he made no reply in words. At the same time Sir Percival turned his
head, observed that I was approaching the stairs, and looked at me in
the most rudely angry manner possible.

“Come in here and tell me about it,” he said to the Count. “Whenever
there are women in a house they’re always sure to be going up or down
stairs.”

“My dear Percival,” observed his lordship kindly, “Mrs. Michelson has
duties. Pray recognise her admirable performance of them as sincerely
as I do! How is the sufferer, Mrs. Michelson?”

“No better, my lord, I regret to say.”

“Sad—most sad!” remarked the Count. “You look fatigued, Mrs. Michelson.
It is certainly time you and my wife had some help in nursing. I think
I may be the means of offering you that help. Circumstances have
happened which will oblige Madame Fosco to travel to London either
to-morrow or the day after. She will go away in the morning and return
at night, and she will bring back with her, to relieve you, a nurse of
excellent conduct and capacity, who is now disengaged. The woman is
known to my wife as a person to be trusted. Before she comes here say
nothing about her, if you please, to the doctor, because he will look
with an evil eye on any nurse of my providing. When she appears in this
house she will speak for herself, and Mr. Dawson will be obliged to
acknowledge that there is no excuse for not employing her. Lady Glyde
will say the same. Pray present my best respects and sympathies to Lady
Glyde.”

I expressed my grateful acknowledgments for his lordship’s kind
consideration. Sir Percival cut them short by calling to his noble
friend (using, I regret to say, a profane expression) to come into the
library, and not to keep him waiting there any longer.

I proceeded upstairs. We are poor erring creatures, and however well
established a woman’s principles may be she cannot always keep on
her guard against the temptation to exercise an idle curiosity. I am
ashamed to say that an idle curiosity, on this occasion, got the better
of my principles, and made me unduly inquisitive about the question
which Sir Percival had addressed to his noble friend at the library
door. Who was the Count expected to find in the course of his studious
morning rambles at Blackwater Park? A woman, it was to be presumed,
from the terms of Sir Percival’s inquiry. I did not suspect the Count
of any impropriety—I knew his moral character too well. The only
question I asked myself was—Had he found her?

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 the 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 a handle 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 upstairs. 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 this
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 heartbroken 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 to send for another doctor.”

“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 cause
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 downstairs, 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 appeared 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 remarked 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 astonishment 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 downstairs, 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 downstairs.

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
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 meanwhile 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 indoor 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 indoor 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, indoors
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 poor ladies both well again, and I wished myself away from
Blackwater Park.



II


The next event that occurred was of so singular a nature that it might
have caused me a feeling of superstitious surprise, if my mind had not
been fortified by principle against any pagan weakness of that sort.
The uneasy sense of something wrong in the family which had made me
wish myself away from Blackwater Park, was actually followed, strange
to say, by my departure from the house. It is true that my absence was
for a temporary period only, but the coincidence was, in my opinion,
not the less remarkable on that account.

My departure took place under the following circumstances—

A day or two after the servants all left I was again sent for to see
Sir Percival. The undeserved slur which he had cast on my management
of the household did not, I am happy to say, prevent me from returning
good for evil to the best of my ability, by complying with his request
as readily and respectfully as ever. It cost me a struggle with that
fallen nature, which we all share in common, before I could suppress
my feelings. Being accustomed to self-discipline, I accomplished the
sacrifice.

I found Sir Percival and Count Fosco sitting together again. On this
occasion his lordship remained present at the interview, and assisted
in the development of Sir Percival’s views.

The subject to which they now requested my attention related to the
healthy change of air by which we all hoped that Miss Halcombe and Lady
Glyde might soon be enabled to profit. Sir Percival mentioned that both
the ladies would probably pass the autumn (by invitation of Frederick
Fairlie, Esquire) at Limmeridge House, Cumberland. But before they went
there, it was his opinion, confirmed by Count Fosco (who here took up
the conversation and continued it to the end), that they would benefit
by a short residence first in the genial climate of Torquay. The great
object, therefore, was to engage lodgings at that place, affording
all the comforts and advantages of which they stood in need, and the
great difficulty was to find an experienced person capable of choosing
the sort of residence which they wanted. In this emergency the Count
begged to inquire, on Sir Percival’s behalf, whether I would object to
give the ladies the benefit of my assistance, by proceeding myself to
Torquay in their interests.

It was impossible for a person in my situation to meet any proposal,
made in these terms, with a positive objection.

I could only venture to represent the serious inconvenience of my
leaving Blackwater Park in the extraordinary absence of all the indoor
servants, with the one exception of Margaret Porcher. But Sir Percival
and his lordship declared that they were both willing to put up with
inconvenience for the sake of the invalids. I next respectfully
suggested writing to an agent at Torquay, but I was met here by being
reminded of the imprudence of taking lodgings without first seeing
them. I was also informed that the Countess (who would otherwise
have gone to Devonshire herself) could not, in Lady Glyde’s present
condition, leave her niece, and that Sir Percival and the Count had
business to transact together which would oblige them to remain at
Blackwater Park. In short, it was clearly shown me that if I did not
undertake the errand, no one else could be trusted with it. Under these
circumstances, I could only inform Sir Percival that my services were
at the disposal of Miss Halcombe and Lady Glyde.

It was thereupon arranged that I should leave the next morning, that
I should occupy one or two days in examining all the most convenient
houses in Torquay, and that I should return with my report as soon as
I conveniently could. A memorandum was written for me by his lordship,
stating the requisites which the place I was sent to take must be found
to possess, and a note of the pecuniary limit assigned to me was added
by Sir Percival.

My own idea on reading over these instructions was, that no such
residence as I saw described could be found at any watering-place
in England, and that, even if it could by chance be discovered, it
would certainly not be parted with for any period on such terms as I
was permitted to offer. I hinted at these difficulties to both the
gentlemen, but Sir Percival (who undertook to answer me) did not appear
to feel them. It was not for me to dispute the question. I said no
more, but I felt a very strong conviction that the business on which I
was sent away was so beset by difficulties that my errand was almost
hopeless at starting.

Before I left I took care to satisfy myself that Miss Halcombe was
going on favourably.

There was a painful expression of anxiety in her face which made me
fear that her mind, on first recovering itself, was not at ease. But
she was certainly strengthening more rapidly than I could have ventured
to anticipate, and she was able to send kind messages to Lady Glyde,
saying that she was fast getting well, and entreating her ladyship not
to exert herself again too soon. I left her in charge of Mrs. Rubelle,
who was still as quietly independent of every one else in the house as
ever. When I knocked at Lady Glyde’s door before going away, I was told
that she was still sadly weak and depressed, my informant being the
Countess, who was then keeping her company in her room. Sir Percival
and the Count were walking on the road to the lodge as I was driven by
in the chaise. I bowed to them and quitted the house, with not a living
soul left in the servants’ offices but Margaret Porcher.

Every one must feel what I have felt myself since that time, that these
circumstances were more than unusual—they were almost suspicious. Let
me, however, say again that it was impossible for me, in my dependent
position, to act otherwise than I did.

The result of my errand at Torquay was exactly what I had foreseen.
No such lodgings as I was instructed to take could be found in the
whole place, and the terms I was permitted to give were much too low
for the purpose, even if I had been able to discover what I wanted. I
accordingly returned to Blackwater Park, and informed Sir Percival, who
met me at the door, that my journey had been taken in vain. He seemed
too much occupied with some other subject to care about the failure of
my errand, and his first words informed me that even in the short time
of my absence another remarkable change had taken place in the house.

The Count and Countess Fosco had left Blackwater Park for their new
residence in St. John’s Wood.

I was not made aware of the motive for this sudden departure—I was
only told that the Count had been very particular in leaving his kind
compliments to me. When I ventured on asking Sir Percival whether Lady
Glyde had any one to attend to her comforts in the absence of the
Countess, he replied that she had Margaret Porcher to wait on her, and
he added that a woman from the village had been sent for to do the work
downstairs.

The answer really shocked me—there was such a glaring impropriety
in permitting an under-housemaid to fill the place of confidential
attendant on Lady Glyde. I went upstairs at once, and met Margaret on
the bedroom landing. Her services had not been required (naturally
enough), her mistress having sufficiently recovered that morning to
be able to leave her bed. I asked next after Miss Halcombe, but I was
answered in a slouching, sulky way, which left me no wiser than I was
before.

I did not choose to repeat the question, and perhaps provoke an
impertinent reply. It was in every respect more becoming to a person in
my position to present myself immediately in Lady Glyde’s room.

I found that her ladyship had certainly gained in health during the
last few days. Although still sadly weak and nervous, she was able to
get up without assistance, and to walk slowly about her room, feeling
no worse effect from the exertion than a slight sensation of fatigue.
She had been made a little anxious that morning about Miss Halcombe,
through having received no news of her from any one. I thought this
seemed to imply a blamable want of attention on the part of Mrs.
Rubelle, but I said nothing, and remained with Lady Glyde to assist her
to dress. When she was ready we both left the room together to go to
Miss Halcombe.

We were stopped in the passage by the appearance of Sir Percival. He
looked as if he had been purposely waiting there to see us.

“Where are you going?” he said to Lady Glyde.

“To Marian’s room,” she answered.

“It may spare you a disappointment,” remarked Sir Percival, “if I tell
you at once that you will not find her there.”

“Not find her there!”

“No. She left the house yesterday morning with Fosco and his wife.”

Lady Glyde was not strong enough to bear the surprise of this
extraordinary statement. She turned fearfully pale, and leaned back
against the wall, looking at her husband in dead silence.

I was so astonished myself that I hardly knew what to say. I asked Sir
Percival if he really meant that Miss Halcombe had left Blackwater Park.

“I certainly mean it,” he answered.

“In her state, Sir Percival! Without mentioning her intentions to Lady
Glyde!”

Before he could reply her ladyship recovered herself a little and spoke.

“Impossible!” she cried out in a loud, frightened manner, taking a step
or two forward from the wall. “Where was the doctor? where was Mr.
Dawson when Marian went away?”

“Mr. Dawson wasn’t wanted, and wasn’t here,” said Sir Percival. “He
left of his own accord, which is enough of itself to show that she was
strong enough to travel. How you stare! If you don’t believe she has
gone, look for yourself. Open her room door, and all the other room
doors if you like.”

She took him at his word, and I followed her. There was no one in
Miss Halcombe’s room but Margaret Porcher, who was busy setting it to
rights. There was no one in the spare rooms or the dressing-rooms when
we looked into them afterwards. Sir Percival still waited for us in the
passage. As we were leaving the last room that we had examined Lady
Glyde whispered, “Don’t go, Mrs. Michelson! don’t leave me, for God’s
sake!” Before I could say anything in return she was out again in the
passage, speaking to her husband.

“What does it mean, Sir Percival? I insist—I beg and pray you will tell
me what it means.”

“It means,” he answered, “that Miss Halcombe was strong enough
yesterday morning to sit up and be dressed, and that she insisted on
taking advantage of Fosco’s going to London to go there too.”

“To London!”

“Yes—on her way to Limmeridge.”

Lady Glyde turned and appealed to me.

“You saw Miss Halcombe last,” she said. “Tell me plainly, Mrs.
Michelson, did you think she looked fit to travel?”

“Not in MY opinion, your ladyship.”

Sir Percival, on his side, instantly turned and appealed to me also.

“Before you went away,” he said, “did you, or did you not, tell the
nurse that Miss Halcombe looked much stronger and better?”

“I certainly made the remark, Sir Percival.”

He addressed her ladyship again the moment I offered that reply.

“Set one of Mrs. Michelson’s opinions fairly against the other,” he
said, “and try to be reasonable about a perfectly plain matter. If she
had not been well enough to be moved do you think we should any of us
have risked letting her go? She has got three competent people to look
after her—Fosco and your aunt, and Mrs. Rubelle, who went away with
them expressly for that purpose. They took a whole carriage yesterday,
and made a bed for her on the seat in case she felt tired. To-day,
Fosco and Mrs. Rubelle go on with her themselves to Cumberland.”

“Why does Marian go to Limmeridge and leave me here by myself?” said
her ladyship, interrupting Sir Percival.

“Because your uncle won’t receive you till he has seen your sister
first,” he replied. “Have you forgotten the letter he wrote to her
at the beginning of her illness? It was shown to you, you read it
yourself, and you ought to remember it.”

“I do remember it.”

“If you do, why should you be surprised at her leaving you? You want to
be back at Limmeridge, and she has gone there to get your uncle’s leave
for you on his own terms.”

Poor Lady Glyde’s eyes filled with tears.

“Marian never left me before,” she said, “without bidding me good-bye.”

“She would have bid you good-bye this time,” returned Sir Percival, “if
she had not been afraid of herself and of you. She knew you would try
to stop her, she knew you would distress her by crying. Do you want to
make any more objections? If you do, you must come downstairs and ask
questions in the dining-room. These worries upset me. I want a glass of
wine.”

He left us suddenly.

His manner all through this strange conversation had been very unlike
what it usually was. He seemed to be almost as nervous and fluttered,
every now and then, as his lady herself. I should never have supposed
that his health had been so delicate, or his composure so easy to upset.

I tried to prevail on Lady Glyde to go back to her room, but it was
useless. She stopped in the passage, with the look of a woman whose
mind was panic-stricken.

“Something has happened to my sister!” she said.

“Remember, my lady, what surprising energy there is in Miss Halcombe,”
I suggested. “She might well make an effort which other ladies in her
situation would be unfit for. I hope and believe there is nothing
wrong—I do indeed.”

“I must follow Marian,” said her ladyship, with the same panic-stricken
look. “I must go where she has gone, I must see that she is alive and
well with my own eyes. Come! come down with me to Sir Percival.”

I hesitated, fearing that my presence might be considered an intrusion.
I attempted to represent this to her ladyship, but she was deaf to me.
She held my arm fast enough to force me to go downstairs with her,
and she still clung to me with all the little strength she had at the
moment when I opened the dining-room door.

Sir Percival was sitting at the table with a decanter of wine before
him. He raised the glass to his lips as we went in and drained it at a
draught. Seeing that he looked at me angrily when he put it down again,
I attempted to make some apology for my accidental presence in the room.

“Do you suppose there are any secrets going on here?” he broke out
suddenly; “there are none—there is nothing underhand, nothing kept from
you or from any one.” After speaking those strange words loudly and
sternly, he filled himself another glass of wine and asked Lady Glyde
what she wanted of him.

“If my sister is fit to travel I am fit to travel” said her ladyship,
with more firmness than she had yet shown. “I come to beg you will make
allowances for my anxiety about Marian, and let me follow her at once
by the afternoon train.”

“You must wait till to-morrow,” replied Sir Percival, “and then if you
don’t hear to the contrary you can go. I don’t suppose you are at all
likely to hear to the contrary, so I shall write to Fosco by to-night’s
post.”

He said those last words holding his glass up to the light, and looking
at the wine in it instead of at Lady Glyde. Indeed he never once looked
at her throughout the conversation. Such a singular want of good
breeding in a gentleman of his rank impressed me, I own, very painfully.

“Why should you write to Count Fosco?” she asked, in extreme surprise.

“To tell him to expect you by the midday train,” said Sir Percival. “He
will meet you at the station when you get to London, and take you on to
sleep at your aunt’s in St. John’s Wood.”

Lady Glyde’s hand began to tremble violently round my arm—why I could
not imagine.

“There is no necessity for Count Fosco to meet me,” she said. “I would
rather not stay in London to sleep.”

“You must. You can’t take the whole journey to Cumberland in one
day. You must rest a night in London—and I don’t choose you to go by
yourself to an hotel. Fosco made the offer to your uncle to give you
house-room on the way down, and your uncle has accepted it. Here! here
is a letter from him addressed to yourself. I ought to have sent it up
this morning, but I forgot. Read it and see what Mr. Fairlie himself
says to you.”

Lady Glyde looked at the letter for a moment and then placed it in my
hands.

“Read it,” she said faintly. “I don’t know what is the matter with me.
I can’t read it myself.”

It was a note of only four lines—so short and so careless that it quite
struck me. If I remember correctly it contained no more than these
words—

“Dearest Laura, Please come whenever you like. Break the journey
by sleeping at your aunt’s house. Grieved to hear of dear Marian’s
illness. Affectionately yours, Frederick Fairlie.”

“I would rather not go there—I would rather not stay a night in
London,” said her ladyship, breaking out eagerly with those words
before I had quite done reading the note, short as it was. “Don’t write
to Count Fosco! Pray, pray don’t write to him!”

Sir Percival filled another glass from the decanter so awkwardly that
he upset it and spilt all the wine over the table. “My sight seems to
be failing me,” he muttered to himself, in an odd, muffled voice. He
slowly set the glass up again, refilled it, and drained it once more at
a draught. I began to fear, from his look and manner, that the wine was
getting into his head.

“Pray don’t write to Count Fosco,” persisted Lady Glyde, more earnestly
than ever.

“Why not, I should like to know?” cried Sir Percival, with a sudden
burst of anger that startled us both. “Where can you stay more properly
in London than at the place your uncle himself chooses for you—at your
aunt’s house? Ask Mrs. Michelson.”

The arrangement proposed was so unquestionably the right and the
proper one, that I could make no possible objection to it. Much as I
sympathised with Lady Glyde in other respects, I could not sympathise
with her in her unjust prejudices against Count Fosco. I never before
met with any lady of her rank and station who was so lamentably
narrow-minded on the subject of foreigners. Neither her uncle’s note
nor Sir Percival’s increasing impatience seemed to have the least
effect on her. She still objected to staying a night in London, she
still implored her husband not to write to the Count.

“Drop it!” said Sir Percival, rudely turning his back on us. “If you
haven’t sense enough to know what is best for yourself other people
must know it for you. The arrangement is made and there is an end of
it. You are only wanted to do what Miss Halcombe has done before you—-”

“Marian?” repeated her Ladyship, in a bewildered manner; “Marian
sleeping in Count Fosco’s house!”

“Yes, in Count Fosco’s house. She slept there last night to break the
journey, and you are to follow her example, and do what your uncle
tells you. You are to sleep at Fosco’s to-morrow night, as your sister
did, to break the journey. Don’t throw too many obstacles in my way!
don’t make me repent of letting you go at all!”

He started to his feet, and suddenly walked out into the verandah
through the open glass doors.

“Will your ladyship excuse me,” I whispered, “if I suggest that we
had better not wait here till Sir Percival comes back? I am very much
afraid he is over-excited with wine.”

She consented to leave the room in a weary, absent manner.

As soon as we were safe upstairs again, I did all I could to compose
her ladyship’s spirits. I reminded her that Mr. Fairlie’s letters to
Miss Halcombe and to herself did certainly sanction, and even render
necessary, sooner or later, the course that had been taken. She agreed
to this, and even admitted, of her own accord, that both letters were
strictly in character with her uncle’s peculiar disposition—but her
fears about Miss Halcombe, and her unaccountable dread of sleeping
at the Count’s house in London, still remained unshaken in spite of
every consideration that I could urge. I thought it my duty to protest
against Lady Glyde’s unfavourable opinion of his lordship, and I did
so, with becoming forbearance and respect.

“Your ladyship will pardon my freedom,” I remarked, in conclusion, “but
it is said, ‘by their fruits ye shall know them.’ I am sure the Count’s
constant kindness and constant attention, from the very beginning of
Miss Halcombe’s illness, merit our best confidence and esteem. Even
his lordship’s serious misunderstanding with Mr. Dawson was entirely
attributable to his anxiety on Miss Halcombe’s account.”

“What misunderstanding?” inquired her ladyship, with a look of sudden
interest.

I related the unhappy circumstances under which Mr. Dawson had
withdrawn his attendance—mentioning them all the more readily because I
disapproved of Sir Percival’s continuing to conceal what had happened
(as he had done in my presence) from the knowledge of Lady Glyde.

Her ladyship started up, with every appearance of being additionally
agitated and alarmed by what I had told her.

“Worse! worse than I thought!” she said, walking about the room, in a
bewildered manner. “The Count knew Mr. Dawson would never consent to
Marian’s taking a journey—he purposely insulted the doctor to get him
out of the house.”

“Oh, my lady! my lady!” I remonstrated.

“Mrs. Michelson!” she went on vehemently, “no words that ever were
spoken will persuade me that my sister is in that man’s power and in
that man’s house with her own consent. My horror of him is such, that
nothing Sir Percival could say and no letters my uncle could write,
would induce me, if I had only my own feelings to consult, to eat,
drink, or sleep under his roof. But my misery of suspense about Marian
gives me the courage to follow her anywhere, to follow her even into
Count Fosco’s house.”

I thought it right, at this point, to mention that Miss Halcombe had
already gone on to Cumberland, according to Sir Percival’s account of
the matter.

“I am afraid to believe it!” answered her ladyship. “I am afraid she is
still in that man’s house. If I am wrong, if she has really gone on to
Limmeridge, I am resolved I will not sleep to-morrow night under Count
Fosco’s roof. My dearest friend in the world, next to my sister, lives
near London. You have heard me, you have heard Miss Halcombe, speak
of Mrs. Vesey? I mean to write, and propose to sleep at her house. I
don’t know how I shall get there—I don’t know how I shall avoid the
Count—but to that refuge I will escape in some way, if my sister has
gone to Cumberland. All I ask of you to do, is to see yourself that
my letter to Mrs. Vesey goes to London to-night, as certainly as Sir
Percival’s letter goes to Count Fosco. I have reasons for not trusting
the post-bag downstairs. Will you keep my secret, and help me in this?
it is the last favour, perhaps, that I shall ever ask of you.”

I hesitated, I thought it all very strange, I almost feared that her
ladyship’s mind had been a little affected by recent anxiety and
suffering. At my own risk, however, I ended by giving my consent. If
the letter had been addressed to a stranger, or to any one but a lady
so well known to me by report as Mrs. Vesey, I might have refused.
I thank God—looking to what happened afterwards—I thank God I never
thwarted that wish, or any other, which Lady Glyde expressed to me, on
the last day of her residence at Blackwater Park.

The letter was written and given into my hands. I myself put it into
the post-box in the village that evening.

We saw nothing more of Sir Percival for the rest of the day.

I slept, by Lady Glyde’s own desire, in the next room to hers, with the
door open between us. There was something so strange and dreadful in
the loneliness and emptiness of the house, that I was glad, on my side,
to have a companion near me. Her ladyship sat up late, reading letters
and burning them, and emptying her drawers and cabinets of little
things she prized, as if she never expected to return to Blackwater
Park. Her sleep was sadly disturbed when she at last went to bed—she
cried out in it several times, once so loud that she woke herself.
Whatever her dreams were, she did not think fit to communicate them
to me. Perhaps, in my situation, I had no right to expect that she
should do so. It matters little now. I was sorry for her, I was indeed
heartily sorry for her all the same.

The next day was fine and sunny. Sir Percival came up, after breakfast,
to tell us that the chaise would be at the door at a quarter to
twelve—the train to London stopping at our station at twenty minutes
after. He informed Lady Glyde that he was obliged to go out, but added
that he hoped to be back before she left. If any unforeseen accident
delayed him, I was to accompany her to the station, and to take special
care that she was in time for the train. Sir Percival communicated
these directions very hastily—walking here and there about the room all
the time. Her ladyship looked attentively after him wherever he went.
He never once looked at her in return.

She only spoke when he had done, and then she stopped him as he
approached the door, by holding out her hand.

“I shall see you no more,” she said, in a very marked manner. “This is
our parting—our parting, it may be for ever. Will you try to forgive
me, Percival, as heartily as I forgive YOU?”

His face turned of an awful whiteness all over, and great beads of
perspiration broke out on his bald forehead. “I shall come back,” he
said, and made for the door, as hastily as if his wife’s farewell words
had frightened him out of the room.

I had never liked Sir Percival, but the manner in which he left Lady
Glyde made me feel ashamed of having eaten his bread and lived in his
service. I thought of saying a few comforting and Christian words to
the poor lady, but there was something in her face, as she looked after
her husband when the door closed on him, that made me alter my mind and
keep silence.

At the time named the chaise drew up at the gates. Her ladyship was
right—Sir Percival never came back. I waited for him till the last
moment, and waited in vain.

No positive responsibility lay on my shoulders, and yet I did not feel
easy in my mind. “It is of your own free will,” I said, as the chaise
drove through the lodge-gates, “that your ladyship goes to London?”

“I will go anywhere,” she answered, “to end the dreadful suspense that
I am suffering at this moment.”

She had made me feel almost as anxious and as uncertain about Miss
Halcombe as she felt herself. I presumed to ask her to write me a
line, if all went well in London. She answered, “Most willingly, Mrs.
Michelson.”

“We all have our crosses to bear, my lady,” I said, seeing her silent
and thoughtful, after she had promised to write.

She made no reply—she seemed to be too much wrapped up in her own
thoughts to attend to me.

“I fear your ladyship rested badly last night,” I remarked, after
waiting a little.

“Yes,” she said, “I was terribly disturbed by dreams.”

“Indeed, my lady?” I thought she was going to tell me her dreams, but
no, when she spoke next it was only to ask a question.

“You posted the letter to Mrs. Vesey with your own hands?”

“Yes, my lady.”

“Did Sir Percival say, yesterday, that Count Fosco was to meet me at
the terminus in London?”

“He did, my lady.”

She sighed heavily when I answered that last question, and said no more.

We arrived at the station, with hardly two minutes to spare. The
gardener (who had driven us) managed about the luggage, while I took
the ticket. The whistle of the train was sounding when I joined her
ladyship on the platform. She looked very strangely, and pressed her
hand over her heart, as if some sudden pain or fright had overcome her
at that moment.

“I wish you were going with me!” she said, catching eagerly at my arm
when I gave her the ticket.

If there had been time, if I had felt the day before as I felt then,
I would have made my arrangements to accompany her, even though the
doing so had obliged me to give Sir Percival warning on the spot. As it
was, her wishes, expressed at the last moment only, were expressed too
late for me to comply with them. She seemed to understand this herself
before I could explain it, and did not repeat her desire to have me for
a travelling companion. The train drew up at the platform. She gave the
gardener a present for his children, and took my hand, in her simple
hearty manner, before she got into the carriage.

“You have been very kind to me and to my sister,” she said—“kind when
we were both friendless. I shall remember you gratefully, as long as I
live to remember any one. Good-bye—and God bless you!”

She spoke those words with a tone and a look which brought the tears
into my eyes—she spoke them as if she was bidding me farewell for ever.

“Good-bye, my lady,” I said, putting her into the carriage, and trying
to cheer her; “good-bye, for the present only; good-bye, with my best
and kindest wishes for happier times.”

She shook her head, and shuddered as she settled herself in the
carriage. The guard closed the door. “Do you believe in dreams?” she
whispered to me at the window. “My dreams, last night, were dreams I
have never had before. The terror of them is hanging over me still.”
The whistle sounded before I could answer, and the train moved. Her
pale quiet face looked at me for the last time—looked sorrowfully and
solemnly from the window. She waved her hand, and I saw her no more.


Towards five o’clock on the afternoon of that same day, having a little
time to myself in the midst of the household duties which now pressed
upon me, I sat down alone in my own room, to try and compose my mind
with the volume of my husband’s Sermons. For the first time in my life
I found my attention wandering over those pious and cheering words.
Concluding that Lady Glyde’s departure must have disturbed me far more
seriously than I had myself supposed, I put the book aside, and went
out to take a turn in the garden. Sir Percival had not yet returned, to
my knowledge, so I could feel no hesitation about showing myself in the
grounds.

On turning the corner of the house, and gaining a view of the garden,
I was startled by seeing a stranger walking in it. The stranger was
a woman—she was lounging along the path with her back to me, and was
gathering the flowers.

As I approached she heard me, and turned round.

My blood curdled in my veins. The strange woman in the garden was Mrs.
Rubelle!

I could neither move nor speak. She came up to me, as composedly as
ever, with her flowers in her hand.

“What is the matter, ma’am?” she said quietly.

“You here!” I gasped out. “Not gone to London! Not gone to Cumberland!”

Mrs. Rubelle smelt at her flowers with a smile of malicious pity.

“Certainly not,” she said. “I have never left Blackwater Park.”

I summoned breath enough and courage enough for another question.

“Where is Miss Halcombe?”

Mrs. Rubelle fairly laughed at me this time, and replied in these words—

“Miss Halcombe, ma’am, has not left Blackwater Park either.”

When I heard that astounding answer, all my thoughts were startled
back on the instant to my parting with Lady Glyde. I can hardly say I
reproached myself, but at that moment I think I would have given many a
year’s hard savings to have known four hours earlier what I knew now.

Mrs. Rubelle waited, quietly arranging her nosegay, as if she expected
me to say something.

I could say nothing. I thought of Lady Glyde’s worn-out energies and
weakly health, and I trembled for the time when the shock of the
discovery that I had made would fall on her. For a minute or more my
fears for the poor ladies silenced me. At the end of that time Mrs.
Rubelle looked up sideways from her flowers, and said, “Here is Sir
Percival, ma’am, returned from his ride.”

I saw him as soon as she did. He came towards us, slashing viciously
at the flowers with his riding-whip. When he was near enough to see
my face he stopped, struck at his boot with the whip, and burst out
laughing, so harshly and so violently that the birds flew away,
startled, from the tree by which he stood.

“Well, Mrs. Michelson,” he said, “you have found it out at last, have
you?”

I made no reply. He turned to Mrs. Rubelle.

“When did you show yourself in the garden?”

“I showed myself about half an hour ago, sir. You said I might take my
liberty again as soon as Lady Glyde had gone away to London.”

“Quite right. I don’t blame you—I only asked the question.” He waited
a moment, and then addressed himself once more to me. “You can’t
believe it, can you?” he said mockingly. “Here! come along and see for
yourself.”

He led the way round to the front of the house. I followed him, and
Mrs. Rubelle followed me. After passing through the iron gates he
stopped, and pointed with his whip to the disused middle wing of the
building.

“There!” he said. “Look up at the first floor. You know the old
Elizabethan bedrooms? Miss Halcombe is snug and safe in one of the best
of them at this moment. Take her in, Mrs. Rubelle (you have got your
key?); take Mrs. Michelson in, and let her own eyes satisfy her that
there is no deception this time.”

The tone in which he spoke to me, and the minute or two that had passed
since we left the garden, helped me to recover my spirits a little.
What I might have done at this critical moment, if all my life had been
passed in service, I cannot say. As it was, possessing the feelings,
the principles, and the bringing up of a lady, I could not hesitate
about the right course to pursue. My duty to myself, and my duty to
Lady Glyde, alike forbade me to remain in the employment of a man who
had shamefully deceived us both by a series of atrocious falsehoods.

“I must beg permission, Sir Percival, to speak a few words to you in
private,” I said. “Having done so, I shall be ready to proceed with
this person to Miss Halcombe’s room.”

Mrs. Rubelle, whom I had indicated by a slight turn of my head,
insolently sniffed at her nosegay and walked away, with great
deliberation, towards the house door.

“Well,” said Sir Percival sharply, “what is it now?”

“I wish to mention, sir, that I am desirous of resigning the situation
I now hold at Blackwater Park.” That was literally how I put it. I was
resolved that the first words spoken in his presence should be words
which expressed my intention to leave his service.

He eyed me with one of his blackest looks, and thrust his hands
savagely into the pockets of his riding-coat.

“Why?” he said; “why, I should like to know?”

“It is not for me, Sir Percival, to express an opinion on what has
taken place in this house. I desire to give no offence. I merely wish
to say that I do not feel it consistent with my duty to Lady Glyde and
to myself to remain any longer in your service.”

“Is it consistent with your duty to me to stand there, casting
suspicion on me to my face?” he broke out in his most violent manner.
“I see what you’re driving at. You have taken your own mean, underhand
view of an innocent deception practised on Lady Glyde for her own
good. It was essential to her health that she should have a change of
air immediately, and you know as well as I do she would never have
gone away if she had been told Miss Halcombe was still left here. She
has been deceived in her own interests—and I don’t care who knows it.
Go, if you like—there are plenty of housekeepers as good as you to be
had for the asking. Go when you please—but take care how you spread
scandals about me and my affairs when you’re out of my service. Tell
the truth, and nothing but the truth, or it will be the worse for you!
See Miss Halcombe for yourself—see if she hasn’t been as well taken
care of in one part of the house as in the other. Remember the doctor’s
own orders that Lady Glyde was to have a change of air at the earliest
possible opportunity. Bear all that well in mind, and then say anything
against me and my proceedings if you dare!”

He poured out these words fiercely, all in a breath, walking backwards
and forwards, and striking about him in the air with his whip.

Nothing that he said or did shook my opinion of the disgraceful series
of falsehoods that he had told in my presence the day before, or of the
cruel deception by which he had separated Lady Glyde from her sister,
and had sent her uselessly to London, when she was half distracted with
anxiety on Miss Halcombe’s account. I naturally kept these thoughts to
myself, and said nothing more to irritate him; but I was not the less
resolved to persist in my purpose. A soft answer turneth away wrath,
and I suppressed my own feelings accordingly when it was my turn to
reply.

“While I am in your service, Sir Percival,” I said, “I hope I know my
duty well enough not to inquire into your motives. When I am out of
your service, I hope I know my own place well enough not to speak of
matters which don’t concern me—”

“When do you want to go?” he asked, interrupting me without ceremony.
“Don’t suppose I am anxious to keep you—don’t suppose I care about your
leaving the house. I am perfectly fair and open in this matter, from
first to last. When do you want to go?”

“I should wish to leave at your earliest convenience, Sir Percival.”

“My convenience has nothing to do with it. I shall be out of the house
for good and all to-morrow morning, and I can settle your accounts
to-night. If you want to study anybody’s convenience, it had better be
Miss Halcombe’s. Mrs. Rubelle’s time is up to-day, and she has reasons
for wishing to be in London to-night. If you go at once, Miss Halcombe
won’t have a soul left here to look after her.”

I hope it is unnecessary for me to say that I was quite incapable
of deserting Miss Halcombe in such an emergency as had now befallen
Lady Glyde and herself. After first distinctly ascertaining from Sir
Percival that Mrs. Rubelle was certain to leave at once if I took her
place, and after also obtaining permission to arrange for Mr. Dawson’s
resuming his attendance on his patient, I willingly consented to remain
at Blackwater Park until Miss Halcombe no longer required my services.
It was settled that I should give Sir Percival’s solicitor a week’s
notice before I left, and that he was to undertake the necessary
arrangements for appointing my successor. The matter was discussed in
very few words. At its conclusion Sir Percival abruptly turned on his
heel, and left me free to join Mrs. Rubelle. That singular foreign
person had been sitting composedly on the door-step all this time,
waiting till I could follow her to Miss Halcombe’s room.

I had hardly walked half-way towards the house when Sir Percival, who
had withdrawn in the opposite direction, suddenly stopped and called me
back.

“Why are you leaving my service?” he asked.

The question was so extraordinary, after what had just passed between
us, that I hardly knew what to say in answer to it.

“Mind! I don’t know why you are going,” he went on. “You must give a
reason for leaving me, I suppose, when you get another situation. What
reason? The breaking up of the family? Is that it?”

“There can be no positive objection, Sir Percival, to that reason——”

“Very well! That’s all I want to know. If people apply for your
character, that’s your reason, stated by yourself. You go in
consequence of the breaking up of the family.”

He turned away again before I could say another word, and walked out
rapidly into the grounds. His manner was as strange as his language. I
acknowledge he alarmed me.

Even the patience of Mrs. Rubelle was getting exhausted, when I joined
her at the house door.

“At last!” she said, with a shrug of her lean foreign shoulders. She
led the way into the inhabited side of the house, ascended the stairs,
and opened with her key the door at the end of the passage, which
communicated with the old Elizabethan rooms—a door never previously
used, in my time, at Blackwater Park. The rooms themselves I knew
well, having entered them myself on various occasions from the other
side of the house. Mrs. Rubelle stopped at the third door along the
old gallery, handed me the key of it, with the key of the door of
communication, and told me I should find Miss Halcombe in that room.
Before I went in I thought it desirable to make her understand that her
attendance had ceased. Accordingly, I told her in plain words that the
charge of the sick lady henceforth devolved entirely on myself.

“I am glad to hear it, ma’am,” said Mrs. Rubelle. “I want to go very
much.”

“Do you leave to-day?” I asked, to make sure of her.

“Now that you have taken charge, ma’am, I leave in half an hour’s time.
Sir Percival has kindly placed at my disposition the gardener, and the
chaise, whenever I want them. I shall want them in half an hour’s time
to go to the station. I am packed up in anticipation already. I wish
you good-day, ma’am.”

She dropped a brisk curtsey, and walked back along the gallery, humming
a little tune, and keeping time to it cheerfully with the nosegay in
her hand. I am sincerely thankful to say that was the last I saw of
Mrs. Rubelle.

When I went into the room Miss Halcombe was asleep. I looked at her
anxiously, as she lay in the dismal, high, old-fashioned bed. She was
certainly not in any respect altered for the worse since I had seen her
last. She had not been neglected, I am bound to admit, in any way that
I could perceive. The room was dreary, and dusty, and dark, but the
window (looking on a solitary court-yard at the back of the house) was
opened to let in the fresh air, and all that could be done to make the
place comfortable had been done. The whole cruelty of Sir Percival’s
deception had fallen on poor Lady Glyde. The only ill-usage which
either he or Mrs. Rubelle had inflicted on Miss Halcombe consisted, so
far as I could see, in the first offence of hiding her away.

I stole back, leaving the sick lady still peacefully asleep, to give
the gardener instructions about bringing the doctor. I begged the man,
after he had taken Mrs. Rubelle to the station, to drive round by Mr.
Dawson’s, and leave a message in my name, asking him to call and see
me. I knew he would come on my account, and I knew he would remain when
he found Count Fosco had left the house.

In due course of time the gardener returned, and said that he had
driven round by Mr. Dawson’s residence, after leaving Mrs. Rubelle
at the station. The doctor sent me word that he was poorly in health
himself, but that he would call, if possible, the next morning.

Having delivered his message the gardener was about to withdraw, but I
stopped him to request that he would come back before dark, and sit up
that night, in one of the empty bedrooms, so as to be within call in
case I wanted him. He understood readily enough my unwillingness to be
left alone all night in the most desolate part of that desolate house,
and we arranged that he should come in between eight and nine.

He came punctually, and I found cause to be thankful that I had adopted
the precaution of calling him in. Before midnight Sir Percival’s
strange temper broke out in the most violent and most alarming manner,
and if the gardener had not been on the spot to pacify him on the
instant, I am afraid to think what might have happened.

Almost all the afternoon and evening he had been walking about the
house and grounds in an unsettled, excitable manner, having, in all
probability, as I thought, taken an excessive quantity of wine at
his solitary dinner. However that may be, I heard his voice calling
loudly and angrily in the new wing of the house, as I was taking a
turn backwards and forwards along the gallery the last thing at night.
The gardener immediately ran down to him, and I closed the door of
communication, to keep the alarm, if possible, from reaching Miss
Halcombe’s ears. It was full half an hour before the gardener came
back. He declared that his master was quite out of his senses—not
through the excitement of drink, as I had supposed, but through a kind
of panic or frenzy of mind, for which it was impossible to account. He
had found Sir Percival walking backwards and forwards by himself in
the hall, swearing, with every appearance of the most violent passion,
that he would not stop another minute alone in such a dungeon as his
own house, and that he would take the first stage of his journey
immediately in the middle of the night. The gardener, on approaching
him, had been hunted out, with oaths and threats, to get the horse and
chaise ready instantly. In a quarter of an hour Sir Percival had joined
him in the yard, had jumped into the chaise, and, lashing the horse
into a gallop, had driven himself away, with his face as pale as ashes
in the moonlight. The gardener had heard him shouting and cursing at
the lodge-keeper to get up and open the gate—had heard the wheels roll
furiously on again in the still night, when the gate was unlocked—and
knew no more.

The next day, or a day or two after, I forget which, the chaise was
brought back from Knowlesbury, our nearest town, by the ostler at the
old inn. Sir Percival had stopped there, and had afterwards left by the
train—for what destination the man could not tell. I never received
any further information, either from himself or from any one else, of
Sir Percival’s proceedings, and I am not even aware, at this moment,
whether he is in England or out of it. He and I have not met since he
drove away like an escaped criminal from his own house, and it is my
fervent hope and prayer that we may never meet again.


My own part of this sad family story is now drawing to an end.

I have been informed that the particulars of Miss Halcombe’s waking,
and of what passed between us when she found me sitting by her bedside,
are not material to the purpose which is to be answered by the present
narrative. It will be sufficient for me to say in this place, that she
was not herself conscious of the means adopted to remove her from the
inhabited to the uninhabited part of the house. She was in a deep sleep
at the time, whether naturally or artificially produced she could not
say. In my absence at Torquay, and in the absence of all the resident
servants except Margaret Porcher (who was perpetually eating, drinking,
or sleeping, when she was not at work), the secret transfer of Miss
Halcombe from one part of the house to the other was no doubt easily
performed. Mrs. Rubelle (as I discovered for myself, in looking about
the room) had provisions, and all other necessaries, together with the
means of heating water, broth, and so on, without kindling a fire,
placed at her disposal during the few days of her imprisonment with
the sick lady. She had declined to answer the questions which Miss
Halcombe naturally put, but had not, in other respects, treated her
with unkindness or neglect. The disgrace of lending herself to a vile
deception is the only disgrace with which I can conscientiously charge
Mrs. Rubelle.

I need write no particulars (and I am relieved to know it) of the
effect produced on Miss Halcombe by the news of Lady Glyde’s departure,
or by the far more melancholy tidings which reached us only too soon
afterwards at Blackwater Park. In both cases I prepared her mind
beforehand as gently and as carefully as possible, having the doctor’s
advice to guide me, in the last case only, through Mr. Dawson’s being
too unwell to come to the house for some days after I had sent for
him. It was a sad time, a time which it afflicts me to think of or to
write of now. The precious blessings of religious consolation which
I endeavoured to convey were long in reaching Miss Halcombe’s heart,
but I hope and believe they came home to her at last. I never left her
till her strength was restored. The train which took me away from that
miserable house was the train which took her away also. We parted very
mournfully in London. I remained with a relative at Islington, and she
went on to Mr. Fairlie’s house in Cumberland.

I have only a few lines more to write before I close this painful
statement. They are dictated by a sense of duty.

In the first place, I wish to record my own personal conviction that no
blame whatever, in connection with the events which I have now related,
attaches to Count Fosco. I am informed that a dreadful suspicion has
been raised, and that some very serious constructions are placed upon
his lordship’s conduct. My persuasion of the Count’s innocence remains,
however, quite unshaken. If he assisted Sir Percival in sending me to
Torquay, he assisted under a delusion, for which, as a foreigner and
a stranger, he was not to blame. If he was concerned in bringing Mrs.
Rubelle to Blackwater Park, it was his misfortune and not his fault,
when that foreign person was base enough to assist a deception planned
and carried out by the master of the house. I protest, in the interests
of morality, against blame being gratuitously and wantonly attached to
the proceedings of the Count.

In the second place, I desire to express my regret at my own inability
to remember the precise day on which Lady Glyde left Blackwater Park
for London. I am told that it is of the last importance to ascertain
the exact date of that lamentable journey, and I have anxiously taxed
my memory to recall it. The effort has been in vain. I can only
remember now that it was towards the latter part of July. We all know
the difficulty, after a lapse of time, of fixing precisely on a past
date unless it has been previously written down. That difficulty is
greatly increased in my case by the alarming and confusing events which
took place about the period of Lady Glyde’s departure. I heartily wish
I had made a memorandum at the time. I heartily wish my memory of the
date was as vivid as my memory of that poor lady’s face, when it looked
at me sorrowfully for the last time from the carriage window.



THE STORY CONTINUED IN SEVERAL NARRATIVES

1. THE NARRATIVE OF HESTER PINHORN, COOK IN THE SERVICE OF COUNT FOSCO

[Taken down from her own statement]


I am sorry to say that I have never learnt to read or write. I have
been a hard-working woman all my life, and have kept a good character.
I know that it is a sin and wickedness to say the thing which is not,
and I will truly beware of doing so on this occasion. All that I know
I will tell, and I humbly beg the gentleman who takes this down to put
my language right as he goes on, and to make allowances for my being no
scholar.

In this last summer I happened to be out of place (through no fault
of my own), and I heard of a situation as plain cook, at Number Five,
Forest Road, St. John’s Wood. I took the place on trial. My master’s
name was Fosco. My mistress was an English lady. He was Count and she
was Countess. There was a girl to do housemaid’s work when I got there.
She was not over-clean or tidy, but there was no harm in her. I and she
were the only servants in the house.

Our master and mistress came after we got in; and as soon as they did
come we were told, downstairs, that company was expected from the
country.

The company was my mistress’s niece, and the back bedroom on the
first floor was got ready for her. My mistress mentioned to me that
Lady Glyde (that was her name) was in poor health, and that I must
be particular in my cooking accordingly. She was to come that day,
as well as I can remember—but whatever you do, don’t trust my memory
in the matter. I am sorry to say it’s no use asking me about days of
the month, and such-like. Except Sundays, half my time I take no heed
of them, being a hard-working woman and no scholar. All I know is
Lady Glyde came, and when she did come, a fine fright she gave us all
surely. I don’t know how master brought her to the house, being hard
at work at the time. But he did bring her in the afternoon, I think,
and the housemaid opened the door to them, and showed them into the
parlour. Before she had been long down in the kitchen again with me, we
heard a hurry-skurry upstairs, and the parlour bell ringing like mad,
and my mistress’s voice calling out for help.

We both ran up, and there we saw the lady laid on the sofa, with her
face ghastly white, and her hands fast clenched, and her head drawn
down to one side. She had been taken with a sudden fright, my mistress
said, and master he told us she was in a fit of convulsions. I ran out,
knowing the neighbourhood a little better than the rest of them, to
fetch the nearest doctor’s help. The nearest help was at Goodricke’s
and Garth’s, who worked together as partners, and had a good name and
connection, as I have heard, all round St. John’s Wood. Mr. Goodricke
was in, and he came back with me directly.

It was some time before he could make himself of much use. The poor
unfortunate lady fell out of one fit into another, and went on so till
she was quite wearied out, and as helpless as a new-born babe. We then
got her to bed. Mr. Goodricke went away to his house for medicine, and
came back again in a quarter of an hour or less. Besides the medicine
he brought a bit of hollow mahogany wood with him, shaped like a kind
of trumpet, and after waiting a little while, he put one end over the
lady’s heart and the other to his ear, and listened carefully.

When he had done he says to my mistress, who was in the room, “This
is a very serious case,” he says, “I recommend you to write to
Lady Glyde’s friends directly.” My mistress says to him, “Is it
heart-disease?” And he says, “Yes, heart-disease of a most dangerous
kind.” He told her exactly what he thought was the matter, which I was
not clever enough to understand. But I know this, he ended by saying
that he was afraid neither his help nor any other doctor’s help was
likely to be of much service.

My mistress took this ill news more quietly than my master. He was a
big, fat, odd sort of elderly man, who kept birds and white mice, and
spoke to them as if they were so many Christian children. He seemed
terribly cut up by what had happened. “Ah! poor Lady Glyde! poor dear
Lady Glyde!” he says, and went stalking about, wringing his fat hands
more like a play-actor than a gentleman. For one question my mistress
asked the doctor about the lady’s chances of getting round, he asked
a good fifty at least. I declare he quite tormented us all, and when
he was quiet at last, out he went into the bit of back garden, picking
trumpery little nosegays, and asking me to take them upstairs and make
the sick-room look pretty with them. As if THAT did any good. I think
he must have been, at times, a little soft in his head. But he was not
a bad master—he had a monstrous civil tongue of his own, and a jolly,
easy, coaxing way with him. I liked him a deal better than my mistress.
She was a hard one, if ever there was a hard one yet.

Towards night-time the lady roused up a little. She had been so wearied
out, before that, by the convulsions, that she never stirred hand or
foot, or spoke a word to anybody. She moved in the bed now, and stared
about her at the room and us in it. She must have been a nice-looking
lady when well, with light hair, and blue eyes and all that. Her rest
was troubled at night—at least so I heard from my mistress, who sat up
alone with her. I only went in once before going to bed to see if I
could be of any use, and then she was talking to herself in a confused,
rambling manner. She seemed to want sadly to speak to somebody who
was absent from her somewhere. I couldn’t catch the name the first
time, and the second time master knocked at the door, with his regular
mouthful of questions, and another of his trumpery nosegays.

When I went in early the next morning, the lady was clean worn out
again, and lay in a kind of faint sleep. Mr. Goodricke brought his
partner, Mr. Garth, with him to advise. They said she must not be
disturbed out of her rest on any account. They asked my mistress many
questions, at the other end of the room, about what the lady’s health
had been in past times, and who had attended her, and whether she had
ever suffered much and long together under distress of mind. I remember
my mistress said “Yes” to that last question. And Mr. Goodricke
looked at Mr. Garth, and shook his head; and Mr. Garth looked at Mr.
Goodricke, and shook his head. They seemed to think that the distress
might have something to do with the mischief at the lady’s heart. She
was but a frail thing to look at, poor creature! Very little strength
at any time, I should say—very little strength.

Later on the same morning, when she woke, the lady took a sudden turn,
and got seemingly a great deal better. I was not let in again to see
her, no more was the housemaid, for the reason that she was not to be
disturbed by strangers. What I heard of her being better was through
my master. He was in wonderful good spirits about the change, and
looked in at the kitchen window from the garden, with his great big
curly-brimmed white hat on, to go out.

“Good Mrs. Cook,” says he, “Lady Glyde is better. My mind is more easy
than it was, and I am going out to stretch my big legs with a sunny
little summer walk. Shall I order for you, shall I market for you, Mrs.
Cook? What are you making there? A nice tart for dinner? Much crust, if
you please—much crisp crust, my dear, that melts and crumbles delicious
in the mouth.” That was his way. He was past sixty, and fond of pastry.
Just think of that!

The doctor came again in the forenoon, and saw for himself that Lady
Glyde had woke up better. He forbid us to talk to her, or to let her
talk to us, in case she was that way disposed, saying she must be kept
quiet before all things, and encouraged to sleep as much as possible.
She did not seem to want to talk whenever I saw her, except overnight,
when I couldn’t make out what she was saying—she seemed too much worn
down. Mr. Goodricke was not nearly in such good spirits about her as
master. He said nothing when he came downstairs, except that he would
call again at five o’clock.

About that time (which was before master came home again) the bell
rang hard from the bedroom, and my mistress ran out into the landing,
and called to me to go for Mr. Goodricke, and tell him the lady had
fainted. I got on my bonnet and shawl, when, as good luck would have
it, the doctor himself came to the house for his promised visit.

I let him in, and went upstairs along with him. “Lady Glyde was just
as usual,” says my mistress to him at the door; “she was awake, and
looking about her in a strange, forlorn manner, when I heard her give a
sort of half cry, and she fainted in a moment.” The doctor went up to
the bed, and stooped down over the sick lady. He looked very serious,
all on a sudden, at the sight of her, and put his hand on her heart.

My mistress stared hard in Mr. Goodricke’s face. “Not dead!” says she,
whispering, and turning all of a tremble from head to foot.

“Yes,” says the doctor, very quiet and grave. “Dead. I was afraid it
would happen suddenly when I examined her heart yesterday.” My mistress
stepped back from the bedside while he was speaking, and trembled and
trembled again. “Dead!” she whispers to herself; “dead so suddenly!
dead so soon! What will the Count say?” Mr. Goodricke advised her to go
downstairs, and quiet herself a little. “You have been sitting up all
night,” says he, “and your nerves are shaken. This person,” says he,
meaning me, “this person will stay in the room till I can send for the
necessary assistance.” My mistress did as he told her. “I must prepare
the Count,” she says. “I must carefully prepare the Count.” And so she
left us, shaking from head to foot, and went out.

“Your master is a foreigner,” says Mr. Goodricke, when my mistress
had left us. “Does he understand about registering the death?” “I
can’t rightly tell, sir,” says I, “but I should think not.” The doctor
considered a minute, and then says he, “I don’t usually do such
things,” says he, “but it may save the family trouble in this case if
I register the death myself. I shall pass the district office in half
an hour’s time, and I can easily look in. Mention, if you please, that
I will do so.” “Yes, sir,” says I, “with thanks, I’m sure, for your
kindness in thinking of it.” “You don’t mind staying here till I can
send you the proper person?” says he. “No, sir,” says I; “I’ll stay
with the poor lady till then. I suppose nothing more could be done,
sir, than was done?” says I. “No,” says he, “nothing; she must have
suffered sadly before ever I saw her—the case was hopeless when I was
called in.” “Ah, dear me! we all come to it, sooner or later, don’t we,
sir?” says I. He gave no answer to that—he didn’t seem to care about
talking. He said, “Good-day,” and went out.

I stopped by the bedside from that time till the time when Mr.
Goodricke sent the person in, as he had promised. She was, by name,
Jane Gould. I considered her to be a respectable-looking woman. She
made no remark, except to say that she understood what was wanted of
her, and that she had winded a many of them in her time.

How master bore the news, when he first heard it, is more than I can
tell, not having been present. When I did see him he looked awfully
overcome by it, to be sure. He sat quiet in a corner, with his fat
hands hanging over his thick knees, and his head down, and his eyes
looking at nothing. He seemed not so much sorry, as scared and dazed
like, by what had happened. My mistress managed all that was to be done
about the funeral. It must have cost a sight of money—the coffin, in
particular, being most beautiful. The dead lady’s husband was away, as
we heard, in foreign parts. But my mistress (being her aunt) settled it
with her friends in the country (Cumberland, I think) that she should
be buried there, in the same grave along with her mother. Everything
was done handsomely, in respect of the funeral, I say again, and master
went down to attend the burying in the country himself. He looked grand
in his deep mourning, with his big solemn face, and his slow walk, and
his broad hatband—that he did!

In conclusion. I have to say, in answer to questions put to me—

(1) That neither I nor my fellow-servant ever saw my master give Lady
Glyde any medicine himself.

(2) That he was never, to my knowledge and belief, left alone in the
room with Lady Glyde.

(3) That I am not able to say what caused the sudden fright, which
my mistress informed me had seized the lady on her first coming into
the house. The cause was never explained, either to me or to my
fellow-servant.

The above statement has been read over in my presence. I have nothing
to add to it, or to take away from it. I say, on my oath as a Christian
woman, this is the truth.

(Signed) HESTER PINHORN, Her + Mark.


2. THE NARRATIVE OF THE DOCTOR

To the Registrar of the Sub-District in which the undermentioned
death took place.—I hereby certify that I attended Lady Glyde, aged
Twenty-One last Birthday; that I last saw her on Thursday the 25th July
1850; that she died on the same day at No. 5 Forest Road, St. John’s
Wood, and that the cause of her death was Aneurism. Duration of disease
not known.

                      (Signed) Alfred Goodricke.

Prof. Title.  M.R.C.S. Eng., L.S.A.
  Address,  12 Croydon Gardens
     St. John's Wood.


3. THE NARRATIVE OF JANE GOULD

I was the person sent in by Mr. Goodricke to do what was right and
needful by the remains of a lady who had died at the house named in
the certificate which precedes this. I found the body in charge of the
servant, Hester Pinhorn. I remained with it, and prepared it at the
proper time for the grave. It was laid in the coffin in my presence,
and I afterwards saw the coffin screwed down previous to its removal.
When that had been done, and not before, I received what was due to
me and left the house. I refer persons who may wish to investigate my
character to Mr. Goodricke. He will bear witness that I can be trusted
to tell the truth.

(Signed) JANE GOULD


4. THE NARRATIVE OF THE TOMBSTONE

Sacred to the Memory of Laura, Lady Glyde, wife of Sir Percival Glyde,
Bart., of Blackwater Park, Hampshire, and daughter of the late Philip
Fairlie, Esq., of Limmeridge House, in this parish. Born March 27th,
1829; married December 22nd, 1849; died July 25th, 1850.


5. THE NARRATIVE OF WALTER HARTRIGHT

Early in the summer of 1850 I and my surviving companions left the
wilds and forests of Central America for home. Arrived at the coast,
we took ship there for England. The vessel was wrecked in the Gulf of
Mexico—I was among the few saved from the sea. It was my third escape
from peril of death. Death by disease, death by the Indians, death by
drowning—all three had approached me; all three had passed me by.

The survivors of the wreck were rescued by an American vessel bound for
Liverpool. The ship reached her port on the thirteenth day of October
1850. We landed late in the afternoon, and I arrived in London the same
night.

These pages are not the record of my wanderings and my dangers away
from home. The motives which led me from my country and my friends to
a new world of adventure and peril are known. From that self-imposed
exile I came back, as I had hoped, prayed, believed I should come
back—a changed man. In the waters of a new life I had tempered my
nature afresh. In the stern school of extremity and danger my will
had learnt to be strong, my heart to be resolute, my mind to rely on
itself. I had gone out to fly from my own future. I came back to face
it, as a man should.

To face it with that inevitable suppression of myself which I knew
it would demand from me. I had parted with the worst bitterness of
the past, but not with my heart’s remembrance of the sorrow and the
tenderness of that memorable time. I had not ceased to feel the one
irreparable disappointment of my life—I had only learnt to bear it.
Laura Fairlie was in all my thoughts when the ship bore me away, and I
looked my last at England. Laura Fairlie was in all my thoughts when
the ship brought me back, and the morning light showed the friendly
shore in view.

My pen traces the old letters as my heart goes back to the old love. I
write of her as Laura Fairlie still. It is hard to think of her, it is
hard to speak of her, by her husband’s name.

There are no more words of explanation to add on my appearance for the
second time in these pages. This narrative, if I have the strength and
the courage to write it, may now go on.


My first anxieties and first hopes when the morning came centred in my
mother and my sister. I felt the necessity of preparing them for the
joy and surprise of my return, after an absence during which it had
been impossible for them to receive any tidings of me for months past.
Early in the morning I sent a letter to the Hampstead Cottage, and
followed it myself in an hour’s time.

When the first meeting was over, when our quiet and composure of other
days began gradually to return to us, I saw something in my mother’s
face which told me that a secret oppression lay heavy on her heart.
There was more than love—there was sorrow in the anxious eyes that
looked on me so tenderly—there was pity in the kind hand that slowly
and fondly strengthened its hold on mine. We had no concealments from
each other. She knew how the hope of my life had been wrecked—she knew
why I had left her. It was on my lips to ask as composedly as I could
if any letter had come for me from Miss Halcombe, if there was any news
of her sister that I might hear. But when I looked in my mother’s face
I lost courage to put the question even in that guarded form. I could
only say, doubtingly and restrainedly—

“You have something to tell me.”

My sister, who had been sitting opposite to us, rose suddenly without a
word of explanation—rose and left the room.

My mother moved closer to me on the sofa and put her arms round my
neck. Those fond arms trembled—the tears flowed fast over the faithful
loving face.

“Walter!” she whispered, “my own darling! my heart is heavy for you.
Oh, my son! my son! try to remember that I am still left!”

My head sank on her bosom. She had said all in saying those words.

*    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *

It was the morning of the third day since my return—the morning of the
sixteenth of October.

I had remained with them at the cottage—I had tried hard not to
embitter the happiness of my return to THEM as it was embittered to ME.
I had done all man could to rise after the shock, and accept my life
resignedly—to let my great sorrow come in tenderness to my heart, and
not in despair. It was useless and hopeless. No tears soothed my aching
eyes, no relief came to me from my sister’s sympathy or my mother’s
love.

On that third morning I opened my heart to them. At last the words
passed my lips which I had longed to speak on the day when my mother
told me of her death.

“Let me go away alone for a little while,” I said. “I shall bear it
better when I have looked once more at the place where I first saw
her—when I have knelt and prayed by the grave where they have laid her
to rest.”

I departed on my journey—my journey to the grave of Laura Fairlie.

It was a quiet autumn afternoon when I stopped at the solitary station,
and set forth alone on foot by the well-remembered road. The waning
sun was shining faintly through thin white clouds—the air was warm
and still—the peacefulness of the lonely country was overshadowed and
saddened by the influence of the falling year.

I reached the moor—I stood again on the brow of the hill—I looked
on along the path—and there were the familiar garden trees in the
distance, the clear sweeping semicircle of the drive, the high white
walls of Limmeridge House. The chances and changes, the wanderings and
dangers of months and months past, all shrank and shrivelled to nothing
in my mind. It was like yesterday since my feet had last trodden the
fragrant heathy ground. I thought I should see her coming to meet me,
with her little straw hat shading her face, her simple dress fluttering
in the air, and her well-filled sketch-book ready in her hand.

Oh death, thou hast thy sting! oh, grave, thou hast thy victory!

I turned aside, and there below me in the glen was the lonesome grey
church, the porch where I had waited for the coming of the woman in
white, the hills encircling the quiet burial-ground, the brook bubbling
cold over its stony bed. There was the marble cross, fair and white, at
the head of the tomb—the tomb that now rose over mother and daughter
alike.

I approached the grave. I crossed once more the low stone stile, and
bared my head as I touched the sacred ground. Sacred to gentleness and
goodness, sacred to reverence and grief.

I stopped before the pedestal from which the cross rose. On one side
of it, on the side nearest to me, the newly-cut inscription met my
eyes—the hard, clear, cruel black letters which told the story of her
life and death. I tried to read them. I did read as far as the name.
“Sacred to the Memory of Laura——” The kind blue eyes dim with tears—the
fair head drooping wearily—the innocent parting words which implored me
to leave her—oh, for a happier last memory of her than this; the memory
I took away with me, the memory I bring back with me to her grave!

A second time I tried to read the inscription. I saw at the end the
date of her death, and above it——

Above it there were lines on the marble—there was a name among them
which disturbed my thoughts of her. I went round to the other side of
the grave, where there was nothing to read, nothing of earthly vileness
to force its way between her spirit and mine.

I knelt down by the tomb. I laid my hands, I laid my head on the broad
white stone, and closed my weary eyes on the earth around, on the light
above. I let her come back to me. Oh, my love! my love! my heart may
speak to you NOW! It is yesterday again since we parted—yesterday,
since your dear hand lay in mine—yesterday, since my eyes looked their
last on you. My love! my love!

*    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *

Time had flowed on, and silence had fallen like thick night over its
course.

The first sound that came after the heavenly peace rustled faintly like
a passing breath of air over the grass of the burial-ground. I heard it
nearing me slowly, until it came changed to my ear—came like footsteps
moving onward—then stopped.

I looked up.

The sunset was near at hand. The clouds had parted—the slanting light
fell mellow over the hills. The last of the day was cold and clear and
still in the quiet valley of the dead.

Beyond me, in the burial-ground, standing together in the cold
clearness of the lower light, I saw two women. They were looking
towards the tomb, looking towards me.

Two.

They came a little on, and stopped again. Their veils were down, and
hid their faces from me. When they stopped, one of them raised her
veil. In the still evening light I saw the face of Marian Halcombe.

Changed, changed as if years had passed over it! The eyes large and
wild, and looking at me with a strange terror in them. The face worn
and wasted piteously. Pain and fear and grief written on her as with a
brand.

I took one step towards her from the grave. She never moved—she never
spoke. The veiled woman with her cried out faintly. I stopped. The
springs of my life fell low, and the shuddering of an unutterable dread
crept over me from head to foot.

The woman with the veiled face moved away from her companion, and
came towards me slowly. Left by herself, standing by herself, Marian
Halcombe spoke. It was the voice that I remembered—the voice not
changed, like the frightened eyes and the wasted face.

“My dream! my dream!” I heard her say those words softly in the awful
silence. She sank on her knees, and raised her clasped hands to heaven.
“Father! strengthen him. Father! help him in his hour of need.”

The woman came on, slowly and silently came on. I looked at her—at her,
and at none other, from that moment.

The voice that was praying for me faltered and sank low—then rose on a
sudden, and called affrightedly, called despairingly to me to come away.

But the veiled woman had possession of me, body and soul. She stopped
on one side of the grave. We stood face to face with the tombstone
between us. She was close to the inscription on the side of the
pedestal. Her gown touched the black letters.

The voice came nearer, and rose and rose more passionately still. “Hide
your face! don’t look at her! Oh, for God’s sake, spare him——”

The woman lifted her veil.


“Sacred to the Memory of Laura, Lady Glyde——”


Laura, Lady Glyde, was standing by the inscription, and was looking at
me over the grave.


[The Second Epoch of the Story closes here.]



THE THIRD EPOCH


THE STORY CONTINUED BY WALTER HARTRIGHT.



I


I open a new page. I advance my narrative by one week.

The history of the interval which I thus pass over must remain
unrecorded. My heart turns faint, my mind sinks in darkness and
confusion when I think of it. This must not be, if I who write am to
guide, as I ought, you who read. This must not be, if the clue that
leads through the windings of the story is to remain from end to end
untangled in my hands.

A life suddenly changed—its whole purpose created afresh, its hopes and
fears, its struggles, its interests, and its sacrifices all turned at
once and for ever into a new direction—this is the prospect which now
opens before me, like the burst of view from a mountain’s top. I left
my narrative in the quiet shadow of Limmeridge church—I resume it, one
week later, in the stir and turmoil of a London street.


The street is in a populous and a poor neighbourhood. The ground floor
of one of the houses in it is occupied by a small newsvendor’s shop,
and the first floor and the second are let as furnished lodgings of the
humblest kind.

I have taken those two floors in an assumed name. On the upper floor I
live, with a room to work in, a room to sleep in. On the lower floor,
under the same assumed name, two women live, who are described as my
sisters. I get my bread by drawing and engraving on wood for the cheap
periodicals. My sisters are supposed to help me by taking in a little
needle-work. Our poor place of abode, our humble calling, our assumed
relationship, and our assumed name, are all used alike as a means of
hiding us in the house-forest of London. We are numbered no longer with
the people whose lives are open and known. I am an obscure, unnoticed
man, without patron or friend to help me. Marian Halcombe is nothing
now but my eldest sister, who provides for our household wants by the
toil of her own hands. We two, in the estimation of others, are at once
the dupes and the agents of a daring imposture. We are supposed to be
the accomplices of mad Anne Catherick, who claims the name, the place,
and the living personality of dead Lady Glyde.

That is our situation. That is the changed aspect in which we three
must appear, henceforth, in this narrative, for many and many a page to
come.

In the eye of reason and of law, in the estimation of relatives and
friends, according to every received formality of civilised society,
“Laura, Lady Glyde,” lay buried with her mother in Limmeridge
churchyard. Torn in her own lifetime from the list of the living, the
daughter of Philip Fairlie and the wife of Percival Glyde might still
exist for her sister, might still exist for me, but to all the world
besides she was dead. Dead to her uncle, who had renounced her; dead
to the servants of the house, who had failed to recognise her; dead
to the persons in authority, who had transmitted her fortune to her
husband and her aunt; dead to my mother and my sister, who believed me
to be the dupe of an adventuress and the victim of a fraud; socially,
morally, legally—dead.

And yet alive! Alive in poverty and in hiding. Alive, with the poor
drawing-master to fight her battle, and to win the way back for her to
her place in the world of living beings.

Did no suspicion, excited by my own knowledge of Anne Catherick’s
resemblance to her, cross my mind, when her face was first revealed to
me? Not the shadow of a suspicion, from the moment when she lifted her
veil by the side of the inscription which recorded her death.

Before the sun of that day had set, before the last glimpse of the home
which was closed against her had passed from our view, the farewell
words I spoke, when we parted at Limmeridge House, had been recalled
by both of us—repeated by me, recognised by her. “If ever the time
comes, when the devotion of my whole heart and soul and strength will
give you a moment’s happiness, or spare you a moment’s sorrow, will
you try to remember the poor drawing-master who has taught you?” She,
who now remembered so little of the trouble and terror of a later
time, remembered those words, and laid her poor head innocently and
trustingly on the bosom of the man who had spoken them. In that moment,
when she called me by my name, when she said, “They have tried to make
me forget everything, Walter; but I remember Marian, and I remember
YOU”—in that moment, I, who had long since given her my love, gave her
my life, and thanked God that it was mine to bestow on her. Yes! the
time had come. From thousands on thousands of miles away—through forest
and wilderness, where companions stronger than I had fallen by my side,
through peril of death thrice renewed, and thrice escaped, the Hand
that leads men on the dark road to the future had led me to meet that
time. Forlorn and disowned, sorely tried and sadly changed—her beauty
faded, her mind clouded—robbed of her station in the world, of her
place among living creatures—the devotion I had promised, the devotion
of my whole heart and soul and strength, might be laid blamelessly now
at those dear feet. In the right of her calamity, in the right of her
friendlessness, she was mine at last! Mine to support, to protect, to
cherish, to restore. Mine to love and honour as father and brother
both. Mine to vindicate through all risks and all sacrifices—through
the hopeless struggle against Rank and Power, through the long fight
with armed deceit and fortified Success, through the waste of my
reputation, through the loss of my friends, through the hazard of my
life.



II


My position is defined—my motives are acknowledged. The story of Marian
and the story of Laura must come next.

I shall relate both narratives, not in the words (often interrupted,
often inevitably confused) of the speakers themselves, but in the words
of the brief, plain, studiously simple abstract which I committed to
writing for my own guidance, and for the guidance of my legal adviser.
So the tangled web will be most speedily and most intelligibly unrolled.

The story of Marian begins where the narrative of the housekeeper at
Blackwater Park left off.


On Lady Glyde’s departure from her husband’s house, the fact of that
departure, and the necessary statement of the circumstances under
which it had taken place, were communicated to Miss Halcombe by the
housekeeper. It was not till some days afterwards (how many days
exactly, Mrs. Michelson, in the absence of any written memorandum on
the subject, could not undertake to say) that a letter arrived from
Madame Fosco announcing Lady Glyde’s sudden death in Count Fosco’s
house. The letter avoided mentioning dates, and left it to Mrs.
Michelson’s discretion to break the news at once to Miss Halcombe,
or to defer doing so until that lady’s health should be more firmly
established.

Having consulted Mr. Dawson (who had been himself delayed, by ill
health, in resuming his attendance at Blackwater Park), Mrs. Michelson,
by the doctor’s advice, and in the doctor’s presence, communicated the
news, either on the day when the letter was received, or on the day
after. It is not necessary to dwell here upon the effect which the
intelligence of Lady Glyde’s sudden death produced on her sister. It
is only useful to the present purpose to say that she was not able to
travel for more than three weeks afterwards. At the end of that time
she proceeded to London accompanied by the housekeeper. They parted
there—Mrs. Michelson previously informing Miss Halcombe of her address,
in case they might wish to communicate at a future period.

On parting with the housekeeper Miss Halcombe went at once to the
office of Messrs. Gilmore & Kyrle to consult with the latter gentleman
in Mr. Gilmore’s absence. She mentioned to Mr. Kyrle what she had
thought it desirable to conceal from every one else (Mrs. Michelson
included)—her suspicion of the circumstances under which Lady Glyde
was said to have met her death. Mr. Kyrle, who had previously given
friendly proof of his anxiety to serve Miss Halcombe, at once undertook
to make such inquiries as the delicate and dangerous nature of the
investigation proposed to him would permit.

To exhaust this part of the subject before going farther, it may be
mentioned that Count Fosco offered every facility to Mr. Kyrle, on
that gentleman’s stating that he was sent by Miss Halcombe to collect
such particulars as had not yet reached her of Lady Glyde’s decease.
Mr. Kyrle was placed in communication with the medical man, Mr.
Goodricke, and with the two servants. In the absence of any means of
ascertaining the exact date of Lady Glyde’s departure from Blackwater
Park, the result of the doctor’s and the servants’ evidence, and of
the volunteered statements of Count Fosco and his wife, was conclusive
to the mind of Mr. Kyrle. He could only assume that the intensity of
Miss Halcombe’s suffering, under the loss of her sister, had misled her
judgment in a most deplorable manner, and he wrote her word that the
shocking suspicion to which she had alluded in his presence was, in his
opinion, destitute of the smallest fragment of foundation in truth.
Thus the investigation by Mr. Gilmore’s partner began and ended.

Meanwhile, Miss Halcombe had returned to Limmeridge House, and had
there collected all the additional information which she was able to
obtain.

Mr. Fairlie had received his first intimation of his niece’s death
from his sister, Madame Fosco, this letter also not containing any
exact reference to dates. He had sanctioned his sister’s proposal that
the deceased lady should be laid in her mother’s grave in Limmeridge
churchyard. Count Fosco had accompanied the remains to Cumberland, and
had attended the funeral at Limmeridge, which took place on the 30th
of July. It was followed, as a mark of respect, by all the inhabitants
of the village and the neighbourhood. On the next day the inscription
(originally drawn out, it was said, by the aunt of the deceased lady,
and submitted for approval to her brother, Mr. Fairlie) was engraved on
one side of the monument over the tomb.

On the day of the funeral, and for one day after it, Count Fosco had
been received as a guest at Limmeridge House, but no interview had
taken place between Mr. Fairlie and himself, by the former gentleman’s
desire. They had communicated by writing, and through this medium Count
Fosco had made Mr. Fairlie acquainted with the details of his niece’s
last illness and death. The letter presenting this information added no
new facts to the facts already known, but one very remarkable paragraph
was contained in the postscript. It referred to Anne Catherick.

The substance of the paragraph in question was as follows—

It first informed Mr. Fairlie that Anne Catherick (of whom he might
hear full particulars from Miss Halcombe when she reached Limmeridge)
had been traced and recovered in the neighbourhood of Blackwater Park,
and had been for the second time placed under the charge of the medical
man from whose custody she had once escaped.

This was the first part of the postscript. The second part warned Mr.
Fairlie that Anne Catherick’s mental malady had been aggravated by her
long freedom from control, and that the insane hatred and distrust of
Sir Percival Glyde, which had been one of her most marked delusions
in former times, still existed under a newly-acquired form. The
unfortunate woman’s last idea in connection with Sir Percival was the
idea of annoying and distressing him, and of elevating herself, as she
supposed, in the estimation of the patients and nurses, by assuming
the character of his deceased wife, the scheme of this personation
having evidently occurred to her after a stolen interview which she had
succeeded in obtaining with Lady Glyde, and at which she had observed
the extraordinary accidental likeness between the deceased lady and
herself. It was to the last degree improbable that she would succeed
a second time in escaping from the Asylum, but it was just possible
she might find some means of annoying the late Lady Glyde’s relatives
with letters, and in that case Mr. Fairlie was warned beforehand how to
receive them.

The postscript, expressed in these terms, was shown to Miss Halcombe
when she arrived at Limmeridge. There were also placed in her
possession the clothes Lady Glyde had worn, and the other effects she
had brought with her to her aunt’s house. They had been carefully
collected and sent to Cumberland by Madame Fosco.

Such was the posture of affairs when Miss Halcombe reached Limmeridge
in the early part of September.

Shortly afterwards she was confined to her room by a relapse, her
weakened physical energies giving way under the severe mental
affliction from which she was now suffering. On getting stronger again,
in a month’s time, her suspicion of the circumstances described as
attending her sister’s death still remained unshaken. She had heard
nothing in the interim of Sir Percival Glyde, but letters had reached
her from Madame Fosco, making the most affectionate inquiries on the
part of her husband and herself. Instead of answering these letters,
Miss Halcombe caused the house in St. John’s Wood, and the proceedings
of its inmates, to be privately watched.

Nothing doubtful was discovered. The same result attended the next
investigations, which were secretly instituted on the subject of Mrs.
Rubelle. She had arrived in London about six months before with her
husband. They had come from Lyons, and they had taken a house in the
neighbourhood of Leicester Square, to be fitted up as a boarding-house
for foreigners, who were expected to visit England in large numbers to
see the Exhibition of 1851. Nothing was known against husband or wife
in the neighbourhood. They were quiet people, and they had paid their
way honestly up to the present time. The final inquiries related to Sir
Percival Glyde. He was settled in Paris, and living there quietly in a
small circle of English and French friends.

Foiled at all points, but still not able to rest, Miss Halcombe
next determined to visit the Asylum in which she then supposed
Anne Catherick to be for the second time confined. She had felt a
strong curiosity about the woman in former days, and she was now
doubly interested—first, in ascertaining whether the report of Anne
Catherick’s attempted personation of Lady Glyde was true, and secondly
(if it proved to be true), in discovering for herself what the poor
creature’s real motives were for attempting the deceit.

Although Count Fosco’s letter to Mr. Fairlie did not mention the
address of the Asylum, that important omission cast no difficulties
in Miss Halcombe’s way. When Mr. Hartright had met Anne Catherick at
Limmeridge, she had informed him of the locality in which the house
was situated, and Miss Halcombe had noted down the direction in her
diary, with all the other particulars of the interview exactly as she
heard them from Mr. Hartright’s own lips. Accordingly she looked back
at the entry and extracted the address—furnished herself with the
Count’s letter to Mr. Fairlie as a species of credential which might be
useful to her, and started by herself for the Asylum on the eleventh of
October.

She passed the night of the eleventh in London. It had been her
intention to sleep at the house inhabited by Lady Glyde’s old
governess, but Mrs. Vesey’s agitation at the sight of her lost pupil’s
nearest and dearest friend was so distressing that Miss Halcombe
considerately refrained from remaining in her presence, and removed to
a respectable boarding-house in the neighbourhood, recommended by Mrs.
Vesey’s married sister. The next day she proceeded to the Asylum, which
was situated not far from London on the northern side of the metropolis.

She was immediately admitted to see the proprietor.

At first he appeared to be decidedly unwilling to let her communicate
with his patient. But on her showing him the postscript to Count
Fosco’s letter—on her reminding him that she was the “Miss Halcombe”
there referred to—that she was a near relative of the deceased Lady
Glyde—and that she was therefore naturally interested, for family
reasons, in observing for herself the extent of Anne Catherick’s
delusion in relation to her late sister—the tone and manner of the
owner of the Asylum altered, and he withdrew his objections. He
probably felt that a continued refusal, under these circumstances,
would not only be an act of discourtesy in itself, but would also imply
that the proceedings in his establishment were not of a nature to bear
investigation by respectable strangers.

Miss Halcombe’s own impression was that the owner of the Asylum had
not been received into the confidence of Sir Percival and the Count.
His consenting at all to let her visit his patient seemed to afford
one proof of this, and his readiness in making admissions which could
scarcely have escaped the lips of an accomplice, certainly appeared to
furnish another.

For example, in the course of the introductory conversation which
took place, he informed Miss Halcombe that Anne Catherick had been
brought back to him with the necessary order and certificates by Count
Fosco on the twenty-seventh of July—the Count also producing a letter
of explanations and instructions signed by Sir Percival Glyde. On
receiving his inmate again, the proprietor of the Asylum acknowledged
that he had observed some curious personal changes in her. Such changes
no doubt were not without precedent in his experience of persons
mentally afflicted. Insane people were often at one time, outwardly
as well as inwardly, unlike what they were at another—the change from
better to worse, or from worse to better, in the madness having a
necessary tendency to produce alterations of appearance externally.
He allowed for these, and he allowed also for the modification in the
form of Anne Catherick’s delusion, which was reflected no doubt in her
manner and expression. But he was still perplexed at times by certain
differences between his patient before she had escaped and his patient
since she had been brought back. Those differences were too minute
to be described. He could not say of course that she was absolutely
altered in height or shape or complexion, or in the colour of her hair
and eyes, or in the general form of her face—the change was something
that he felt more than something that he saw. In short, the case had
been a puzzle from the first, and one more perplexity was added to it
now.

It cannot be said that this conversation led to the result of even
partially preparing Miss Halcombe’s mind for what was to come. But it
produced, nevertheless, a very serious effect upon her. She was so
completely unnerved by it, that some little time elapsed before she
could summon composure enough to follow the proprietor of the Asylum to
that part of the house in which the inmates were confined.

On inquiry, it turned out that the supposed Anne Catherick was then
taking exercise in the grounds attached to the establishment. One of
the nurses volunteered to conduct Miss Halcombe to the place, the
proprietor of the Asylum remaining in the house for a few minutes to
attend to a case which required his services, and then engaging to join
his visitor in the grounds.

The nurse led Miss Halcombe to a distant part of the property, which
was prettily laid out, and after looking about her a little, turned
into a turf walk, shaded by a shrubbery on either side. About half-way
down this walk two women were slowly approaching. The nurse pointed to
them and said, “There is Anne Catherick, ma’am, with the attendant who
waits on her. The attendant will answer any questions you wish to put.”
With those words the nurse left her to return to the duties of the
house.

Miss Halcombe advanced on her side, and the women advanced on theirs.
When they were within a dozen paces of each other, one of the women
stopped for an instant, looked eagerly at the strange lady, shook
off the nurse’s grasp on her, and the next moment rushed into
Miss Halcombe’s arms. In that moment Miss Halcombe recognised her
sister—recognised the dead-alive.

Fortunately for the success of the measures taken subsequently, no
one was present at that moment but the nurse. She was a young woman,
and she was so startled that she was at first quite incapable of
interfering. When she was able to do so her whole services were
required by Miss Halcombe, who had for the moment sunk altogether in
the effort to keep her own senses under the shock of the discovery.
After waiting a few minutes in the fresh air and the cool shade,
her natural energy and courage helped her a little, and she became
sufficiently mistress of herself to feel the necessity of recalling her
presence of mind for her unfortunate sister’s sake.

She obtained permission to speak alone with the patient, on condition
that they both remained well within the nurse’s view. There was no time
for questions—there was only time for Miss Halcombe to impress on the
unhappy lady the necessity of controlling herself, and to assure her of
immediate help and rescue if she did so. The prospect of escaping from
the Asylum by obedience to her sister’s directions was sufficient to
quiet Lady Glyde, and to make her understand what was required of her.
Miss Halcombe next returned to the nurse, placed all the gold she then
had in her pocket (three sovereigns) in the nurse’s hands, and asked
when and where she could speak to her alone.

The woman was at first surprised and distrustful. But on Miss
Halcombe’s declaring that she only wanted to put some questions which
she was too much agitated to ask at that moment, and that she had no
intention of misleading the nurse into any dereliction of duty, the
woman took the money, and proposed three o’clock on the next day as the
time for the interview. She might then slip out for half an hour, after
the patients had dined, and she would meet the lady in a retired place,
outside the high north wall which screened the grounds of the house.
Miss Halcombe had only time to assent, and to whisper to her sister
that she should hear from her on the next day, when the proprietor of
the Asylum joined them. He noticed his visitor’s agitation, which Miss
Halcombe accounted for by saying that her interview with Anne Catherick
had a little startled her at first. She took her leave as soon after as
possible—that is to say, as soon as she could summon courage to force
herself from the presence of her unfortunate sister.

A very little reflection, when the capacity to reflect returned,
convinced her that any attempt to identify Lady Glyde and to rescue her
by legal means, would, even if successful, involve a delay that might
be fatal to her sister’s intellects, which were shaken already by the
horror of the situation to which she had been consigned. By the time
Miss Halcombe had got back to London, she had determined to effect Lady
Glyde’s escape privately, by means of the nurse.

She went at once to her stockbroker, and sold out of the funds all the
little property she possessed, amounting to rather less than seven
hundred pounds. Determined, if necessary, to pay the price of her
sister’s liberty with every farthing she had in the world, she repaired
the next day, having the whole sum about her in bank-notes, to her
appointment outside the Asylum wall.

The nurse was there. Miss Halcombe approached the subject cautiously by
many preliminary questions. She discovered, among other particulars,
that the nurse who had in former times attended on the true Anne
Catherick had been held responsible (although she was not to blame for
it) for the patient’s escape, and had lost her place in consequence.
The same penalty, it was added, would attach to the person then
speaking to her, if the supposed Anne Catherick was missing a second
time; and, moreover, the nurse in this case had an especial interest
in keeping her place. She was engaged to be married, and she and her
future husband were waiting till they could save, together, between two
and three hundred pounds to start in business. The nurse’s wages were
good, and she might succeed, by strict economy, in contributing her
small share towards the sum required in two years’ time.

On this hint Miss Halcombe spoke. She declared that the supposed Anne
Catherick was nearly related to her, that she had been placed in
the Asylum under a fatal mistake, and that the nurse would be doing
a good and a Christian action in being the means of restoring them
to one another. Before there was time to start a single objection,
Miss Halcombe took four bank-notes of a hundred pounds each from her
pocket-book, and offered them to the woman, as a compensation for the
risk she was to run, and for the loss of her place.

The nurse hesitated, through sheer incredulity and surprise. Miss
Halcombe pressed the point on her firmly.

“You will be doing a good action,” she repeated; “you will be helping
the most injured and unhappy woman alive. There is your marriage
portion for a reward. Bring her safely to me here, and I will put these
four bank-notes into your hand before I claim her.”

“Will you give me a letter saying those words, which I can show to my
sweetheart when he asks how I got the money?” inquired the woman.

“I will bring the letter with me, ready written and signed,” answered
Miss Halcombe.

“Then I’ll risk it,” said the nurse.

“When?”

“To-morrow.”

It was hastily agreed between them that Miss Halcombe should return
early the next morning and wait out of sight among the trees—always,
however, keeping near the quiet spot of ground under the north wall.
The nurse could fix no time for her appearance, caution requiring that
she should wait and be guided by circumstances. On that understanding
they separated.

Miss Halcombe was at her place, with the promised letter and the
promised bank-notes, before ten the next morning. She waited more than
an hour and a half. At the end of that time the nurse came quickly
round the corner of the wall holding Lady Glyde by the arm. The moment
they met Miss Halcombe put the bank-notes and the letter into her hand,
and the sisters were united again.

The nurse had dressed Lady Glyde, with excellent forethought, in a
bonnet, veil, and shawl of her own. Miss Halcombe only detained her to
suggest a means of turning the pursuit in a false direction, when the
escape was discovered at the Asylum. She was to go back to the house,
to mention in the hearing of the other nurses that Anne Catherick had
been inquiring latterly about the distance from London to Hampshire, to
wait till the last moment, before discovery was inevitable, and then
to give the alarm that Anne was missing. The supposed inquiries about
Hampshire, when communicated to the owner of the Asylum, would lead him
to imagine that his patient had returned to Blackwater Park, under the
influence of the delusion which made her persist in asserting herself
to be Lady Glyde, and the first pursuit would, in all probability, be
turned in that direction.

The nurse consented to follow these suggestions, the more readily
as they offered her the means of securing herself against any worse
consequences than the loss of her place, by remaining in the Asylum,
and so maintaining the appearance of innocence, at least. She at
once returned to the house, and Miss Halcombe lost no time in taking
her sister back with her to London. They caught the afternoon train
to Carlisle the same afternoon, and arrived at Limmeridge, without
accident or difficulty of any kind, that night.

During the latter part of their journey they were alone in the
carriage, and Miss Halcombe was able to collect such remembrances of
the past as her sister’s confused and weakened memory was able to
recall. The terrible story of the conspiracy so obtained was presented
in fragments, sadly incoherent in themselves, and widely detached from
each other. Imperfect as the revelation was, it must nevertheless be
recorded here before this explanatory narrative closes with the events
of the next day at Limmeridge House.


Lady Glyde’s recollection of the events which followed her departure
from Blackwater Park began with her arrival at the London terminus
of the South Western Railway. She had omitted to make a memorandum
beforehand of the day on which she took the journey. All hope of fixing
that important date by any evidence of hers, or of Mrs. Michelson’s,
must be given up for lost.

On the arrival of the train at the platform Lady Glyde found Count
Fosco waiting for her. He was at the carriage door as soon as the
porter could open it. The train was unusually crowded, and there was
great confusion in getting the luggage. Some person whom Count Fosco
brought with him procured the luggage which belonged to Lady Glyde.
It was marked with her name. She drove away alone with the Count in a
vehicle which she did not particularly notice at the time.

Her first question, on leaving the terminus, referred to Miss Halcombe.
The Count informed her that Miss Halcombe had not yet gone to
Cumberland, after-consideration having caused him to doubt the prudence
of her taking so long a journey without some days’ previous rest.

Lady Glyde next inquired whether her sister was then staying in the
Count’s house. Her recollection of the answer was confused, her only
distinct impression in relation to it being that the Count declared he
was then taking her to see Miss Halcombe. Lady Glyde’s experience of
London was so limited that she could not tell, at the time, through
what streets they were driving. But they never left the streets, and
they never passed any gardens or trees. When the carriage stopped, it
stopped in a small street behind a square—a square in which there were
shops, and public buildings, and many people. From these recollections
(of which Lady Glyde was certain) it seems quite clear that Count Fosco
did not take her to his own residence in the suburb of St. John’s Wood.

They entered the house, and went upstairs to a back room, either on
the first or second floor. The luggage was carefully brought in. A
female servant opened the door, and a man with a dark beard, apparently
a foreigner, met them in the hall, and with great politeness showed
them the way upstairs. In answer to Lady Glyde’s inquiries, the Count
assured her that Miss Halcombe was in the house, and that she should be
immediately informed of her sister’s arrival. He and the foreigner then
went away and left her by herself in the room. It was poorly furnished
as a sitting-room, and it looked out on the backs of houses.

The place was remarkably quiet—no footsteps went up or down the
stairs—she only heard in the room beneath her a dull, rumbling sound
of men’s voices talking. Before she had been long left alone the Count
returned, to explain that Miss Halcombe was then taking rest, and could
not be disturbed for a little while. He was accompanied into the room
by a gentleman (an Englishman), whom he begged to present as a friend
of his.

After this singular introduction—in the course of which no names, to
the best of Lady Glyde’s recollection, had been mentioned—she was left
alone with the stranger. He was perfectly civil, but he startled and
confused her by some odd questions about herself, and by looking at
her, while he asked them, in a strange manner. After remaining a short
time he went out, and a minute or two afterwards a second stranger—also
an Englishman—came in. This person introduced himself as another friend
of Count Fosco’s, and he, in his turn, looked at her very oddly, and
asked some curious questions—never, as well as she could remember,
addressing her by name, and going out again, after a little while, like
the first man. By this time she was so frightened about herself, and so
uneasy about her sister, that she had thoughts of venturing downstairs
again, and claiming the protection and assistance of the only woman she
had seen in the house—the servant who answered the door.

Just as she had risen from her chair, the Count came back into the room.

The moment he appeared she asked anxiously how long the meeting between
her sister and herself was to be still delayed. At first he returned
an evasive answer, but on being pressed, he acknowledged, with great
apparent reluctance, that Miss Halcombe was by no means so well as he
had hitherto represented her to be. His tone and manner, in making this
reply, so alarmed Lady Glyde, or rather so painfully increased the
uneasiness which she had felt in the company of the two strangers, that
a sudden faintness overcame her, and she was obliged to ask for a glass
of water. The Count called from the door for water, and for a bottle of
smelling-salts. Both were brought in by the foreign-looking man with
the beard. The water, when Lady Glyde attempted to drink it, had so
strange a taste that it increased her faintness, and she hastily took
the bottle of salts from Count Fosco, and smelt at it. Her head became
giddy on the instant. The Count caught the bottle as it dropped out of
her hand, and the last impression of which she was conscious was that
he held it to her nostrils again.

From this point her recollections were found to be confused,
fragmentary, and difficult to reconcile with any reasonable probability.

Her own impression was that she recovered her senses later in the
evening, that she then left the house, that she went (as she had
previously arranged to go, at Blackwater Park) to Mrs. Vesey’s—that she
drank tea there, and that she passed the night under Mrs. Vesey’s roof.
She was totally unable to say how, or when, or in what company she
left the house to which Count Fosco had brought her. But she persisted
in asserting that she had been to Mrs. Vesey’s, and still more
extraordinary, that she had been helped to undress and get to bed by
Mrs. Rubelle! She could not remember what the conversation was at Mrs.
Vesey’s or whom she saw there besides that lady, or why Mrs. Rubelle
should have been present in the house to help her.

Her recollection of what happened to her the next morning was still
more vague and unreliable.

She had some dim idea of driving out (at what hour she could not say)
with Count Fosco, and with Mrs. Rubelle again for a female attendant.
But when, and why, she left Mrs. Vesey she could not tell; neither
did she know what direction the carriage drove in, or where it set
her down, or whether the Count and Mrs. Rubelle did or did not remain
with her all the time she was out. At this point in her sad story
there was a total blank. She had no impressions of the faintest
kind to communicate—no idea whether one day, or more than one day,
had passed—until she came to herself suddenly in a strange place,
surrounded by women who were all unknown to her.

This was the Asylum. Here she first heard herself called by Anne
Catherick’s name, and here, as a last remarkable circumstance in the
story of the conspiracy, her own eyes informed her that she had Anne
Catherick’s clothes on. The nurse, on the first night in the Asylum,
had shown her the marks on each article of her underclothing as it
was taken off, and had said, not at all irritably or unkindly, “Look
at your own name on your own clothes, and don’t worry us all any more
about being Lady Glyde. She’s dead and buried, and you’re alive and
hearty. Do look at your clothes now! There it is, in good marking ink,
and there you will find it on all your old things, which we have kept
in the house—Anne Catherick, as plain as print!” And there it was, when
Miss Halcombe examined the linen her sister wore, on the night of their
arrival at Limmeridge House.


These were the only recollections—all of them uncertain, and some of
them contradictory—which could be extracted from Lady Glyde by careful
questioning on the journey to Cumberland. Miss Halcombe abstained from
pressing her with any inquiries relating to events in the Asylum—her
mind being but too evidently unfit to bear the trial of reverting
to them. It was known, by the voluntary admission of the owner of
the mad-house, that she was received there on the twenty-seventh
of July. From that date until the fifteenth of October (the day of
her rescue) she had been under restraint, her identity with Anne
Catherick systematically asserted, and her sanity, from first to last,
practically denied. Faculties less delicately balanced, constitutions
less tenderly organised, must have suffered under such an ordeal as
this. No man could have gone through it and come out of it unchanged.

Arriving at Limmeridge late on the evening of the fifteenth, Miss
Halcombe wisely resolved not to attempt the assertion of Lady Glyde’s
identity until the next day.

The first thing in the morning she went to Mr. Fairlie’s room, and
using all possible cautions and preparations beforehand, at last
told him in so many words what had happened. As soon as his first
astonishment and alarm had subsided, he angrily declared that Miss
Halcombe had allowed herself to be duped by Anne Catherick. He referred
her to Count Fosco’s letter, and to what she had herself told him of
the personal resemblance between Anne and his deceased niece, and he
positively declined to admit to his presence, even for one minute only,
a madwoman, whom it was an insult and an outrage to have brought into
his house at all.

Miss Halcombe left the room—waited till the first heat of her
indignation had passed away—decided on reflection that Mr. Fairlie
should see his niece in the interests of common humanity before he
closed his doors on her as a stranger—and thereupon, without a word of
previous warning, took Lady Glyde with her to his room. The servant
was posted at the door to prevent their entrance, but Miss Halcombe
insisted on passing him, and made her way into Mr. Fairlie’s presence,
leading her sister by the hand.

The scene that followed, though it only lasted for a few minutes,
was too painful to be described—Miss Halcombe herself shrank from
referring to it. Let it be enough to say that Mr. Fairlie declared, in
the most positive terms, that he did not recognise the woman who had
been brought into his room—that he saw nothing in her face and manner
to make him doubt for a moment that his niece lay buried in Limmeridge
churchyard, and that he would call on the law to protect him if before
the day was over she was not removed from the house.

Taking the very worst view of Mr. Fairlie’s selfishness, indolence,
and habitual want of feeling, it was manifestly impossible to suppose
that he was capable of such infamy as secretly recognising and openly
disowning his brother’s child. Miss Halcombe humanely and sensibly
allowed all due force to the influence of prejudice and alarm in
preventing him from fairly exercising his perceptions, and accounted
for what had happened in that way. But when she next put the servants
to the test, and found that they too were, in every case, uncertain,
to say the least of it, whether the lady presented to them was their
young mistress or Anne Catherick, of whose resemblance to her they had
all heard, the sad conclusion was inevitable that the change produced
in Lady Glyde’s face and manner by her imprisonment in the Asylum was
far more serious than Miss Halcombe had at first supposed. The vile
deception which had asserted her death defied exposure even in the
house where she was born, and among the people with whom she had lived.

In a less critical situation the effort need not have been given up as
hopeless even yet.

For example, the maid, Fanny, who happened to be then absent from
Limmeridge, was expected back in two days, and there would be a chance
of gaining her recognition to start with, seeing that she had been in
much more constant communication with her mistress, and had been much
more heartily attached to her than the other servants. Again, Lady
Glyde might have been privately kept in the house or in the village to
wait until her health was a little recovered and her mind was a little
steadied again. When her memory could be once more trusted to serve
her, she would naturally refer to persons and events in the past with
a certainty and a familiarity which no impostor could simulate, and
so the fact of her identity, which her own appearance had failed to
establish, might subsequently be proved, with time to help her, by the
surer test of her own words.

But the circumstances under which she had regained her freedom rendered
all recourse to such means as these simply impracticable. The pursuit
from the Asylum, diverted to Hampshire for the time only, would
infallibly next take the direction of Cumberland. The persons appointed
to seek the fugitive might arrive at Limmeridge House at a few hours’
notice, and in Mr. Fairlie’s present temper of mind they might count
on the immediate exertion of his local influence and authority to
assist them. The commonest consideration for Lady Glyde’s safety forced
on Miss Halcombe the necessity of resigning the struggle to do her
justice, and of removing her at once from the place of all others that
was now most dangerous to her—the neighbourhood of her own home.

An immediate return to London was the first and wisest measure of
security which suggested itself. In the great city all traces of
them might be most speedily and most surely effaced. There were no
preparations to make—no farewell words of kindness to exchange with
any one. On the afternoon of that memorable day of the sixteenth Miss
Halcombe roused her sister to a last exertion of courage, and without a
living soul to wish them well at parting, the two took their way into
the world alone, and turned their backs for ever on Limmeridge House.

They had passed the hill above the churchyard, when Lady Glyde
insisted on turning back to look her last at her mother’s grave. Miss
Halcombe tried to shake her resolution, but, in this one instance,
tried in vain. She was immovable. Her dim eyes lit with a sudden fire,
and flashed through the veil that hung over them—her wasted fingers
strengthened moment by moment round the friendly arm by which they had
held so listlessly till this time. I believe in my soul that the hand
of God was pointing their way back to them, and that the most innocent
and the most afflicted of His creatures was chosen in that dread moment
to see it.

They retraced their steps to the burial-ground, and by that act sealed
the future of our three lives.



III


This was the story of the past—the story so far as we knew it then.

Two obvious conclusions presented themselves to my mind after hearing
it. In the first place, I saw darkly what the nature of the conspiracy
had been, how chances had been watched, and how circumstances had been
handled to ensure impunity to a daring and an intricate crime. While
all details were still a mystery to me, the vile manner in which the
personal resemblance between the woman in white and Lady Glyde had
been turned to account was clear beyond a doubt. It was plain that
Anne Catherick had been introduced into Count Fosco’s house as Lady
Glyde—it was plain that Lady Glyde had taken the dead woman’s place in
the Asylum—the substitution having been so managed as to make innocent
people (the doctor and the two servants certainly, and the owner of the
mad-house in all probability) accomplices in the crime.

The second conclusion came as the necessary consequence of the first.
We three had no mercy to expect from Count Fosco and Sir Percival
Glyde. The success of the conspiracy had brought with it a clear gain
to those two men of thirty thousand pounds—twenty thousand to one, ten
thousand to the other through his wife. They had that interest, as well
as other interests, in ensuring their impunity from exposure, and they
would leave no stone unturned, no sacrifice unattempted, no treachery
untried, to discover the place in which their victim was concealed, and
to part her from the only friends she had in the world—Marian Halcombe
and myself.

The sense of this serious peril—a peril which every day and every
hour might bring nearer and nearer to us—was the one influence that
guided me in fixing the place of our retreat. I chose it in the far
east of London, where there were fewest idle people to lounge and
look about them in the streets. I chose it in a poor and a populous
neighbourhood—because the harder the struggle for existence among the
men and women about us, the less the risk of their having the time or
taking the pains to notice chance strangers who came among them. These
were the great advantages I looked to, but our locality was a gain to
us also in another and a hardly less important respect. We could live
cheaply by the daily work of my hands, and could save every farthing we
possessed to forward the purpose, the righteous purpose, of redressing
an infamous wrong—which, from first to last, I now kept steadily in
view.

In a week’s time Marian Halcombe and I had settled how the course of
our new lives should be directed.

There were no other lodgers in the house, and we had the means of
going in and out without passing through the shop. I arranged, for the
present at least, that neither Marian nor Laura should stir outside the
door without my being with them, and that in my absence from home they
should let no one into their rooms on any pretence whatever. This rule
established, I went to a friend whom I had known in former days—a wood
engraver in large practice—to seek for employment, telling him, at the
same time, that I had reasons for wishing to remain unknown.

He at once concluded that I was in debt, expressed his regret in the
usual forms, and then promised to do what he could to assist me. I
left his false impression undisturbed, and accepted the work he had to
give. He knew that he could trust my experience and my industry. I had
what he wanted, steadiness and facility, and though my earnings were
but small, they sufficed for our necessities. As soon as we could feel
certain of this, Marian Halcombe and I put together what we possessed.
She had between two and three hundred pounds left of her own property,
and I had nearly as much remaining from the purchase-money obtained
by the sale of my drawing-master’s practice before I left England.
Together we made up between us more than four hundred pounds. I
deposited this little fortune in a bank, to be kept for the expense of
those secret inquiries and investigations which I was determined to set
on foot, and to carry on by myself if I could find no one to help me.
We calculated our weekly expenditure to the last farthing, and we never
touched our little fund except in Laura’s interests and for Laura’s
sake.

The house-work, which, if we had dared trust a stranger near us, would
have been done by a servant, was taken on the first day, taken as her
own right, by Marian Halcombe. “What a woman’s hands ARE fit for,” she
said, “early and late, these hands of mine shall do.” They trembled as
she held them out. The wasted arms told their sad story of the past,
as she turned up the sleeves of the poor plain dress that she wore for
safety’s sake; but the unquenchable spirit of the woman burnt bright
in her even yet. I saw the big tears rise thick in her eyes, and fall
slowly over her cheeks as she looked at me. She dashed them away with
a touch of her old energy, and smiled with a faint reflection of her
old good spirits. “Don’t doubt my courage, Walter,” she pleaded, “it’s
my weakness that cries, not ME. The house-work shall conquer it if I
can’t.” And she kept her word—the victory was won when we met in the
evening, and she sat down to rest. Her large steady black eyes looked
at me with a flash of their bright firmness of bygone days. “I am not
quite broken down yet,” she said. “I am worth trusting with my share of
the work.” Before I could answer, she added in a whisper, “And worth
trusting with my share in the risk and the danger too. Remember that,
if the time comes!”

I did remember it when the time came.


As early as the end of October the daily course of our lives had
assumed its settled direction, and we three were as completely isolated
in our place of concealment as if the house we lived in had been a
desert island, and the great network of streets and the thousands of
our fellow-creatures all round us the waters of an illimitable sea. I
could now reckon on some leisure time for considering what my future
plan of action should be, and how I might arm myself most securely at
the outset for the coming struggle with Sir Percival and the Count.

I gave up all hope of appealing to my recognition of Laura, or to
Marian’s recognition of her, in proof of her identity. If we had loved
her less dearly, if the instinct implanted in us by that love had not
been far more certain than any exercise of reasoning, far keener than
any process of observation, even we might have hesitated on first
seeing her.

The outward changes wrought by the suffering and the terror of the past
had fearfully, almost hopelessly, strengthened the fatal resemblance
between Anne Catherick and herself. In my narrative of events at the
time of my residence in Limmeridge House, I have recorded, from my
own observation of the two, how the likeness, striking as it was when
viewed generally, failed in many important points of similarity when
tested in detail. In those former days, if they had both been seen
together side by side, no person could for a moment have mistaken them
one for the other—as has happened often in the instances of twins.
I could not say this now. The sorrow and suffering which I had once
blamed myself for associating even by a passing thought with the
future of Laura Fairlie, HAD set their profaning marks on the youth
and beauty of her face; and the fatal resemblance which I had once
seen and shuddered at seeing, in idea only, was now a real and living
resemblance which asserted itself before my own eyes. Strangers,
acquaintances, friends even who could not look at her as we looked, if
she had been shown to them in the first days of her rescue from the
Asylum, might have doubted if she were the Laura Fairlie they had once
seen, and doubted without blame.

The one remaining chance, which I had at first thought might be trusted
to serve us—the chance of appealing to her recollection of persons and
events with which no impostor could be familiar, was proved, by the
sad test of our later experience, to be hopeless. Every little caution
that Marian and I practised towards her—every little remedy we tried,
to strengthen and steady slowly the weakened, shaken faculties, was a
fresh protest in itself against the risk of turning her mind back on
the troubled and the terrible past.

The only events of former days which we ventured on encouraging her
to recall were the little trivial domestic events of that happy time
at Limmeridge, when I first went there and taught her to draw. The
day when I roused those remembrances by showing her the sketch of the
summer-house which she had given me on the morning of our farewell,
and which had never been separated from me since, was the birthday of
our first hope. Tenderly and gradually, the memory of the old walks
and drives dawned upon her, and the poor weary pining eyes looked at
Marian and at me with a new interest, with a faltering thoughtfulness
in them, which from that moment we cherished and kept alive. I bought
her a little box of colours, and a sketch-book like the old sketch-book
which I had seen in her hands on the morning that we first met. Once
again—oh me, once again!—at spare hours saved from my work, in the
dull London light, in the poor London room, I sat by her side to guide
the faltering touch, to help the feeble hand. Day by day I raised and
raised the new interest till its place in the blank of her existence
was at last assured—till she could think of her drawing and talk of it,
and patiently practise it by herself, with some faint reflection of the
innocent pleasure in my encouragement, the growing enjoyment in her own
progress, which belonged to the lost life and the lost happiness of
past days.

We helped her mind slowly by this simple means, we took her out
between us to walk on fine days, in a quiet old City square near at
hand, where there was nothing to confuse or alarm her—we spared a few
pounds from the fund at the banker’s to get her wine, and the delicate
strengthening food that she required—we amused her in the evenings
with children’s games at cards, with scrap-books full of prints which
I borrowed from the engraver who employed me—by these, and other
trifling attentions like them, we composed her and steadied her, and
hoped all things, as cheerfully as we could from time and care, and
love that never neglected and never despaired of her. But to take her
mercilessly from seclusion and repose—to confront her with strangers,
or with acquaintances who were little better than strangers—to rouse
the painful impressions of her past life which we had so carefully
hushed to rest—this, even in her own interests, we dared not do.
Whatever sacrifices it cost, whatever long, weary, heartbreaking delays
it involved, the wrong that had been inflicted on her, if mortal means
could grapple it, must be redressed without her knowledge and without
her help.

This resolution settled, it was next necessary to decide how the first
risk should be ventured, and what the first proceedings should be.

After consulting with Marian, I resolved to begin by gathering together
as many facts as could be collected—then to ask the advice of Mr. Kyrle
(whom we knew we could trust), and to ascertain from him, in the first
instance, if the legal remedy lay fairly within our reach. I owed it
to Laura’s interests not to stake her whole future on my own unaided
exertions, so long as there was the faintest prospect of strengthening
our position by obtaining reliable assistance of any kind.

The first source of information to which I applied was the journal kept
at Blackwater Park by Marian Halcombe. There were passages in this
diary relating to myself which she thought it best that I should not
see. Accordingly, she read to me from the manuscript, and I took the
notes I wanted as she went on. We could only find time to pursue this
occupation by sitting up late at night. Three nights were devoted to
the purpose, and were enough to put me in possession of all that Marian
could tell.

My next proceeding was to gain as much additional evidence as I could
procure from other people without exciting suspicion. I went myself to
Mrs. Vesey to ascertain if Laura’s impression of having slept there
was correct or not. In this case, from consideration for Mrs. Vesey’s
age and infirmity, and in all subsequent cases of the same kind from
considerations of caution, I kept our real position a secret, and was
always careful to speak of Laura as “the late Lady Glyde.”

Mrs. Vesey’s answer to my inquiries only confirmed the apprehensions
which I had previously felt. Laura had certainly written to say she
would pass the night under the roof of her old friend—but she had never
been near the house.

Her mind in this instance, and, as I feared, in other instances
besides, confusedly presented to her something which she had only
intended to do in the false light of something which she had really
done. The unconscious contradiction of herself was easy to account
for in this way—but it was likely to lead to serious results. It was
a stumble on the threshold at starting—it was a flaw in the evidence
which told fatally against us.

When I next asked for the letter which Laura had written to Mrs. Vesey
from Blackwater Park, it was given to me without the envelope, which
had been thrown into the wastepaper basket, and long since destroyed.
In the letter itself no date was mentioned—not even the day of the
week. It only contained these lines:—“Dearest Mrs. Vesey, I am in sad
distress and anxiety, and I may come to your house to-morrow night, and
ask for a bed. I can’t tell you what is the matter in this letter—I
write it in such fear of being found out that I can fix my mind on
nothing. Pray be at home to see me. I will give you a thousand kisses,
and tell you everything. Your affectionate Laura.” What help was there
in those lines? None.

On returning from Mrs. Vesey’s, I instructed Marian to write (observing
the same caution which I practised myself) to Mrs. Michelson. She was
to express, if she pleased, some general suspicion of Count Fosco’s
conduct, and she was to ask the housekeeper to supply us with a plain
statement of events, in the interests of truth. While we were waiting
for the answer, which reached us in a week’s time, I went to the doctor
in St. John’s Wood, introducing myself as sent by Miss Halcombe to
collect, if possible, more particulars of her sister’s last illness
than Mr. Kyrle had found the time to procure. By Mr. Goodricke’s
assistance, I obtained a copy of the certificate of death, and an
interview with the woman (Jane Gould) who had been employed to prepare
the body for the grave. Through this person I also discovered a means
of communicating with the servant, Hester Pinhorn. She had recently
left her place in consequence of a disagreement with her mistress,
and she was lodging with some people in the neighbourhood whom Mrs.
Gould knew. In the manner here indicated I obtained the Narratives of
the housekeeper, of the doctor, of Jane Gould, and of Hester Pinhorn,
exactly as they are presented in these pages.

Furnished with such additional evidence as these documents afforded, I
considered myself to be sufficiently prepared for a consultation with
Mr. Kyrle, and Marian wrote accordingly to mention my name to him, and
to specify the day and hour at which I requested to see him on private
business.

There was time enough in the morning for me to take Laura out for
her walk as usual, and to see her quietly settled at her drawing
afterwards. She looked up at me with a new anxiety in her face as I
rose to leave the room, and her fingers began to toy doubtfully, in the
old way, with the brushes and pencils on the table.

“You are not tired of me yet?” she said. “You are not going away
because you are tired of me? I will try to do better—I will try to get
well. Are you as fond of me, Walter, as you used to be, now I am so
pale and thin, and so slow in learning to draw?”

She spoke as a child might have spoken, she showed me her thoughts as
a child might have shown them. I waited a few minutes longer—waited to
tell her that she was dearer to me now than she had ever been in the
past times. “Try to get well again,” I said, encouraging the new hope
in the future which I saw dawning in her mind, “try to get well again,
for Marian’s sake and for mine.”

“Yes,” she said to herself, returning to her drawing. “I must try,
because they are both so fond of me.” She suddenly looked up again.
“Don’t be gone long! I can’t get on with my drawing, Walter, when you
are not here to help me.”

“I shall soon be back, my darling—soon be back to see how you are
getting on.”

My voice faltered a little in spite of me. I forced myself from the
room. It was no time, then, for parting with the self-control which
might yet serve me in my need before the day was out.

As I opened the door, I beckoned to Marian to follow me to the stairs.
It was necessary to prepare her for a result which I felt might sooner
or later follow my showing myself openly in the streets.

“I shall, in all probability, be back in a few hours,” I said, “and you
will take care, as usual, to let no one inside the doors in my absence.
But if anything happens——”

“What can happen?” she interposed quickly. “Tell me plainly, Walter, if
there is any danger, and I shall know how to meet it.”

“The only danger,” I replied, “is that Sir Percival Glyde may have been
recalled to London by the news of Laura’s escape. You are aware that he
had me watched before I left England, and that he probably knows me by
sight, although I don’t know him?”

She laid her hand on my shoulder and looked at me in anxious silence. I
saw she understood the serious risk that threatened us.

“It is not likely,” I said, “that I shall be seen in London again so
soon, either by Sir Percival himself or by the persons in his employ.
But it is barely possible that an accident may happen. In that case,
you will not be alarmed if I fail to return to-night, and you will
satisfy any inquiry of Laura’s with the best excuse that you can make
for me? If I find the least reason to suspect that I am watched, I will
take good care that no spy follows me back to this house. Don’t doubt
my return, Marian, however it may be delayed—and fear nothing.”

“Nothing!” she answered firmly. “You shall not regret, Walter, that
you have only a woman to help you.” She paused, and detained me for a
moment longer. “Take care!” she said, pressing my hand anxiously—“take
care!”

I left her, and set forth to pave the way for discovery—the dark and
doubtful way, which began at the lawyer’s door.



IV


No circumstance of the slightest importance happened on my way to the
offices of Messrs. Gilmore & Kyrle, in Chancery Lane.

While my card was being taken in to Mr. Kyrle, a consideration occurred
to me which I deeply regretted not having thought of before. The
information derived from Marian’s diary made it a matter of certainty
that Count Fosco had opened her first letter from Blackwater Park to
Mr. Kyrle, and had, by means of his wife, intercepted the second. He
was therefore well aware of the address of the office, and he would
naturally infer that if Marian wanted advice and assistance, after
Laura’s escape from the Asylum, she would apply once more to the
experience of Mr. Kyrle. In this case the office in Chancery Lane
was the very first place which he and Sir Percival would cause to be
watched, and if the same persons were chosen for the purpose who had
been employed to follow me, before my departure from England, the fact
of my return would in all probability be ascertained on that very day.
I had thought, generally, of the chances of my being recognised in
the streets, but the special risk connected with the office had never
occurred to me until the present moment. It was too late now to repair
this unfortunate error in judgment—too late to wish that I had made
arrangements for meeting the lawyer in some place privately appointed
beforehand. I could only resolve to be cautious on leaving Chancery
Lane, and not to go straight home again under any circumstances
whatever.

After waiting a few minutes I was shown into Mr. Kyrle’s private room.
He was a pale, thin, quiet, self-possessed man, with a very attentive
eye, a very low voice, and a very undemonstrative manner—not (as I
judged) ready with his sympathy where strangers were concerned, and not
at all easy to disturb in his professional composure. A better man for
my purpose could hardly have been found. If he committed himself to a
decision at all, and if the decision was favourable, the strength of
our case was as good as proved from that moment.

“Before I enter on the business which brings me here,” I said, “I ought
to warn you, Mr. Kyrle, that the shortest statement I can make of it
may occupy some little time.”

“My time is at Miss Halcombe’s disposal,” he replied. “Where any
interests of hers are concerned, I represent my partner personally, as
well as professionally. It was his request that I should do so, when he
ceased to take an active part in business.”

“May I inquire whether Mr. Gilmore is in England?”

“He is not, he is living with his relatives in Germany. His health has
improved, but the period of his return is still uncertain.”

While we were exchanging these few preliminary words, he had been
searching among the papers before him, and he now produced from them a
sealed letter. I thought he was about to hand the letter to me, but,
apparently changing his mind, he placed it by itself on the table,
settled himself in his chair, and silently waited to hear what I had to
say.

Without wasting a moment in prefatory words of any sort, I entered on
my narrative, and put him in full possession of the events which have
already been related in these pages.

Lawyer as he was to the very marrow of his bones, I startled him out of
his professional composure. Expressions of incredulity and surprise,
which he could not repress, interrupted me several times before I had
done. I persevered, however, to the end, and as soon as I reached it,
boldly asked the one important question—

“What is your opinion, Mr. Kyrle?”

He was too cautious to commit himself to an answer without taking time
to recover his self-possession first.

“Before I give my opinion,” he said, “I must beg permission to clear
the ground by a few questions.”

He put the questions—sharp, suspicious, unbelieving questions, which
clearly showed me, as they proceeded, that he thought I was the
victim of a delusion, and that he might even have doubted, but for my
introduction to him by Miss Halcombe, whether I was not attempting the
perpetration of a cunningly-designed fraud.

“Do you believe that I have spoken the truth, Mr. Kyrle?” I asked, when
he had done examining me.

“So far as your own convictions are concerned, I am certain you have
spoken the truth,” he replied. “I have the highest esteem for Miss
Halcombe, and I have therefore every reason to respect a gentleman
whose mediation she trusts in a matter of this kind. I will even go
farther, if you like, and admit, for courtesy’s sake and for argument’s
sake, that the identity of Lady Glyde as a living person is a proved
fact to Miss Halcombe and yourself. But you come to me for a legal
opinion. As a lawyer, and as a lawyer only, it is my duty to tell you,
Mr. Hartright, that you have not the shadow of a case.”

“You put it strongly, Mr. Kyrle.”

“I will try to put it plainly as well. The evidence of Lady Glyde’s
death is, on the face of it, clear and satisfactory. There is her
aunt’s testimony to prove that she came to Count Fosco’s house, that
she fell ill, and that she died. There is the testimony of the medical
certificate to prove the death, and to show that it took place under
natural circumstances. There is the fact of the funeral at Limmeridge,
and there is the assertion of the inscription on the tomb. That is
the case you want to overthrow. What evidence have you to support the
declaration on your side that the person who died and was buried was
not Lady Glyde? Let us run through the main points of your statement
and see what they are worth. Miss Halcombe goes to a certain private
Asylum, and there sees a certain female patient. It is known that a
woman named Anne Catherick, and bearing an extraordinary personal
resemblance to Lady Glyde, escaped from the Asylum; it is known that
the person received there last July was received as Anne Catherick
brought back; it is known that the gentleman who brought her back
warned Mr. Fairlie that it was part of her insanity to be bent on
personating his dead niece; and it is known that she did repeatedly
declare herself in the Asylum (where no one believed her) to be Lady
Glyde. These are all facts. What have you to set against them? Miss
Halcombe’s recognition of the woman, which recognition after-events
invalidate or contradict. Does Miss Halcombe assert her supposed
sister’s identity to the owner of the Asylum, and take legal means for
rescuing her? No, she secretly bribes a nurse to let her escape. When
the patient has been released in this doubtful manner, and is taken to
Mr. Fairlie, does he recognise her? Is he staggered for one instant in
his belief of his niece’s death? No. Do the servants recognise her? No.
Is she kept in the neighbourhood to assert her own identity, and to
stand the test of further proceedings? No, she is privately taken to
London. In the meantime you have recognised her also, but you are not
a relative—you are not even an old friend of the family. The servants
contradict you, and Mr. Fairlie contradicts Miss Halcombe, and the
supposed Lady Glyde contradicts herself. She declares she passed the
night in London at a certain house. Your own evidence shows that she
has never been near that house, and your own admission is that her
condition of mind prevents you from producing her anywhere to submit to
investigation, and to speak for herself. I pass over minor points of
evidence on both sides to save time, and I ask you, if this case were
to go now into a court of law—to go before a jury, bound to take facts
as they reasonably appear—where are your proofs?”

I was obliged to wait and collect myself before I could answer him.
It was the first time the story of Laura and the story of Marian had
been presented to me from a stranger’s point of view—the first time
the terrible obstacles that lay across our path had been made to show
themselves in their true character.

“There can be no doubt,” I said, “that the facts, as you have stated
them, appear to tell against us, but——”

“But you think those facts can be explained away,” interposed Mr.
Kyrle. “Let me tell you the result of my experience on that point.
When an English jury has to choose between a plain fact ON the surface
and a long explanation UNDER the surface, it always takes the fact in
preference to the explanation. For example, Lady Glyde (I call the lady
you represent by that name for argument’s sake) declares she has slept
at a certain house, and it is proved that she has not slept at that
house. You explain this circumstance by entering into the state of her
mind, and deducing from it a metaphysical conclusion. I don’t say the
conclusion is wrong—I only say that the jury will take the fact of her
contradicting herself in preference to any reason for the contradiction
that you can offer.”

“But is it not possible,” I urged, “by dint of patience and exertion,
to discover additional evidence? Miss Halcombe and I have a few hundred
pounds——”

He looked at me with a half-suppressed pity, and shook his head.

“Consider the subject, Mr. Hartright, from your own point of view,” he
said. “If you are right about Sir Percival Glyde and Count Fosco (which
I don’t admit, mind), every imaginable difficulty would be thrown in
the way of your getting fresh evidence. Every obstacle of litigation
would be raised—every point in the case would be systematically
contested—and by the time we had spent our thousands instead of our
hundreds, the final result would, in all probability, be against
us. Questions of identity, where instances of personal resemblance
are concerned, are, in themselves, the hardest of all questions to
settle—the hardest, even when they are free from the complications
which beset the case we are now discussing. I really see no prospect of
throwing any light whatever on this extraordinary affair. Even if the
person buried in Limmeridge churchyard be not Lady Glyde, she was, in
life, on your own showing, so like her, that we should gain nothing,
if we applied for the necessary authority to have the body exhumed. In
short, there is no case, Mr. Hartright—there is really no case.”

I was determined to believe that there WAS a case, and in that
determination shifted my ground, and appealed to him once more.

“Are there not other proofs that we might produce besides the proof of
identity?” I asked.

“Not as you are situated,” he replied. “The simplest and surest of
all proofs, the proof by comparison of dates, is, as I understand,
altogether out of your reach. If you could show a discrepancy between
the date of the doctor’s certificate and the date of Lady Glyde’s
journey to London, the matter would wear a totally different aspect,
and I should be the first to say, Let us go on.”

“That date may yet be recovered, Mr. Kyrle.”

“On the day when it is recovered, Mr. Hartright, you will have a case.
If you have any prospect, at this moment, of getting at it—tell me, and
we shall see if I can advise you.”

I considered. The housekeeper could not help us—Laura could not help
us—Marian could not help us. In all probability, the only persons in
existence who knew the date were Sir Percival and the Count.

“I can think of no means of ascertaining the date at present,” I said,
“because I can think of no persons who are sure to know it, but Count
Fosco and Sir Percival Glyde.”

Mr. Kyrle’s calmly attentive face relaxed, for the first time, into a
smile.

“With your opinion of the conduct of those two gentlemen,” he said,
“you don’t expect help in that quarter, I presume? If they have
combined to gain large sums of money by a conspiracy, they are not
likely to confess it, at any rate.”

“They may be forced to confess it, Mr. Kyrle.”

“By whom?”

“By me.”

We both rose. He looked me attentively in the face with more appearance
of interest than he had shown yet. I could see that I had perplexed him
a little.

“You are very determined,” he said. “You have, no doubt, a personal
motive for proceeding, into which it is not my business to inquire.
If a case can be produced in the future, I can only say, my best
assistance is at your service. At the same time I must warn you, as the
money question always enters into the law question, that I see little
hope, even if you ultimately established the fact of Lady Glyde’s being
alive, of recovering her fortune. The foreigner would probably leave
the country before proceedings were commenced, and Sir Percival’s
embarrassments are numerous enough and pressing enough to transfer
almost any sum of money he may possess from himself to his creditors.
You are of course aware——”

I stopped him at that point.

“Let me beg that we may not discuss Lady Glyde’s affairs,” I said.
“I have never known anything about them in former times, and I know
nothing of them now—except that her fortune is lost. You are right in
assuming that I have personal motives for stirring in this matter. I
wish those motives to be always as disinterested as they are at the
present moment——”

He tried to interpose and explain. I was a little heated, I suppose, by
feeling that he had doubted me, and I went on bluntly, without waiting
to hear him.

“There shall be no money motive,” I said, “no idea of personal
advantage in the service I mean to render to Lady Glyde. She has been
cast out as a stranger from the house in which she was born—a lie
which records her death has been written on her mother’s tomb—and
there are two men, alive and unpunished, who are responsible for it.
That house shall open again to receive her in the presence of every
soul who followed the false funeral to the grave—that lie shall be
publicly erased from the tombstone by the authority of the head of the
family, and those two men shall answer for their crime to ME, though
the justice that sits in tribunals is powerless to pursue them. I have
given my life to that purpose, and, alone as I stand, if God spares me,
I will accomplish it.”

He drew back towards his table, and said nothing. His face showed
plainly that he thought my delusion had got the better of my reason,
and that he considered it totally useless to give me any more advice.

“We each keep our opinion, Mr. Kyrle,” I said, “and we must wait till
the events of the future decide between us. In the meantime, I am much
obliged to you for the attention you have given to my statement. You
have shown me that the legal remedy lies, in every sense of the word,
beyond our means. We cannot produce the law proof, and we are not rich
enough to pay the law expenses. It is something gained to know that.”

I bowed and walked to the door. He called me back and gave me the
letter which I had seen him place on the table by itself at the
beginning of our interview.

“This came by post a few days ago,” he said. “Perhaps you will not
mind delivering it? Pray tell Miss Halcombe, at the same time, that I
sincerely regret being, thus far, unable to help her, except by advice,
which will not be more welcome, I am afraid, to her than to you.”

I looked at the letter while he was speaking. It was addressed to
“Miss Halcombe. Care of Messrs. Gilmore & Kyrle, Chancery Lane.” The
handwriting was quite unknown to me.

On leaving the room I asked one last question.

“Do you happen to know,” I said, “if Sir Percival Glyde is still in
Paris?”

“He has returned to London,” replied Mr. Kyrle. “At least I heard so
from his solicitor, whom I met yesterday.”

After that answer I went out.

On leaving the office the first precaution to be observed was to
abstain from attracting attention by stopping to look about me. I
walked towards one of the quietest of the large squares on the north of
Holborn, then suddenly stopped and turned round at a place where a long
stretch of pavement was left behind me.

There were two men at the corner of the square who had stopped also,
and who were standing talking together. After a moment’s reflection I
turned back so as to pass them. One moved as I came near, and turned
the corner leading from the square into the street. The other remained
stationary. I looked at him as I passed and instantly recognised one of
the men who had watched me before I left England.

If I had been free to follow my own instincts, I should probably have
begun by speaking to the man, and have ended by knocking him down. But
I was bound to consider consequences. If I once placed myself publicly
in the wrong, I put the weapons at once into Sir Percival’s hands.
There was no choice but to oppose cunning by cunning. I turned into
the street down which the second man had disappeared, and passed him,
waiting in a doorway. He was a stranger to me, and I was glad to make
sure of his personal appearance in case of future annoyance. Having
done this, I again walked northward till I reached the New Road. There
I turned aside to the west (having the men behind me all the time),
and waited at a point where I knew myself to be at some distance from
a cab-stand, until a fast two-wheel cab, empty, should happen to pass
me. One passed in a few minutes. I jumped in and told the man to drive
rapidly towards Hyde Park. There was no second fast cab for the spies
behind me. I saw them dart across to the other side of the road, to
follow me by running, until a cab or a cab-stand came in their way. But
I had the start of them, and when I stopped the driver and got out,
they were nowhere in sight. I crossed Hyde Park and made sure, on the
open ground, that I was free. When I at last turned my steps homewards,
it was not till many hours later—not till after dark.


I found Marian waiting for me alone in the little sitting-room. She
had persuaded Laura to go to rest, after first promising to show me
her drawing the moment I came in. The poor little dim faint sketch—so
trifling in itself, so touching in its associations—was propped up
carefully on the table with two books, and was placed where the faint
light of the one candle we allowed ourselves might fall on it to the
best advantage. I sat down to look at the drawing, and to tell Marian,
in whispers, what had happened. The partition which divided us from the
next room was so thin that we could almost hear Laura’s breathing, and
we might have disturbed her if we had spoken aloud.

Marian preserved her composure while I described my interview with Mr.
Kyrle. But her face became troubled when I spoke next of the men who
had followed me from the lawyer’s office, and when I told her of the
discovery of Sir Percival’s return.

“Bad news, Walter,” she said, “the worst news you could bring. Have you
nothing more to tell me?”

“I have something to give you,” I replied, handing her the note which
Mr. Kyrle had confided to my care.

She looked at the address and recognised the handwriting instantly.

“You know your correspondent?” I said.

“Too well,” she answered. “My correspondent is Count Fosco.”

With that reply she opened the note. Her face flushed deeply while she
read it—her eyes brightened with anger as she handed it to me to read
in my turn.

The note contained these lines—


“Impelled by honourable admiration—honourable to myself, honourable to
you—I write, magnificent Marian, in the interests of your tranquillity,
to say two consoling words—

“Fear nothing!

“Exercise your fine natural sense and remain in retirement. Dear
and admirable woman, invite no dangerous publicity. Resignation
is sublime—adopt it. The modest repose of home is eternally
fresh—enjoy it. The storms of life pass harmless over the valley of
Seclusion—dwell, dear lady, in the valley.

“Do this and I authorise you to fear nothing. No new calamity shall
lacerate your sensibilities—sensibilities precious to me as my own. You
shall not be molested, the fair companion of your retreat shall not be
pursued. She has found a new asylum in your heart. Priceless asylum!—I
envy her and leave her there.

“One last word of affectionate warning, of paternal caution, and I tear
myself from the charm of addressing you—I close these fervent lines.

“Advance no farther than you have gone already, compromise no serious
interests, threaten nobody. Do not, I implore you, force me into
action—ME, the Man of Action—when it is the cherished object of my
ambition to be passive, to restrict the vast reach of my energies and
my combinations for your sake. If you have rash friends, moderate
their deplorable ardour. If Mr. Hartright returns to England, hold
no communication with him. I walk on a path of my own, and Percival
follows at my heels. On the day when Mr. Hartright crosses that path,
he is a lost man.”


The only signature to these lines was the initial letter F, surrounded
by a circle of intricate flourishes. I threw the letter on the table
with all the contempt that I felt for it.

“He is trying to frighten you—a sure sign that he is frightened
himself,” I said.

She was too genuine a woman to treat the letter as I treated it. The
insolent familiarity of the language was too much for her self-control.
As she looked at me across the table, her hands clenched themselves in
her lap, and the old quick fiery temper flamed out again brightly in
her cheeks and her eyes.

“Walter!” she said, “if ever those two men are at your mercy, and if
you are obliged to spare one of them, don’t let it be the Count.”

“I will keep this letter, Marian, to help my memory when the time
comes.”

She looked at me attentively as I put the letter away in my pocket-book.

“When the time comes?” she repeated. “Can you speak of the future as
if you were certain of it?—certain after what you have heard in Mr.
Kyrle’s office, after what has happened to you to-day?”

“I don’t count the time from to-day, Marian. All I have done to-day is
to ask another man to act for me. I count from to-morrow——”

“Why from to-morrow?”

“Because to-morrow I mean to act for myself.”

“How?”

“I shall go to Blackwater by the first train, and return, I hope, at
night.”

“To Blackwater!”

“Yes. I have had time to think since I left Mr. Kyrle. His opinion on
one point confirms my own. We must persist to the last in hunting down
the date of Laura’s journey. The one weak point in the conspiracy, and
probably the one chance of proving that she is a living woman, centre
in the discovery of that date.”

“You mean,” said Marian, “the discovery that Laura did not leave
Blackwater Park till after the date of her death on the doctor’s
certificate?”

“Certainly.”

“What makes you think it might have been AFTER? Laura can tell us
nothing of the time she was in London.”

“But the owner of the Asylum told you that she was received there on
the twenty-seventh of July. I doubt Count Fosco’s ability to keep her
in London, and to keep her insensible to all that was passing around
her, more than one night. In that case, she must have started on the
twenty-sixth, and must have come to London one day after the date of
her own death on the doctor’s certificate. If we can prove that date,
we prove our case against Sir Percival and the Count.”

“Yes, yes—I see! But how is the proof to be obtained?”

“Mrs. Michelson’s narrative has suggested to me two ways of trying to
obtain it. One of them is to question the doctor, Mr. Dawson, who must
know when he resumed his attendance at Blackwater Park after Laura
left the house. The other is to make inquiries at the inn to which Sir
Percival drove away by himself at night. We know that his departure
followed Laura’s after the lapse of a few hours, and we may get at the
date in that way. The attempt is at least worth making, and to-morrow I
am determined it shall be made.”

“And suppose it fails—I look at the worst now, Walter; but I will look
at the best if disappointments come to try us—suppose no one can help
you at Blackwater?”

“There are two men who can help me, and shall help me in London—Sir
Percival and the Count. Innocent people may well forget the date—but
THEY are guilty, and THEY know it. If I fail everywhere else, I mean to
force a confession out of one or both of them on my own terms.”

All the woman flushed up in Marian’s face as I spoke.

“Begin with the Count,” she whispered eagerly. “For my sake, begin with
the Count.”

“We must begin, for Laura’s sake, where there is the best chance of
success,” I replied.

The colour faded from her face again, and she shook her head sadly.

“Yes,” she said, “you are right—it was mean and miserable of me to say
that. I try to be patient, Walter, and succeed better now than I did in
happier times. But I have a little of my old temper still left, and it
will get the better of me when I think of the Count!”

“His turn will come,” I said. “But, remember, there is no weak place in
his life that we know of yet.” I waited a little to let her recover her
self-possession, and then spoke the decisive words—

“Marian! There is a weak place we both know of in Sir Percival’s life——”

“You mean the Secret!”

“Yes: the Secret. It is our only sure hold on him. I can force him from
his position of security, I can drag him and his villainy into the
face of day, by no other means. Whatever the Count may have done, Sir
Percival has consented to the conspiracy against Laura from another
motive besides the motive of gain. You heard him tell the Count that he
believed his wife knew enough to ruin him? You heard him say that he
was a lost man if the secret of Anne Catherick was known?”

“Yes! yes! I did.”

“Well, Marian, when our other resources have failed us, I mean to know
the Secret. My old superstition clings to me, even yet. I say again
the woman in white is a living influence in our three lives. The End
is appointed—the End is drawing us on—and Anne Catherick, dead in her
grave, points the way to it still!”



V


The story of my first inquiries in Hampshire is soon told.

My early departure from London enabled me to reach Mr. Dawson’s house
in the forenoon. Our interview, so far as the object of my visit was
concerned, led to no satisfactory result.

Mr. Dawson’s books certainly showed when he had resumed his attendance
on Miss Halcombe at Blackwater Park, but it was not possible to
calculate back from this date with any exactness, without such help
from Mrs. Michelson as I knew she was unable to afford. She could not
say from memory (who, in similar cases, ever can?) how many days had
elapsed between the renewal of the doctor’s attendance on his patient
and the previous departure of Lady Glyde. She was almost certain of
having mentioned the circumstance of the departure to Miss Halcombe,
on the day after it happened—but then she was no more able to fix the
date of the day on which this disclosure took place, than to fix the
date of the day before, when Lady Glyde had left for London. Neither
could she calculate, with any nearer approach to exactness, the time
that had passed from the departure of her mistress, to the period when
the undated letter from Madame Fosco arrived. Lastly, as if to complete
the series of difficulties, the doctor himself, having been ill at
the time, had omitted to make his usual entry of the day of the week
and month when the gardener from Blackwater Park had called on him to
deliver Mrs. Michelson’s message.

Hopeless of obtaining assistance from Mr. Dawson, I resolved to try
next if I could establish the date of Sir Percival’s arrival at
Knowlesbury.

It seemed like a fatality! When I reached Knowlesbury the inn was shut
up, and bills were posted on the walls. The speculation had been a bad
one, as I was informed, ever since the time of the railway. The new
hotel at the station had gradually absorbed the business, and the old
inn (which we knew to be the inn at which Sir Percival had put up),
had been closed about two months since. The proprietor had left the
town with all his goods and chattels, and where he had gone I could not
positively ascertain from any one. The four people of whom I inquired
gave me four different accounts of his plans and projects when he left
Knowlesbury.

There were still some hours to spare before the last train left for
London, and I drove back again in a fly from the Knowlesbury station to
Blackwater Park, with the purpose of questioning the gardener and the
person who kept the lodge. If they, too, proved unable to assist me, my
resources for the present were at an end, and I might return to town.

I dismissed the fly a mile distant from the park, and getting my
directions from the driver, proceeded by myself to the house.

As I turned into the lane from the high-road, I saw a man, with a
carpet-bag, walking before me rapidly on the way to the lodge. He
was a little man, dressed in shabby black, and wearing a remarkably
large hat. I set him down (as well as it was possible to judge) for
a lawyer’s clerk, and stopped at once to widen the distance between
us. He had not heard me, and he walked on out of sight, without
looking back. When I passed through the gates myself, a little while
afterwards, he was not visible—he had evidently gone on to the house.

There were two women in the lodge. One of them was old, the other I
knew at once, by Marian’s description of her, to be Margaret Porcher.

I asked first if Sir Percival was at the Park, and receiving a reply in
the negative, inquired next when he had left it. Neither of the women
could tell me more than that he had gone away in the summer. I could
extract nothing from Margaret Porcher but vacant smiles and shakings of
the head. The old woman was a little more intelligent, and I managed to
lead her into speaking of the manner of Sir Percival’s departure, and
of the alarm that it caused her. She remembered her master calling her
out of bed, and remembered his frightening her by swearing—but the date
at which the occurrence happened was, as she honestly acknowledged,
“quite beyond her.”

On leaving the lodge I saw the gardener at work not far off. When I
first addressed him, he looked at me rather distrustfully, but on my
using Mrs. Michelson’s name, with a civil reference to himself, he
entered into conversation readily enough. There is no need to describe
what passed between us—it ended, as all my other attempts to discover
the date had ended. The gardener knew that his master had driven away,
at night, “some time in July, the last fortnight or the last ten days
in the month”—and knew no more.

While we were speaking together I saw the man in black, with the
large hat, come out from the house, and stand at some little distance
observing us.

Certain suspicions of his errand at Blackwater Park had already
crossed my mind. They were now increased by the gardener’s inability
(or unwillingness) to tell me who the man was, and I determined to
clear the way before me, if possible, by speaking to him. The plainest
question I could put as a stranger would be to inquire if the house was
allowed to be shown to visitors. I walked up to the man at once, and
accosted him in those words.

His look and manner unmistakably betrayed that he knew who I was, and
that he wanted to irritate me into quarrelling with him. His reply
was insolent enough to have answered the purpose, if I had been less
determined to control myself. As it was, I met him with the most
resolute politeness, apologised for my involuntary intrusion (which
he called a “trespass,”) and left the grounds. It was exactly as I
suspected. The recognition of me when I left Mr. Kyrle’s office had
been evidently communicated to Sir Percival Glyde, and the man in black
had been sent to the Park in anticipation of my making inquiries at the
house or in the neighbourhood. If I had given him the least chance of
lodging any sort of legal complaint against me, the interference of the
local magistrate would no doubt have been turned to account as a clog
on my proceedings, and a means of separating me from Marian and Laura
for some days at least.

I was prepared to be watched on the way from Blackwater Park to the
station, exactly as I had been watched in London the day before.
But I could not discover at the time, whether I was really followed
on this occasion or not. The man in black might have had means of
tracking me at his disposal of which I was not aware, but I certainly
saw nothing of him, in his own person, either on the way to the
station, or afterwards on my arrival at the London terminus in the
evening. I reached home on foot, taking the precaution, before I
approached our own door, of walking round by the loneliest street in
the neighbourhood, and there stopping and looking back more than once
over the open space behind me. I had first learnt to use this stratagem
against suspected treachery in the wilds of Central America—and now I
was practising it again, with the same purpose and with even greater
caution, in the heart of civilised London!

Nothing had happened to alarm Marian during my absence. She asked
eagerly what success I had met with. When I told her she could not
conceal her surprise at the indifference with which I spoke of the
failure of my investigations thus far.

The truth was, that the ill-success of my inquiries had in no sense
daunted me. I had pursued them as a matter of duty, and I had expected
nothing from them. In the state of my mind at that time, it was almost
a relief to me to know that the struggle was now narrowed to a trial of
strength between myself and Sir Percival Glyde. The vindictive motive
had mingled itself all along with my other and better motives, and I
confess it was a satisfaction to me to feel that the surest way, the
only way left, of serving Laura’s cause, was to fasten my hold firmly
on the villain who had married her.

While I acknowledge that I was not strong enough to keep my motives
above the reach of this instinct of revenge, I can honestly say
something in my own favour on the other side. No base speculation
on the future relations of Laura and myself, and on the private and
personal concessions which I might force from Sir Percival if I once
had him at my mercy, ever entered my mind. I never said to myself, “If
I do succeed, it shall be one result of my success that I put it out
of her husband’s power to take her from me again.” I could not look at
her and think of the future with such thoughts as those. The sad sight
of the change in her from her former self, made the one interest of
my love an interest of tenderness and compassion which her father or
her brother might have felt, and which I felt, God knows, in my inmost
heart. All my hopes looked no farther on now than to the day of her
recovery. There, till she was strong again and happy again—there, till
she could look at me as she had once looked, and speak to me as she had
once spoken—the future of my happiest thoughts and my dearest wishes
ended.

These words are written under no prompting of idle self-contemplation.
Passages in this narrative are soon to come which will set the minds
of others in judgment on my conduct. It is right that the best and the
worst of me should be fairly balanced before that time.


On the morning after my return from Hampshire I took Marian upstairs
into my working-room, and there laid before her the plan that I had
matured thus far, for mastering the one assailable point in the life of
Sir Percival Glyde.

The way to the Secret lay through the mystery, hitherto impenetrable
to all of us, of the woman in white. The approach to that in its
turn might be gained by obtaining the assistance of Anne Catherick’s
mother, and the only ascertainable means of prevailing on Mrs.
Catherick to act or to speak in the matter depended on the chance of
my discovering local particulars and family particulars first of all
from Mrs. Clements. After thinking the subject over carefully, I felt
certain that I could only begin the new inquiries by placing myself
in communication with the faithful friend and protectress of Anne
Catherick.

The first difficulty then was to find Mrs. Clements.

I was indebted to Marian’s quick perception for meeting this necessity
at once by the best and simplest means. She proposed to write to the
farm near Limmeridge (Todd’s Corner), to inquire whether Mrs. Clements
had communicated with Mrs. Todd during the past few months. How Mrs.
Clements had been separated from Anne it was impossible for us to say,
but that separation once effected, it would certainly occur to Mrs.
Clements to inquire after the missing woman in the neighbourhood of all
others to which she was known to be most attached—the neighbourhood of
Limmeridge. I saw directly that Marian’s proposal offered us a prospect
of success, and she wrote to Mrs. Todd accordingly by that day’s post.

While we were waiting for the reply, I made myself master of all the
information Marian could afford on the subject of Sir Percival’s
family, and of his early life. She could only speak on these topics
from hearsay, but she was reasonably certain of the truth of what
little she had to tell.

Sir Percival was an only child. His father, Sir Felix Glyde, had
suffered from his birth under a painful and incurable deformity, and
had shunned all society from his earliest years. His sole happiness
was in the enjoyment of music, and he had married a lady with tastes
similar to his own, who was said to be a most accomplished musician. He
inherited the Blackwater property while still a young man. Neither he
nor his wife after taking possession, made advances of any sort towards
the society of the neighbourhood, and no one endeavoured to tempt them
into abandoning their reserve, with the one disastrous exception of the
rector of the parish.

The rector was the worst of all innocent mischief-makers—an
over-zealous man. He had heard that Sir Felix had left College with
the character of being little better than a revolutionist in politics
and an infidel in religion, and he arrived conscientiously at the
conclusion that it was his bounden duty to summon the lord of the manor
to hear sound views enunciated in the parish church. Sir Felix fiercely
resented the clergyman’s well-meant but ill-directed interference,
insulting him so grossly and so publicly, that the families in the
neighbourhood sent letters of indignant remonstrance to the Park, and
even the tenants of the Blackwater property expressed their opinion
as strongly as they dared. The baronet, who had no country tastes of
any kind, and no attachment to the estate or to any one living on it,
declared that society at Blackwater should never have a second chance
of annoying him, and left the place from that moment.

After a short residence in London he and his wife departed for the
Continent, and never returned to England again. They lived part of the
time in France and part in Germany—always keeping themselves in the
strict retirement which the morbid sense of his own personal deformity
had made a necessity to Sir Felix. Their son, Percival, had been born
abroad, and had been educated there by private tutors. His mother was
the first of his parents whom he lost. His father had died a few years
after her, either in 1825 or 1826. Sir Percival had been in England,
as a young man, once or twice before that period, but his acquaintance
with the late Mr. Fairlie did not begin till after the time of his
father’s death. They soon became very intimate, although Sir Percival
was seldom, or never, at Limmeridge House in those days. Mr. Frederick
Fairlie might have met him once or twice in Mr. Philip Fairlie’s
company, but he could have known little of him at that or at any other
time. Sir Percival’s only intimate friend in the Fairlie family had
been Laura’s father.

These were all the particulars that I could gain from Marian. They
suggested nothing which was useful to my present purpose, but I noted
them down carefully, in the event of their proving to be of importance
at any future period.

Mrs. Todd’s reply (addressed, by our own wish, to a post-office at some
distance from us) had arrived at its destination when I went to apply
for it. The chances, which had been all against us hitherto, turned
from this moment in our favour. Mrs. Todd’s letter contained the first
item of information of which we were in search.

Mrs. Clements, it appeared, had (as we had conjectured) written to
Todd’s Corner, asking pardon in the first place for the abrupt manner
in which she and Anne had left their friends at the farm-house (on the
morning after I had met the woman in white in Limmeridge churchyard),
and then informing Mrs. Todd of Anne’s disappearance, and entreating
that she would cause inquiries to be made in the neighbourhood, on the
chance that the lost woman might have strayed back to Limmeridge. In
making this request, Mrs. Clements had been careful to add to it the
address at which she might always be heard of, and that address Mrs.
Todd now transmitted to Marian. It was in London, and within half an
hour’s walk of our own lodging.

In the words of the proverb, I was resolved not to let the grass grow
under my feet. The next morning I set forth to seek an interview with
Mrs. Clements. This was my first step forward in the investigation. The
story of the desperate attempt to which I now stood committed begins
here.



VI


The address communicated by Mrs. Todd took me to a lodging-house
situated in a respectable street near the Gray’s Inn Road.

When I knocked the door was opened by Mrs. Clements herself. She
did not appear to remember me, and asked what my business was. I
recalled to her our meeting in Limmeridge churchyard at the close of
my interview there with the woman in white, taking special care to
remind her that I was the person who assisted Anne Catherick (as Anne
had herself declared) to escape the pursuit from the Asylum. This was
my only claim to the confidence of Mrs. Clements. She remembered the
circumstance the moment I spoke of it, and asked me into the parlour,
in the greatest anxiety to know if I had brought her any news of Anne.

It was impossible for me to tell her the whole truth without, at the
same time, entering into particulars on the subject of the conspiracy,
which it would have been dangerous to confide to a stranger. I could
only abstain most carefully from raising any false hopes, and then
explain that the object of my visit was to discover the persons who
were really responsible for Anne’s disappearance. I even added, so as
to exonerate myself from any after-reproach of my own conscience, that
I entertained not the least hope of being able to trace her—that I
believed we should never see her alive again—and that my main interest
in the affair was to bring to punishment two men whom I suspected to
be concerned in luring her away, and at whose hands I and some dear
friends of mine had suffered a grievous wrong. With this explanation
I left it to Mrs. Clements to say whether our interest in the matter
(whatever difference there might be in the motives which actuated us)
was not the same, and whether she felt any reluctance to forward my
object by giving me such information on the subject of my inquiries as
she happened to possess.

The poor woman was at first too much confused and agitated to
understand thoroughly what I said to her. She could only reply that I
was welcome to anything she could tell me in return for the kindness I
had shown to Anne; but as she was not very quick and ready, at the best
of times, in talking to strangers, she would beg me to put her in the
right way, and to say where I wished her to begin.

Knowing by experience that the plainest narrative attainable from
persons who are not accustomed to arrange their ideas, is the narrative
which goes far enough back at the beginning to avoid all impediments
of retrospection in its course, I asked Mrs. Clements to tell me first
what had happened after she had left Limmeridge, and so, by watchful
questioning, carried her on from point to point, till we reached the
period of Anne’s disappearance.

The substance of the information which I thus obtained was as follows:—

On leaving the farm at Todd’s Corner, Mrs. Clements and Anne had
travelled that day as far as Derby, and had remained there a week on
Anne’s account. They had then gone on to London, and had lived in
the lodging occupied by Mrs. Clements at that time for a month or
more, when circumstances connected with the house and the landlord
had obliged them to change their quarters. Anne’s terror of being
discovered in London or its neighbourhood, whenever they ventured to
walk out, had gradually communicated itself to Mrs. Clements, and she
had determined on removing to one of the most out-of-the-way places
in England—to the town of Grimsby in Lincolnshire, where her deceased
husband had passed all his early life. His relatives were respectable
people settled in the town—they had always treated Mrs. Clements with
great kindness, and she thought it impossible to do better than go
there and take the advice of her husband’s friends. Anne would not hear
of returning to her mother at Welmingham, because she had been removed
to the Asylum from that place, and because Sir Percival would be
certain to go back there and find her again. There was serious weight
in this objection, and Mrs. Clements felt that it was not to be easily
removed.

At Grimsby the first serious symptoms of illness had shown themselves
in Anne. They appeared soon after the news of Lady Glyde’s marriage had
been made public in the newspapers, and had reached her through that
medium.

The medical man who was sent for to attend the sick woman discovered
at once that she was suffering from a serious affection of the heart.
The illness lasted long, left her very weak, and returned at intervals,
though with mitigated severity, again and again. They remained at
Grimsby, in consequence, during the first half of the new year, and
there they might probably have stayed much longer, but for the sudden
resolution which Anne took at this time to venture back to Hampshire,
for the purpose of obtaining a private interview with Lady Glyde.

Mrs. Clements did all in her power to oppose the execution of this
hazardous and unaccountable project. No explanation of her motives
was offered by Anne, except that she believed the day of her death
was not far off, and that she had something on her mind which must be
communicated to Lady Glyde, at any risk, in secret. Her resolution
to accomplish this purpose was so firmly settled that she declared
her intention of going to Hampshire by herself if Mrs. Clements felt
any unwillingness to go with her. The doctor, on being consulted,
was of opinion that serious opposition to her wishes would, in all
probability, produce another and perhaps a fatal fit of illness, and
Mrs. Clements, under this advice, yielded to necessity, and once more,
with sad forebodings of trouble and danger to come, allowed Anne
Catherick to have her own way.

On the journey from London to Hampshire Mrs. Clements discovered
that one of their fellow-passengers was well acquainted with the
neighbourhood of Blackwater, and could give her all the information she
needed on the subject of localities. In this way she found out that
the only place they could go to, which was not dangerously near to Sir
Percival’s residence, was a large village called Sandon. The distance
here from Blackwater Park was between three and four miles—and that
distance, and back again, Anne had walked on each occasion when she had
appeared in the neighbourhood of the lake.

For the few days during which they were at Sandon without being
discovered they had lived a little away from the village, in the
cottage of a decent widow-woman who had a bedroom to let, and whose
discreet silence Mrs. Clements had done her best to secure, for the
first week at least. She had also tried hard to induce Anne to be
content with writing to Lady Glyde, in the first instance; but the
failure of the warning contained in the anonymous letter sent to
Limmeridge had made Anne resolute to speak this time, and obstinate in
the determination to go on her errand alone.

Mrs. Clements, nevertheless, followed her privately on each occasion
when she went to the lake, without, however, venturing near enough
to the boat-house to be witness of what took place there. When Anne
returned for the last time from the dangerous neighbourhood, the
fatigue of walking, day after day, distances which were far too great
for her strength, added to the exhausting effect of the agitation from
which she had suffered, produced the result which Mrs. Clements had
dreaded all along. The old pain over the heart and the other symptoms
of the illness at Grimsby returned, and Anne was confined to her bed in
the cottage.

In this emergency the first necessity, as Mrs. Clements knew by
experience, was to endeavour to quiet Anne’s anxiety of mind, and for
this purpose the good woman went herself the next day to the lake, to
try if she could find Lady Glyde (who would be sure, as Anne said, to
take her daily walk to the boat-house), and prevail on her to come back
privately to the cottage near Sandon. On reaching the outskirts of
the plantation Mrs. Clements encountered, not Lady Glyde, but a tall,
stout, elderly gentleman, with a book in his hand—in other words, Count
Fosco.

The Count, after looking at her very attentively for a moment, asked
if she expected to see any one in that place, and added, before she
could reply, that he was waiting there with a message from Lady Glyde,
but that he was not quite certain whether the person then before him
answered the description of the person with whom he was desired to
communicate.

Upon this Mrs. Clements at once confided her errand to him, and
entreated that he would help to allay Anne’s anxiety by trusting his
message to her. The Count most readily and kindly complied with her
request. The message, he said, was a very important one. Lady Glyde
entreated Anne and her good friend to return immediately to London, as
she felt certain that Sir Percival would discover them if they remained
any longer in the neighbourhood of Blackwater. She was herself going to
London in a short time, and if Mrs. Clements and Anne would go there
first, and would let her know what their address was, they should hear
from her and see her in a fortnight or less. The Count added that he
had already attempted to give a friendly warning to Anne herself, but
that she had been too much startled by seeing that he was a stranger to
let him approach and speak to her.

To this Mrs. Clements replied, in the greatest alarm and distress,
that she asked nothing better than to take Anne safely to London, but
that there was no present hope of removing her from the dangerous
neighbourhood, as she lay ill in her bed at that moment. The Count
inquired if Mrs. Clements had sent for medical advice, and hearing
that she had hitherto hesitated to do so, from the fear of making
their position publicly known in the village, informed her that he
was himself a medical man, and that he would go back with her if she
pleased, and see what could be done for Anne. Mrs. Clements (feeling
a natural confidence in the Count, as a person trusted with a secret
message from Lady Glyde) gratefully accepted the offer, and they went
back together to the cottage.

Anne was asleep when they got there. The Count started at the sight of
her (evidently from astonishment at her resemblance to Lady Glyde).
Poor Mrs. Clements supposed that he was only shocked to see how ill
she was. He would not allow her to be awakened—he was contented with
putting questions to Mrs. Clements about her symptoms, with looking at
her, and with lightly touching her pulse. Sandon was a large enough
place to have a grocer’s and druggist’s shop in it, and thither the
Count went to write his prescription and to get the medicine made up.
He brought it back himself, and told Mrs. Clements that the medicine
was a powerful stimulant, and that it would certainly give Anne
strength to get up and bear the fatigue of a journey to London of only
a few hours. The remedy was to be administered at stated times on that
day and on the day after. On the third day she would be well enough
to travel, and he arranged to meet Mrs. Clements at the Blackwater
station, and to see them off by the midday train. If they did not
appear he would assume that Anne was worse, and would proceed at once
to the cottage.

As events turned out, no such emergency as this occurred.

This medicine had an extraordinary effect on Anne, and the good results
of it were helped by the assurance Mrs. Clements could now give her
that she would soon see Lady Glyde in London. At the appointed day
and time (when they had not been quite so long as a week in Hampshire
altogether), they arrived at the station. The Count was waiting there
for them, and was talking to an elderly lady, who appeared to be going
to travel by the train to London also. He most kindly assisted them,
and put them into the carriage himself, begging Mrs. Clements not to
forget to send her address to Lady Glyde. The elderly lady did not
travel in the same compartment, and they did not notice what became of
her on reaching the London terminus. Mrs. Clements secured respectable
lodgings in a quiet neighbourhood, and then wrote, as she had engaged
to do, to inform Lady Glyde of the address.

A little more than a fortnight passed, and no answer came.

At the end of that time a lady (the same elderly lady whom they had
seen at the station) called in a cab, and said that she came from
Lady Glyde, who was then at an hotel in London, and who wished to see
Mrs. Clements, for the purpose of arranging a future interview with
Anne. Mrs. Clements expressed her willingness (Anne being present at
the time, and entreating her to do so) to forward the object in view,
especially as she was not required to be away from the house for more
than half an hour at the most. She and the elderly lady (clearly Madame
Fosco) then left in the cab. The lady stopped the cab, after it had
driven some distance, at a shop before they got to the hotel, and
begged Mrs. Clements to wait for her for a few minutes while she made a
purchase that had been forgotten. She never appeared again.

After waiting some time Mrs. Clements became alarmed, and ordered the
cabman to drive back to her lodgings. When she got there, after an
absence of rather more than half an hour, Anne was gone.

The only information to be obtained from the people of the house was
derived from the servant who waited on the lodgers. She had opened the
door to a boy from the street, who had left a letter for “the young
woman who lived on the second floor” (the part of the house which Mrs.
Clements occupied). The servant had delivered the letter, had then
gone downstairs, and five minutes afterwards had observed Anne open
the front door and go out, dressed in her bonnet and shawl. She had
probably taken the letter with her, for it was not to be found, and it
was therefore impossible to tell what inducement had been offered to
make her leave the house. It must have been a strong one, for she would
never stir out alone in London of her own accord. If Mrs. Clements had
not known this by experience nothing would have induced her to go away
in the cab, even for so short a time as half an hour only.

As soon as she could collect her thoughts, the first idea that
naturally occurred to Mrs. Clements was to go and make inquiries at the
Asylum, to which she dreaded that Anne had been taken back.

She went there the next day, having been informed of the locality in
which the house was situated by Anne herself. The answer she received
(her application having in all probability been made a day or two
before the false Anne Catherick had really been consigned to safe
keeping in the Asylum) was, that no such person had been brought back
there. She had then written to Mrs. Catherick at Welmingham to know if
she had seen or heard anything of her daughter, and had received an
answer in the negative. After that reply had reached her, she was at
the end of her resources, and perfectly ignorant where else to inquire
or what else to do. From that time to this she had remained in total
ignorance of the cause of Anne’s disappearance and of the end of Anne’s
story.



VII


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 glimmering on me—far off,
as yet—in the good woman’s recollections of Anne’s early life?

“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 two miles off, convenient to the
river—and Old Welmingham, which was never much more than a village, got
in time to be deserted. The new town is the place they call Welmingham
now—but the old parish church is the parish church still. It stands by
itself, with the houses pulled down or gone to ruin all round it. I’ve
lived to see sad changes. It was a pleasant, pretty place in my time.”

“Did you live there before your marriage, Mrs. Clements?”

“No, sir—I’m a Norfolk woman. It wasn’t the place my husband belonged
to either. He was from Grimsby, as I told you, and he served his
apprenticeship there. But having friends down south, and hearing of
an opening, he got into business at Southampton. It was in a small
way, but he made enough for a plain man to retire on, and settled at
Old Welmingham. I went there with him when he married me. We were
neither of us young, but we lived very happy together—happier than our
neighbour, Mr. Catherick, lived along with his wife when they came to
Old Welmingham a year or two afterwards.”

“Was your husband acquainted with them before that?”

“With Catherick, sir—not with his wife. She was a stranger to both of
us. Some gentlemen had made interest for Catherick, and he got the
situation of clerk at Welmingham church, which was the reason of his
coming to settle in our neighbourhood. He brought his newly-married
wife along with him, and we heard in course of time she had been
lady’s-maid in a family that lived at Varneck Hall, near Southampton.
Catherick had found it a hard matter to get her to marry him, in
consequence of her holding herself uncommonly high. He had asked and
asked, and given the thing up at last, seeing she was so contrary about
it. When he HAD given it up she turned contrary just the other way, and
came to him of her own accord, without rhyme or reason seemingly. My
poor husband always said that was the time to have given her a lesson.
But Catherick was too fond of her to do anything of the sort—he never
checked her either before they were married or after. He was a quick
man in his feelings, letting them carry him a deal too far, now in one
way and now in another, and he would have spoilt a better wife than
Mrs. Catherick if a better had married him. I don’t like to speak ill
of any one, sir, but she was a heartless woman, with a terrible will
of her own—fond of foolish admiration and fine clothes, and not caring
to show so much as decent outward respect to Catherick, kindly as he
always treated her. My husband said he thought things would turn out
badly when they first came to live near us, and his words proved true.
Before they had been quite four months in our neighbourhood there was a
dreadful scandal and a miserable break-up in their household. Both of
them were in fault—I am afraid both of them were equally in fault.”

“You mean both husband and wife?”

“Oh, no, sir! I don’t mean Catherick—he was only to be pitied. I meant
his wife and the person—”

“And the person who caused the scandal?”

“Yes, sir. A gentleman born and brought up, who ought to have set a
better example. You know him, sir—and my poor dear Anne knew him only
too well.”

“Sir Percival Glyde?”

“Yes, Sir Percival Glyde.”

My heart beat fast—I thought I had my hand on the clue. How little I
knew then of the windings of the labyrinths which were still to mislead
me!

“Did Sir Percival live in your neighbourhood at that time?” I asked.

“No, sir. He came among us as a stranger. His father had died not long
before in foreign parts. I remember he was in mourning. He put up at
the little inn on the river (they have pulled it down since that time),
where gentlemen used to go to fish. He wasn’t much noticed when he
first came—it was a common thing enough for gentlemen to travel from
all parts of England to fish in our river.”

“Did he make his appearance in the village before Anne was born?”

“Yes, sir. Anne was born in the June month of eighteen hundred and
twenty-seven—and I think he came at the end of April or the beginning
of May.”

“Came as a stranger to all of you? A stranger to Mrs. Catherick as well
as to the rest of the neighbours?”

“So we thought at first, sir. But when the scandal broke out, nobody
believed they were strangers. I remember how it happened as well as if
it was yesterday. Catherick came into our garden one night, and woke us
by throwing up a handful of gravel from the walk at our window. I heard
him beg my husband, for the Lord’s sake, to come down and speak to him.
They were a long time together talking in the porch. When my husband
came back upstairs he was all of a tremble. He sat down on the side of
the bed and he says to me, ‘Lizzie! I always told you that woman was
a bad one—I always said she would end ill, and I’m afraid in my own
mind that the end has come already. Catherick has found a lot of lace
handkerchiefs, and two fine rings, and a new gold watch and chain, hid
away in his wife’s drawer—things that nobody but a born lady ought ever
to have—and his wife won’t say how she came by them.’ ‘Does he think
she stole them?’ says I. ‘No,’ says he, ‘stealing would be bad enough.
But it’s worse than that, she’s had no chance of stealing such things
as those, and she’s not a woman to take them if she had. They’re gifts,
Lizzie—there’s her own initials engraved inside the watch—and Catherick
has seen her talking privately, and carrying on as no married woman
should, with that gentleman in mourning, Sir Percival Glyde. Don’t you
say anything about it—I’ve quieted Catherick for to-night. I’ve told
him to keep his tongue to himself, and his eyes and his ears open, and
to wait a day or two, till he can be quite certain.’ ‘I believe you
are both of you wrong,’ says I. ‘It’s not in nature, comfortable and
respectable as she is here, that Mrs. Catherick should take up with a
chance stranger like Sir Percival Glyde.’ ‘Ay, but is he a stranger to
her?’ says my husband. ‘You forget how Catherick’s wife came to marry
him. She went to him of her own accord, after saying No over and over
again when he asked her. There have been wicked women before her time,
Lizzie, who have used honest men who loved them as a means of saving
their characters, and I’m sorely afraid this Mrs. Catherick is as
wicked as the worst of them. We shall see,’ says my husband, ‘we shall
soon see.’ And only two days afterwards we did see.”

Mrs. Clements waited for a moment before she went on. Even in that
moment, I began to doubt whether the clue that I thought I had found
was really leading me to the central mystery of the labyrinth after
all. Was this common, too common, story of a man’s treachery and a
woman’s frailty the key to a secret which had been the lifelong terror
of Sir Percival Glyde?

“Well, sir, Catherick took my husband’s advice and waited,” Mrs.
Clements continued. “And as I told you, he hadn’t long to wait. On
the second day he found his wife and Sir Percival whispering together
quite familiar, close under the vestry of the church. I suppose they
thought the neighbourhood of the vestry was the last place in the world
where anybody would think of looking after them, but, however that
may be, there they were. Sir Percival, being seemingly surprised and
confounded, defended himself in such a guilty way that poor Catherick
(whose quick temper I have told you of already) fell into a kind of
frenzy at his own disgrace, and struck Sir Percival. He was no match
(and I am sorry to say it) for the man who had wronged him, and he was
beaten in the cruelest manner, before the neighbours, who had come to
the place on hearing the disturbance, could run in to part them. All
this happened towards evening, and before nightfall, when my husband
went to Catherick’s house, he was gone, nobody knew where. No living
soul in the village ever saw him again. He knew too well, by that time,
what his wife’s vile reason had been for marrying him, and he felt his
misery and disgrace, especially after what had happened to him with Sir
Percival, too keenly. The clergyman of the parish put an advertisement
in the paper begging him to come back, and saying that he should not
lose his situation or his friends. But Catherick had too much pride and
spirit, as some people said—too much feeling, as I think, sir—to face
his neighbours again, and try to live down the memory of his disgrace.
My husband heard from him when he had left England, and heard a second
time, when he was settled and doing well in America. He is alive there
now, as far as I know, but none of us in the old country—his wicked
wife least of all—are ever likely to set eyes on him again.”

“What became of Sir Percival?” I inquired. “Did he stay in the
neighbourhood?”

“Not he, sir. The place was too hot to hold him. He was heard at high
words with Mrs. Catherick the same night when the scandal broke out,
and the next morning he took himself off.”

“And Mrs. Catherick? Surely she never remained in the village among the
people who knew of her disgrace?”

“She did, sir. She was hard enough and heartless enough to set the
opinions of all her neighbours at flat defiance. She declared to
everybody, from the clergyman downwards, that she was the victim of a
dreadful mistake, and that all the scandal-mongers in the place should
not drive her out of it, as if she was a guilty woman. All through my
time she lived at Old Welmingham, and after my time, when the new town
was building, and the respectable neighbours began moving to it, she
moved too, as if she was determined to live among them and scandalise
them to the very last. There she is now, and there she will stop, in
defiance of the best of them, to her dying day.”

“But how has she lived through all these years?” I asked. “Was her
husband able and willing to help her?”

“Both able and willing, sir,” said Mrs. Clements. “In the second letter
he wrote to my good man, he said she had borne his name, and lived in
his home, and, wicked as she was, she must not starve like a beggar in
the street. He could afford to make her some small allowance, and she
might draw for it quarterly at a place in London.”

“Did she accept the allowance?”

“Not a farthing of it, sir. She said she would never be beholden to
Catherick for bit or drop, if she lived to be a hundred. And she has
kept her word ever since. When my poor dear husband died, and left
all to me, Catherick’s letter was put in my possession with the other
things, and I told her to let me know if she was ever in want. ‘I’ll
let all England know I’m in want,’ she said, ‘before I tell Catherick,
or any friend of Catherick’s. Take that for your answer, and give it to
HIM for an answer, if he ever writes again.’”

“Do you suppose that she had money of her own?”

“Very little, if any, sir. It was said, and said truly, I am afraid,
that her means of living came privately from Sir Percival Glyde.”


After that last reply I waited a little, to reconsider what I had
heard. If I unreservedly accepted the story so far, it was now plain
that no approach, direct or indirect, to the Secret had yet been
revealed to me, and that the pursuit of my object had ended again
in leaving me face to face with the most palpable and the most
disheartening failure.

But there was one point in the narrative which made me doubt the
propriety of accepting it unreservedly, and which suggested the idea of
something hidden below the surface.

I could not account to myself for the circumstance of the clerk’s
guilty wife voluntarily living out all her after-existence on the scene
of her disgrace. The woman’s own reported statement that she had taken
this strange course as a practical assertion of her innocence did not
satisfy me. It seemed, to my mind, more natural and more probable to
assume that she was not so completely a free agent in this matter as
she had herself asserted. In that case, who was the likeliest person
to possess the power of compelling her to remain at Welmingham? The
person unquestionably from whom she derived the means of living. She
had refused assistance from her husband, she had no adequate resources
of her own, she was a friendless, degraded woman—from what source
should she derive help but from the source at which report pointed—Sir
Percival Glyde?

Reasoning on these assumptions, and always bearing in mind the one
certain fact to guide me, that Mrs. Catherick was in possession of the
Secret, I easily understood that it was Sir Percival’s interest to keep
her at Welmingham, because her character in that place was certain
to isolate her from all communication with female neighbours, and to
allow her no opportunities of talking incautiously in moments of free
intercourse with inquisitive bosom friends. But what was the mystery
to be concealed? Not Sir Percival’s infamous connection with Mrs.
Catherick’s disgrace, for the neighbours were the very people who knew
of it—not the suspicion that he was Anne’s father, for Welmingham was
the place in which that suspicion must inevitably exist. If I accepted
the guilty appearances described to me as unreservedly as others had
accepted them, if I drew from them the same superficial conclusion
which Mr. Catherick and all his neighbours had drawn, where was the
suggestion, in all that I had heard, of a dangerous secret between Sir
Percival and Mrs. Catherick, which had been kept hidden from that time
to this?

And yet, in those stolen meetings, in those familiar whisperings
between the clerk’s wife and “the gentleman in mourning,” the clue to
discovery existed beyond a doubt.

Was it possible that appearances in this case had pointed one way while
the truth lay all the while unsuspected in another direction? Could
Mrs. Catherick’s assertion, that she was the victim of a dreadful
mistake, by any possibility be true? Or, assuming it to be false, could
the conclusion which associated Sir Percival with her guilt have been
founded in some inconceivable error? Had Sir Percival, by any chance,
courted the suspicion that was wrong for the sake of diverting from
himself some other suspicion that was right? Here—if I could find
it—here was the approach to the Secret, hidden deep under the surface
of the apparently unpromising story which I had just heard.


My next questions were now directed to the one object of ascertaining
whether Mr. Catherick had or had not arrived truly at the conviction
of his wife’s misconduct. The answers I received from Mrs. Clements
left me in no doubt whatever on that point. Mrs. Catherick had, on the
clearest evidence, compromised her reputation, while a single woman,
with some person unknown, and had married to save her character. It had
been positively ascertained, by calculations of time and place into
which I need not enter particularly, that the daughter who bore her
husband’s name was not her husband’s child.

The next object of inquiry, whether it was equally certain that Sir
Percival must have been the father of Anne, was beset by far greater
difficulties. I was in no position to try the probabilities on one side
or on the other in this instance by any better test than the test of
personal resemblance.

“I suppose you often saw Sir Percival when he was in your village?” I
said.

“Yes, sir, very often,” replied Mrs. Clements.

“Did you ever observe that Anne was like him?”

“She was not at all like him, sir.”

“Was she like her mother, then?”

“Not like her mother either, sir. Mrs. Catherick was dark, and full in
the face.”

Not like her mother and not like her (supposed) father. I knew that
the test by personal resemblance was not to be implicitly trusted,
but, on the other hand, it was not to be altogether rejected on that
account. Was it possible to strengthen the evidence by discovering any
conclusive facts in relation to the lives of Mrs. Catherick and Sir
Percival before they either of them appeared at Old Welmingham? When I
asked my next questions I put them with this view.

“When Sir Percival first arrived in your neighbourhood,” I said, “did
you hear where he had come from last?”

“No, sir. Some said from Blackwater Park, and some said from
Scotland—but nobody knew.”

“Was Mrs. Catherick living in service at Varneck Hall immediately
before her marriage?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And had she been long in her place?”

“Three or four years, sir; I am not quite certain which.”

“Did you ever hear the name of the gentleman to whom Varneck Hall
belonged at that time?”

“Yes, sir. His name was Major Donthorne.”

“Did Mr. Catherick, or did any one else you knew, ever hear that Sir
Percival was a friend of Major Donthorne’s, or ever see Sir Percival in
the neighbourhood of Varneck Hall?”

“Catherick never did, sir, that I can remember—nor any one else either,
that I know of.”

I noted down Major Donthorne’s name and address, on the chance that
he might still be alive, and that it might be useful at some future
time to apply to him. Meanwhile, the impression on my mind was now
decidedly adverse to the opinion that Sir Percival was Anne’s father,
and decidedly favourable to the conclusion that the secret of his
stolen interviews with Mrs. Catherick was entirely unconnected with the
disgrace which the woman had inflicted on her husband’s good name. I
could think of no further inquiries which I might make to strengthen
this impression—I could only encourage Mrs. Clements to speak next of
Anne’s early days, and watch for any chance-suggestion which might in
this way offer itself to me.

“I have not heard yet,” I said, “how the poor child, born in all this
sin and misery, came to be trusted, Mrs. Clements, to your care.”

“There was nobody else, sir, to take the little helpless creature in
hand,” replied Mrs. Clements. “The wicked mother seemed to hate it—as
if the poor baby was in fault!—from the day it was born. My heart was
heavy for the child, and I made the offer to bring it up as tenderly as
if it was my own.”

“Did Anne remain entirely under your care from that time?”

“Not quite entirely, sir. Mrs. Catherick had her whims and fancies
about it at times, and used now and then to lay claim to the child, as
if she wanted to spite me for bringing it up. But these fits of hers
never lasted for long. Poor little Anne was always returned to me,
and was always glad to get back—though she led but a gloomy life in
my house, having no playmates, like other children, to brighten her
up. Our longest separation was when her mother took her to Limmeridge.
Just at that time I lost my husband, and I felt it was as well, in
that miserable affliction, that Anne should not be in the house. She
was between ten and eleven years old then, slow at her lessons, poor
soul, and not so cheerful as other children—but as pretty a little
girl to look at as you would wish to see. I waited at home till her
mother brought her back, and then I made the offer to take her with me
to London—the truth being, sir, that I could not find it in my heart
to stop at Old Welmingham after my husband’s death, the place was so
changed and so dismal to me.”

“And did Mrs. Catherick consent to your proposal?”

“No, sir. She came back from the north harder and bitterer than ever.
Folks did say that she had been obliged to ask Sir Percival’s leave to
go, to begin with; and that she only went to nurse her dying sister at
Limmeridge because the poor woman was reported to have saved money—the
truth being that she hardly left enough to bury her. These things may
have soured Mrs. Catherick likely enough, but however that may be,
she wouldn’t hear of my taking the child away. She seemed to like
distressing us both by parting us. All I could do was to give Anne my
direction, and to tell her privately, if she was ever in trouble, to
come to me. But years passed before she was free to come. I never saw
her again, poor soul, till the night she escaped from the mad-house.”

“You know, Mrs. Clements, why Sir Percival Glyde shut her up?”

“I only know what Anne herself told me, sir. The poor thing used to
ramble and wander about it sadly. She said her mother had got some
secret of Sir Percival’s to keep, and had let it out to her long after
I left Hampshire—and when Sir Percival found she knew it, he shut her
up. But she never could say what it was when I asked her. All she could
tell me was, that her mother might be the ruin and destruction of Sir
Percival if she chose. Mrs. Catherick may have let out just as much as
that, and no more. I’m next to certain I should have heard the whole
truth from Anne, if she had really known it as she pretended to do, and
as she very likely fancied she did, poor soul.”

This idea had more than once occurred to my own mind. I had already
told Marian that I doubted whether Laura was really on the point
of making any important discovery when she and Anne Catherick were
disturbed by Count Fosco at the boat-house. It was perfectly in
character with Anne’s mental affliction that she should assume an
absolute knowledge of the secret on no better grounds than vague
suspicion, derived from hints which her mother had incautiously let
drop in her presence. Sir Percival’s guilty distrust would, in that
case, infallibly inspire him with the false idea that Anne knew all
from her mother, just as it had afterwards fixed in his mind the
equally false suspicion that his wife knew all from Anne.

The time was passing, the morning was wearing away. It was doubtful, if
I stayed longer, whether I should hear anything more from Mrs. Clements
that would be at all useful to my purpose. I had already discovered
those local and family particulars, in relation to Mrs. Catherick, of
which I had been in search, and I had arrived at certain conclusions,
entirely new to me, which might immensely assist in directing the
course of my future proceedings. I rose to take my leave, and to thank
Mrs. Clements for the friendly readiness she had shown in affording me
information.

“I am afraid you must have thought me very inquisitive,” I said. “I
have troubled you with more questions than many people would have cared
to answer.”

“You are heartily welcome, sir, to anything I can tell you,” answered
Mrs. Clements. She stopped and looked at me wistfully. “But I do wish,”
said the poor woman, “you could have told me a little more about Anne,
sir. I thought I saw something in your face when you came in which
looked as if you could. You can’t think how hard it is not even to know
whether she is living or dead. I could bear it better if I was only
certain. You said you never expected we should see her alive again. Do
you know, sir—do you know for truth—that it has pleased God to take
her?”

I was not proof against this appeal; it would have been unspeakably
mean and cruel of me if I had resisted it.

“I am afraid there is no doubt of the truth,” I answered gently; “I
have the certainty in my own mind that her troubles in this world are
over.”

The poor woman dropped into her chair and hid her face from me. “Oh,
sir,” she said, “how do you know it? Who can have told you?”

“No one has told me, Mrs. Clements. But I have reasons for feeling sure
of it—reasons which I promise you shall know as soon as I can safely
explain them. I am certain she was not neglected in her last moments—I
am certain the heart complaint from which she suffered so sadly was
the true cause of her death. You shall feel as sure of this as I do,
soon—you shall know, before long, that she is buried in a quiet country
churchyard—in a pretty, peaceful place, which you might have chosen for
her yourself.”

“Dead!” said Mrs. Clements, “dead so young, and I am left to hear it! I
made her first short frocks. I taught her to walk. The first time she
ever said Mother she said it to me—and now I am left and Anne is taken!
Did you say, sir,” said the poor woman, removing the handkerchief from
her face, and looking up at me for the first time, “did you say that
she had been nicely buried? Was it the sort of funeral she might have
had if she had really been my own child?”

I assured her that it was. She seemed to take an inexplicable pride
in my answer—to find a comfort in it which no other and higher
considerations could afford. “It would have broken my heart,” she said
simply, “if Anne had not been nicely buried—but how do you know it,
sir? who told you?” I once more entreated her to wait until I could
speak to her unreservedly. “You are sure to see me again,” I said, “for
I have a favour to ask when you are a little more composed—perhaps in a
day or two.”

“Don’t keep it waiting, sir, on my account,” said Mrs. Clements. “Never
mind my crying if I can be of use. If you have anything on your mind to
say to me, sir, please to say it now.”

“I only wish to ask you one last question,” I said. “I only want to
know Mrs. Catherick’s address at Welmingham.”

My request so startled Mrs. Clements, that, for the moment, even the
tidings of Anne’s death seemed to be driven from her mind. Her tears
suddenly ceased to flow, and she sat looking at me in blank amazement.

“For the Lord’s sake, sir!” she said, “what do you want with Mrs.
Catherick!”

“I want this, Mrs. Clements,” I replied, “I want to know the secret
of those private meetings of hers with Sir Percival Glyde. There is
something more in what you have told me of that woman’s past conduct,
and of that man’s past relations with her, than you or any of your
neighbours ever suspected. There is a secret we none of us know between
those two, and I am going to Mrs. Catherick with the resolution to find
it out.”

“Think twice about it, sir!” said Mrs. Clements, rising in her
earnestness and laying her hand on my arm. “She’s an awful woman—you
don’t know her as I do. Think twice about it.”

“I am sure your warning is kindly meant, Mrs. Clements. But I am
determined to see the woman, whatever comes of it.”

Mrs. Clements looked me anxiously in the face.

“I see your mind is made up, sir,” she said. “I will give you the
address.”

I wrote it down in my pocket-book and then took her hand to say
farewell.

“You shall hear from me soon,” I said; “you shall know all that I have
promised to tell you.”

Mrs. Clements sighed and shook her head doubtfully.

“An old woman’s advice is sometimes worth taking, sir,” she said.
“Think twice before you go to Welmingham.”



VIII


When I reached home again after my interview with Mrs. Clements, I was
struck by the appearance of a change in Laura.

The unvarying gentleness and patience which long misfortune had tried
so cruelly and had never conquered yet, seemed now to have suddenly
failed her. Insensible to all Marian’s attempts to soothe and amuse
her, she sat, with her neglected drawing pushed away on the table, her
eyes resolutely cast down, her fingers twining and untwining themselves
restlessly in her lap. Marian rose when I came in, with a silent
distress in her face, waited for a moment to see if Laura would look up
at my approach, whispered to me, “Try if you can rouse her,” and left
the room.

I sat down in the vacant chair—gently unclasped the poor, worn,
restless fingers, and took both her hands in mine.

“What are you thinking of, Laura? Tell me, my darling—try and tell me
what it is.”

She struggled with herself, and raised her eyes to mine. “I can’t feel
happy,” she said, “I can’t help thinking——” She stopped, bent forward
a little, and laid her head on my shoulder, with a terrible mute
helplessness that struck me to the heart.

“Try to tell me,” I repeated gently; “try to tell me why you are not
happy.”

“I am so useless—I am such a burden on both of you,” she answered, with
a weary, hopeless sigh. “You work and get money, Walter, and Marian
helps you. Why is there nothing I can do? You will end in liking Marian
better than you like me—you will, because I am so helpless! Oh, don’t,
don’t, don’t treat me like a child!”

I raised her head, and smoothed away the tangled hair that fell over
her face, and kissed her—my poor, faded flower! my lost, afflicted
sister! “You shall help us, Laura,” I said, “you shall begin, my
darling, to-day.”

She looked at me with a feverish eagerness, with a breathless interest,
that made me tremble for the new life of hope which I had called into
being by those few words.

I rose, and set her drawing materials in order, and placed them near
her again.

“You know that I work and get money by drawing,” I said. “Now you have
taken such pains, now you are so much improved, you shall begin to
work and get money too. Try to finish this little sketch as nicely and
prettily as you can. When it is done I will take it away with me, and
the same person will buy it who buys all that I do. You shall keep your
own earnings in your own purse, and Marian shall come to you to help
us, as often as she comes to me. Think how useful you are going to make
yourself to both of us, and you will soon be as happy, Laura, as the
day is long.”

Her face grew eager, and brightened into a smile. In the moment while
it lasted, in the moment when she again took up the pencils that had
been laid aside, she almost looked like the Laura of past days.

I had rightly interpreted the first signs of a new growth and strength
in her mind, unconsciously expressing themselves in the notice she
had taken of the occupations which filled her sister’s life and mine.
Marian (when I told her what had passed) saw, as I saw, that she was
longing to assume her own little position of importance, to raise
herself in her own estimation and in ours—and, from that day, we
tenderly helped the new ambition which gave promise of the hopeful,
happier future, that might now not be far off. Her drawings, as she
finished them, or tried to finish them, were placed in my hands. Marian
took them from me and hid them carefully, and I set aside a little
weekly tribute from my earnings, to be offered to her as the price
paid by strangers for the poor, faint, valueless sketches, of which I
was the only purchaser. It was hard sometimes to maintain our innocent
deception, when she proudly brought out her purse to contribute her
share towards the expenses, and wondered with serious interest,
whether I or she had earned the most that week. I have all those
hidden drawings in my possession still—they are my treasures beyond
price—the dear remembrances that I love to keep alive—the friends in
past adversity that my heart will never part from, my tenderness never
forget.

Am I trifling, here, with the necessities of my task? am I looking
forward to the happier time which my narrative has not yet reached?
Yes. Back again—back to the days of doubt and dread, when the spirit
within me struggled hard for its life, in the icy stillness of
perpetual suspense. I have paused and rested for a while on my forward
course. It is not, perhaps, time wasted, if the friends who read these
pages have paused and rested too.


I took the first opportunity I could find of speaking to Marian in
private, and of communicating to her the result of the inquiries which
I had made that morning. She seemed to share the opinion on the subject
of my proposed journey to Welmingham, which Mrs. Clements had already
expressed to me.

“Surely, Walter,” she said, “you hardly know enough yet to give you any
hope of claiming Mrs. Catherick’s confidence? Is it wise to proceed
to these extremities, before you have really exhausted all safer and
simpler means of attaining your object? When you told me that Sir
Percival and the Count were the only two people in existence who knew
the exact date of Laura’s journey, you forgot, and I forgot, that there
was a third person who must surely know it—I mean Mrs. Rubelle. Would
it not be far easier, and far less dangerous, to insist on a confession
from her, than to force it from Sir Percival?”

“It might be easier,” I replied, “but we are not aware of the full
extent of Mrs. Rubelle’s connivance and interest in the conspiracy,
and we are therefore not certain that the date has been impressed
on her mind, as it has been assuredly impressed on the minds of Sir
Percival and the Count. It is too late, now, to waste the time on
Mrs. Rubelle, which may be all-important to the discovery of the one
assailable point in Sir Percival’s life. Are you thinking a little too
seriously, Marian, of the risk I may run in returning to Hampshire? Are
you beginning to doubt whether Sir Percival Glyde may not in the end be
more than a match for me?”

“He will not be more than your match,” she replied decidedly, “because
he will not be helped in resisting you by the impenetrable wickedness
of the Count.”

“What has led you to that conclusion?” I replied, in some surprise.

“My own knowledge of Sir Percival’s obstinacy and impatience of the
Count’s control,” she answered. “I believe he will insist on meeting
you single-handed—just as he insisted at first on acting for himself at
Blackwater Park. The time for suspecting the Count’s interference will
be the time when you have Sir Percival at your mercy. His own interests
will then be directly threatened, and he will act, Walter, to terrible
purpose in his own defence.”

“We may deprive him of his weapons beforehand,” I said. “Some of the
particulars I have heard from Mrs. Clements may yet be turned to
account against him, and other means of strengthening the case may
be at our disposal. There are passages in Mrs. Michelson’s narrative
which show that the Count found it necessary to place himself in
communication with Mr. Fairlie, and there may be circumstances which
compromise him in that proceeding. While I am away, Marian, write to
Mr. Fairlie and say that you want an answer describing exactly what
passed between the Count and himself, and informing you also of any
particulars that may have come to his knowledge at the same time in
connection with his niece. Tell him that the statement you request
will, sooner or later, be insisted on, if he shows any reluctance to
furnish you with it of his own accord.”

“The letter shall be written, Walter. But are you really determined to
go to Welmingham?”

“Absolutely determined. I will devote the next two days to earning what
we want for the week to come, and on the third day I go to Hampshire.”

When the third day came I was ready for my journey.

As it was possible that I might be absent for some little time, I
arranged with Marian that we were to correspond every day—of course
addressing each other by assumed names, for caution’s sake. As long as
I heard from her regularly, I should assume that nothing was wrong. But
if the morning came and brought me no letter, my return to London would
take place, as a matter of course, by the first train. I contrived to
reconcile Laura to my departure by telling her that I was going to
the country to find new purchasers for her drawings and for mine, and
I left her occupied and happy. Marian followed me downstairs to the
street door.

“Remember what anxious hearts you leave here,” she whispered, as we
stood together in the passage. “Remember all the hopes that hang on
your safe return. If strange things happen to you on this journey—if
you and Sir Percival meet——”

“What makes you think we shall meet?” I asked.

“I don’t know—I have fears and fancies that I cannot account for. Laugh
at them, Walter, if you like—but, for God’s sake, keep your temper if
you come in contact with that man!”

“Never fear, Marian! I answer for my self-control.”

With those words we parted.

I walked briskly to the station. There was a glow of hope in me. There
was a growing conviction in my mind that my journey this time would not
be taken in vain. It was a fine, clear, cold morning. My nerves were
firmly strung, and I felt all the strength of my resolution stirring in
me vigorously from head to foot.

As I crossed the railway platform, and looked right and left among the
people congregated on it, to search for any faces among them that I
knew, the doubt occurred to me whether it might not have been to my
advantage if I had adopted a disguise before setting out for Hampshire.
But there was something so repellent to me in the idea—something so
meanly like the common herd of spies and informers in the mere act of
adopting a disguise—that I dismissed the question from consideration
almost as soon as it had risen in my mind. Even as a mere matter of
expediency the proceeding was doubtful in the extreme. If I tried the
experiment at home the landlord of the house would sooner or later
discover me, and would have his suspicions aroused immediately. If I
tried it away from home the same persons might see me, by the commonest
accident, with the disguise and without it, and I should in that way
be inviting the notice and distrust which it was my most pressing
interest to avoid. In my own character I had acted thus far—and in my
own character I was resolved to continue to the end.

The train left me at Welmingham early in the afternoon.


Is there any wilderness of sand in the deserts of Arabia, is there any
prospect of desolation among the ruins of Palestine, which can rival
the repelling effect on the eye, and the depressing influence on the
mind, of an English country town in the first stage of its existence,
and in the transition state of its prosperity? I asked myself that
question as I passed through the clean desolation, the neat ugliness,
the prim torpor of the streets of Welmingham. And the tradesmen who
stared after me from their lonely shops—the trees that drooped helpless
in their arid exile of unfinished crescents and squares—the dead
house-carcasses that waited in vain for the vivifying human element to
animate them with the breath of life—every creature that I saw, every
object that I passed, seemed to answer with one accord: The deserts of
Arabia are innocent of our civilised desolation—the ruins of Palestine
are incapable of our modern gloom!

I inquired my way to the quarter of the town in which Mrs. Catherick
lived, and on reaching it found myself in a square of small houses,
one story high. There was a bare little plot of grass in the middle,
protected by a cheap wire fence. An elderly nursemaid and two children
were standing in a corner of the enclosure, looking at a lean goat
tethered to the grass. Two foot-passengers were talking together on
one side of the pavement before the houses, and an idle little boy was
leading an idle little dog along by a string on the other. I heard the
dull tinkling of a piano at a distance, accompanied by the intermittent
knocking of a hammer nearer at hand. These were all the sights and
sounds of life that encountered me when I entered the square.

I walked at once to the door of Number Thirteen—the number of Mrs.
Catherick’s house—and knocked, without waiting to consider beforehand
how I might best present myself when I got in. The first necessity was
to see Mrs. Catherick. I could then judge, from my own observation, of
the safest and easiest manner of approaching the object of my visit.

The door was opened by a melancholy middle-aged woman servant. I gave
her my card, and asked if I could see Mrs. Catherick. The card was
taken into the front parlour, and the servant returned with a message
requesting me to mention what my business was.

“Say, if you please, that my business relates to Mrs. Catherick’s
daughter,” I replied. This was the best pretext I could think of, on
the spur of the moment, to account for my visit.

The servant again retired to the parlour, again returned, and this time
begged me, with a look of gloomy amazement, to walk in.

I entered a little room, with a flaring paper of the largest pattern on
the walls. Chairs, tables, cheffonier, and sofa, all gleamed with the
glutinous brightness of cheap upholstery. On the largest table, in the
middle of the room, stood a smart Bible, placed exactly in the centre
on a red and yellow woollen mat and at the side of the table nearest to
the window, with a little knitting-basket on her lap, and a wheezing,
blear-eyed old spaniel crouched at her feet, there sat an elderly
woman, wearing a black net cap and a black silk gown, and having
slate-coloured mittens on her hands. Her iron-grey hair hung in heavy
bands on either side of her face—her dark eyes looked straight forward,
with a hard, defiant, implacable stare. She had full square cheeks, a
long, firm chin, and thick, sensual, colourless lips. Her figure was
stout and sturdy, and her manner aggressively self-possessed. This was
Mrs. Catherick.

“You have come to speak to me about my daughter,” she said, before I
could utter a word on my side. “Be so good as to mention what you have
to say.”

The tone of her voice was as hard, as defiant, as implacable as the
expression of her eyes. She pointed to a chair, and looked me all over
attentively, from head to foot, as I sat down in it. I saw that my only
chance with this woman was to speak to her in her own tone, and to meet
her, at the outset of our interview, on her own ground.

“You are aware,” I said, “that your daughter has been lost?”

“I am perfectly aware of it.”

“Have you felt any apprehension that the misfortune of her loss might
be followed by the misfortune of her death?”

“Yes. Have you come here to tell me she is dead?”

“I have.”

“Why?”

She put that extraordinary question without the slightest change in
her voice, her face, or her manner. She could not have appeared more
perfectly unconcerned if I had told her of the death of the goat in the
enclosure outside.

“Why?” I repeated. “Do you ask why I come here to tell you of your
daughter’s death?”

“Yes. What interest have you in me, or in her? How do you come to know
anything about my daughter?”

“In this way. I met her on the night when she escaped from the Asylum,
and I assisted her in reaching a place of safety.”

“You did very wrong.”

“I am sorry to hear her mother say so.”

“Her mother does say so. How do you know she is dead?”

“I am not at liberty to say how I know it—but I DO know it.”

“Are you at liberty to say how you found out my address?”

“Certainly. I got your address from Mrs. Clements.”

“Mrs. Clements is a foolish woman. Did she tell you to come here?”

“She did not.”

“Then, I ask you again, why did you come?”

As she was determined to have her answer, I gave it to her in the
plainest possible form.

“I came,” I said, “because I thought Anne Catherick’s mother might have
some natural interest in knowing whether she was alive or dead.”

“Just so,” said Mrs. Catherick, with additional self-possession. “Had
you no other motive?”

I hesitated. The right answer to that question was not easy to find at
a moment’s notice.

“If you have no other motive,” she went on, deliberately taking off her
slate-coloured mittens, and rolling them up, “I have only to thank you
for your visit, and to say that I will not detain you here any longer.
Your information would be more satisfactory if you were willing to
explain how you became possessed of it. However, it justifies me, I
suppose, in going into mourning. There is not much alteration necessary
in my dress, as you see. When I have changed my mittens, I shall be all
in black.”

She searched in the pocket of her gown, drew out a pair of black lace
mittens, put them on with the stoniest and steadiest composure, and
then quietly crossed her hands in her lap.

“I wish you good morning,” she said.

The cool contempt of her manner irritated me into directly avowing that
the purpose of my visit had not been answered yet.

“I HAVE another motive in coming here,” I said.

“Ah! I thought so,” remarked Mrs. Catherick.

“Your daughter’s death——”

“What did she die of?”

“Of disease of the heart.”

“Yes. Go on.”

“Your daughter’s death has been made the pretext for inflicting serious
injury on a person who is very dear to me. Two men have been concerned,
to my certain knowledge, in doing that wrong. One of them is Sir
Percival Glyde.”

“Indeed!”

I looked attentively to see if she flinched at the sudden mention of
that name. Not a muscle of her stirred—the hard, defiant, implacable
stare in her eyes never wavered for an instant.

“You may wonder,” I went on, “how the event of your daughter’s death
can have been made the means of inflicting injury on another person.”

“No,” said Mrs. Catherick; “I don’t wonder at all. This appears to be
your affair. You are interested in my affairs. I am not interested in
yours.”

“You may ask, then,” I persisted, “why I mention the matter in your
presence.”

“Yes, I DO ask that.”

“I mention it because I am determined to bring Sir Percival Glyde to
account for the wickedness he has committed.”

“What have I to do with your determination?”

“You shall hear. There are certain events in Sir Percival’s past life
which it is necessary for my purpose to be fully acquainted with. YOU
know them—and for that reason I come to YOU.”

“What events do you mean?”

“Events that occurred at Old Welmingham when your husband was
parish-clerk at that place, and before the time when your daughter was
born.”

I had reached the woman at last through the barrier of impenetrable
reserve that she had tried to set up between us. I saw her temper
smouldering in her eyes—as plainly as I saw her hands grow restless,
then unclasp themselves, and begin mechanically smoothing her dress
over her knees.

“What do you know of those events?” she asked.

“All that Mrs. Clements could tell me,” I answered.

There was a momentary flush on her firm square face, a momentary
stillness in her restless hands, which seemed to betoken a coming
outburst of anger that might throw her off her guard. But no—she
mastered the rising irritation, leaned back in her chair, crossed her
arms on her broad bosom, and with a smile of grim sarcasm on her thick
lips, looked at me as steadily as ever.

“Ah! I begin to understand it all now,” she said, her tamed and
disciplined anger only expressing itself in the elaborate mockery of
her tone and manner. “You have got a grudge of your own against Sir
Percival Glyde, and I must help you to wreak it. I must tell you this,
that, and the other about Sir Percival and myself, must I? Yes, indeed?
You have been prying into my private affairs. You think you have found
a lost woman to deal with, who lives here on sufferance, and who will
do anything you ask for fear you may injure her in the opinions of the
town’s-people. I see through you and your precious speculation—I do!
and it amuses me. Ha! ha!”

She stopped for a moment, her arms tightened over her bosom, and she
laughed to herself—a hard, harsh, angry laugh.

“You don’t know how I have lived in this place, and what I have done in
this place, Mr. What’s-your-name,” she went on. “I’ll tell you, before
I ring the bell and have you shown out. I came here a wronged woman—I
came here robbed of my character and determined to claim it back.
I’ve been years and years about it—and I HAVE claimed it back. I have
matched the respectable people fairly and openly on their own ground.
If they say anything against me now they must say it in secret—they
can’t say it, they daren’t say it, openly. I stand high enough in this
town to be out of your reach. THE CLERGYMAN BOWS TO ME. Aha! you didn’t
bargain for that when you came here. Go to the church and inquire about
me—you will find Mrs. Catherick has her sitting like the rest of them,
and pays the rent on the day it’s due. Go to the town-hall. There’s a
petition lying there—a petition of the respectable inhabitants against
allowing a circus to come and perform here and corrupt our morals—yes!
OUR morals. I signed that petition this morning. Go to the bookseller’s
shop. The clergyman’s Wednesday evening Lectures on Justification by
Faith are publishing there by subscription—I’m down on the list. The
doctor’s wife only put a shilling in the plate at our last charity
sermon—I put half-a-crown. Mr. Churchwarden Soward held the plate, and
bowed to me. Ten years ago he told Pigrum the chemist I ought to be
whipped out of the town at the cart’s tail. Is your mother alive? Has
she got a better Bible on her table than I have got on mine? Does she
stand better with her trades-people than I do with mine? Has she always
lived within her income? I have always lived within mine. Ah! there IS
the clergyman coming along the square. Look, Mr. What’s-your-name—look,
if you please!”

She started up with the activity of a young woman, went to the window,
waited till the clergyman passed, and bowed to him solemnly. The
clergyman ceremoniously raised his hat, and walked on. Mrs. Catherick
returned to her chair, and looked at me with a grimmer sarcasm than
ever.

“There!” she said. “What do you think of that for a woman with a lost
character? How does your speculation look now?”

The singular manner in which she had chosen to assert herself, the
extraordinary practical vindication of her position in the town which
she had just offered, had so perplexed me that I listened to her in
silent surprise. I was not the less resolved, however, to make another
effort to throw her off her guard. If the woman’s fierce temper once
got beyond her control, and once flamed out on me, she might yet say
the words which would put the clue in my hands.

“How does your speculation look now?” she repeated.

“Exactly as it looked when I first came in,” I answered. “I don’t doubt
the position you have gained in the town, and I don’t wish to assail
it even if I could. I came here because Sir Percival Glyde is, to my
certain knowledge, your enemy, as well as mine. If I have a grudge
against him, you have a grudge against him too. You may deny it if you
like, you may distrust me as much as you please, you may be as angry as
you will—but, of all the women in England, you, if you have any sense
of injury, are the woman who ought to help me to crush that man.”

“Crush him for yourself,” she said; “then come back here, and see what
I say to you.”

She spoke those words as she had not spoken yet, quickly, fiercely,
vindictively. I had stirred in its lair the serpent-hatred of years,
but only for a moment. Like a lurking reptile it leaped up at me as she
eagerly bent forward towards the place in which I was sitting. Like a
lurking reptile it dropped out of sight again as she instantly resumed
her former position in the chair.

“You won’t trust me?” I said.

“No.”

“You are afraid?”

“Do I look as if I was?”

“You are afraid of Sir Percival Glyde?”

“Am I?”

Her colour was rising, and her hands were at work again smoothing her
gown. I pressed the point farther and farther home, I went on without
allowing her a moment of delay.

“Sir Percival has a high position in the world,” I said; “it would be
no wonder if you were afraid of him. Sir Percival is a powerful man,
a baronet, the possessor of a fine estate, the descendant of a great
family——”

She amazed me beyond expression by suddenly bursting out laughing.

“Yes,” she repeated, in tones of the bitterest, steadiest contempt.
“A baronet, the possessor of a fine estate, the descendant of a great
family. Yes, indeed! A great family—especially by the mother’s side.”

There was no time to reflect on the words that had just escaped her,
there was only time to feel that they were well worth thinking over the
moment I left the house.

“I am not here to dispute with you about family questions,” I said. “I
know nothing of Sir Percival’s mother——”

“And you know as little of Sir Percival himself,” she interposed
sharply.

“I advise you not to be too sure of that,” I rejoined. “I know some
things about him, and I suspect many more.”

“What do you suspect?”

“I’ll tell you what I DON’T suspect. I DON’T suspect him of being
Anne’s father.”

She started to her feet, and came close up to me with a look of fury.

“How dare you talk to me about Anne’s father! How dare you say who was
her father, or who wasn’t!” she broke out, her face quivering, her
voice trembling with passion.

“The secret between you and Sir Percival is not THAT secret,” I
persisted. “The mystery which darkens Sir Percival’s life was not born
with your daughter’s birth, and has not died with your daughter’s
death.”

She drew back a step. “Go!” she said, and pointed sternly to the door.

“There was no thought of the child in your heart or in his,” I went on,
determined to press her back to her last defences. “There was no bond
of guilty love between you and him when you held those stolen meetings,
when your husband found you whispering together under the vestry of the
church.”

Her pointing hand instantly dropped to her side, and the deep flush of
anger faded from her face while I spoke. I saw the change pass over
her—I saw that hard, firm, fearless, self-possessed woman quail under a
terror which her utmost resolution was not strong enough to resist when
I said those five last words, “the vestry of the church.”

For a minute or more we stood looking at each other in silence. I spoke
first.

“Do you still refuse to trust me?” I asked.

She could not call the colour that had left it back to her face,
but she had steadied her voice, she had recovered the defiant
self-possession of her manner when she answered me.

“I do refuse,” she said.

“Do you still tell me to go?”

“Yes. Go—and never come back.”

I walked to the door, waited a moment before I opened it, and turned
round to look at her again.

“I may have news to bring you of Sir Percival which you don’t expect,”
I said, “and in that case I shall come back.”

“There is no news of Sir Percival that I don’t expect, except——”

She stopped, her pale face darkened, and she stole back with a quiet,
stealthy, cat-like step to her chair.

“Except the news of his death,” she said, sitting down again, with the
mockery of a smile just hovering on her cruel lips, and the furtive
light of hatred lurking deep in her steady eyes.

As I opened the door of the room to go out, she looked round at me
quickly. The cruel smile slowly widened her lips—she eyed me, with a
strange stealthy interest, from head to foot—an unutterable expectation
showed itself wickedly all over her face. Was she speculating, in
the secrecy of her own heart, on my youth and strength, on the force
of my sense of injury and the limits of my self-control, and was she
considering the lengths to which they might carry me, if Sir Percival
and I ever chanced to meet? The bare doubt that it might be so drove me
from her presence, and silenced even the common forms of farewell on my
lips. Without a word more, on my side or on hers, I left the room.

As I opened the outer door, I saw the same clergyman who had already
passed the house once, about to pass it again, on his way back through
the square. I waited on the door-step to let him go by, and looked
round, as I did so, at the parlour window.

Mrs. Catherick had heard his footsteps approaching, in the silence
of that lonely place, and she was on her feet at the window again,
waiting for him. Not all the strength of all the terrible passions I
had roused in that woman’s heart, could loosen her desperate hold on
the one fragment of social consideration which years of resolute effort
had just dragged within her grasp. There she was again, not a minute
after I had left her, placed purposely in a position which made it a
matter of common courtesy on the part of the clergyman to bow to her
for a second time. He raised his hat once more. I saw the hard ghastly
face behind the window soften, and light up with gratified pride—I saw
the head with the grim black cap bend ceremoniously in return. The
clergyman had bowed to her, and in my presence, twice in one day!



IX


I left the house, feeling that Mrs. Catherick had helped me a step
forward, in spite of herself. Before I had reached the turning which
led out of the square, my attention was suddenly aroused by the sound
of a closing door behind me.

I looked round, and saw an undersized man in black on the door-step
of a house, which, as well as I could judge, stood next to Mrs.
Catherick’s place of abode—next to it, on the side nearest to me. The
man did not hesitate a moment about the direction he should take.
He advanced rapidly towards the turning at which I had stopped. I
recognised him as the lawyer’s clerk, who had preceded me in my visit
to Blackwater Park, and who had tried to pick a quarrel with me, when I
asked him if I could see the house.

I waited where I was, to ascertain whether his object was to come to
close quarters and speak on this occasion. To my surprise he passed
on rapidly, without saying a word, without even looking up in my face
as he went by. This was such a complete inversion of the course of
proceeding which I had every reason to expect on his part, that my
curiosity, or rather my suspicion, was aroused, and I determined on my
side to keep him cautiously in view, and to discover what the business
might be in which he was now employed. Without caring whether he saw
me or not, I walked after him. He never looked back, and he led me
straight through the streets to the railway station.

The train was on the point of starting, and two or three passengers who
were late were clustering round the small opening through which the
tickets were issued. I joined them, and distinctly heard the lawyer’s
clerk demand a ticket for the Blackwater station. I satisfied myself
that he had actually left by the train before I came away.

There was only one interpretation that I could place on what I had
just seen and heard. I had unquestionably observed the man leaving a
house which closely adjoined Mrs. Catherick’s residence. He had been
probably placed there, by Sir Percival’s directions, as a lodger,
in anticipation of my inquiries leading me, sooner or later, to
communicate with Mrs. Catherick. He had doubtless seen me go in and
come out, and he had hurried away by the first train to make his report
at Blackwater Park, to which place Sir Percival would naturally betake
himself (knowing what he evidently knew of my movements), in order to
be ready on the spot, if I returned to Hampshire. Before many days were
over, there seemed every likelihood now that he and I might meet.

Whatever result events might be destined to produce, I resolved to
pursue my own course, straight to the end in view, without stopping or
turning aside for Sir Percival or for any one. The great responsibility
which weighed on me heavily in London—the responsibility of so guiding
my slightest actions as to prevent them from leading accidentally to
the discovery of Laura’s place of refuge—was removed, now that I was
in Hampshire. I could go and come as I pleased at Welmingham, and if I
chanced to fail in observing any necessary precautions, the immediate
results, at least, would affect no one but myself.

When I left the station the winter evening was beginning to close in.
There was little hope of continuing my inquiries after dark to any
useful purpose in a neighbourhood that was strange to me. Accordingly,
I made my way to the nearest hotel, and ordered my dinner and my bed.
This done, I wrote to Marian, to tell her that I was safe and well,
and that I had fair prospects of success. I had directed her, on
leaving home, to address the first letter she wrote to me (the letter I
expected to receive the next morning) to “The Post-Office, Welmingham,”
and I now begged her to send her second day’s letter to the same
address.

I could easily receive it by writing to the postmaster if I happened to
be away from the town when it arrived.

The coffee-room of the hotel, as it grew late in the evening, became a
perfect solitude. I was left to reflect on what I had accomplished that
afternoon as uninterruptedly as if the house had been my own. Before
I retired to rest I had attentively thought over my extraordinary
interview with Mrs. Catherick from beginning to end, and had verified
at my leisure the conclusions which I had hastily drawn in the earlier
part of the day.

The vestry of Old Welmingham church was the starting-point from which
my mind slowly worked its way back through all that I had heard Mrs.
Catherick say, and through all I had seen Mrs. Catherick do.

At the time when the neighbourhood of the vestry was first referred
to in my presence by Mrs. Clements, I had thought it the strangest
and most unaccountable of all places for Sir Percival to select for
a clandestine meeting with the clerk’s wife. Influenced by this
impression, and by no other, I had mentioned “the vestry of the church”
before Mrs. Catherick on pure speculation—it represented one of the
minor peculiarities of the story which occurred to me while I was
speaking. I was prepared for her answering me confusedly or angrily,
but the blank terror that seized her when I said the words took me
completely by surprise. I had long before associated Sir Percival’s
Secret with the concealment of a serious crime which Mrs. Catherick
knew of, but I had gone no further than this. Now the woman’s paroxysm
of terror associated the crime, either directly or indirectly, with the
vestry, and convinced me that she had been more than the mere witness
of it—she was also the accomplice, beyond a doubt.

What had been the nature of the crime? Surely there was a contemptible
side to it, as well as a dangerous side, or Mrs. Catherick would not
have repeated my own words, referring to Sir Percival’s rank and power,
with such marked disdain as she had certainly displayed. It was a
contemptible crime then and a dangerous crime, and she had shared in
it, and it was associated with the vestry of the church.

The next consideration to be disposed of led me a step farther from
this point.

Mrs. Catherick’s undisguised contempt for Sir Percival plainly extended
to his mother as well. She had referred with the bitterest sarcasm to
the great family he had descended from—“especially by the mother’s
side.” What did this mean?

There appeared to be only two explanations of it. Either his mother’s
birth had been low, or his mother’s reputation was damaged by some
hidden flaw with which Mrs. Catherick and Sir Percival were both
privately acquainted? I could only put the first explanation to the
test by looking at the register of her marriage, and so ascertaining
her maiden name and her parentage as a preliminary to further inquiries.

On the other hand, if the second case supposed were the true one, what
had been the flaw in her reputation? Remembering the account which
Marian had given me of Sir Percival’s father and mother, and of the
suspiciously unsocial secluded life they had both led, I now asked
myself whether it might not be possible that his mother had never been
married at all. Here again the register might, by offering written
evidence of the marriage, prove to me, at any rate, that this doubt had
no foundation in truth. But where was the register to be found? At this
point I took up the conclusions which I had previously formed, and the
same mental process which had discovered the locality of the concealed
crime, now lodged the register also in the vestry of Old Welmingham
church.

These were the results of my interview with Mrs. Catherick—these were
the various considerations, all steadily converging to one point, which
decided the course of my proceedings on the next day.


The morning was cloudy and lowering, but no rain fell. I left my bag at
the hotel to wait there till I called for it, and, after inquiring the
way, set forth on foot for Old Welmingham church.

It was a walk of rather more than two miles, the ground rising slowly
all the way.

On the highest point stood the church—an ancient, weather-beaten
building, with heavy buttresses at its sides, and a clumsy square tower
in front. The vestry at the back was built out from the church, and
seemed to be of the same age. Round the building at intervals appeared
the remains of the village which Mrs. Clements had described to me as
her husband’s place of abode in former years, and which the principal
inhabitants had long since deserted for the new town. Some of the empty
houses had been dismantled to their outer walls, some had been left to
decay with time, and some were still inhabited by persons evidently of
the poorest class. It was a dreary scene, and yet, in the worst aspect
of its ruin, not so dreary as the modern town that I had just left.
Here there was the brown, breezy sweep of surrounding fields for the
eye to repose on—here the trees, leafless as they were, still varied
the monotony of the prospect, and helped the mind to look forward to
summer-time and shade.

As I moved away from the back of the church, and passed some of
the dismantled cottages in search of a person who might direct me
to the clerk, I saw two men saunter out after me from behind a
wall. The tallest of the two—a stout muscular man in the dress of a
gamekeeper—was a stranger to me. The other was one of the men who had
followed me in London on the day when I left Mr. Kyrle’s office. I had
taken particular notice of him at the time; and I felt sure that I was
not mistaken in identifying the fellow on this occasion.

Neither he nor his companion attempted to speak to me, and both kept
themselves at a respectful distance, but the motive of their presence
in the neighbourhood of the church was plainly apparent. It was exactly
as I had supposed—Sir Percival was already prepared for me. My visit to
Mrs. Catherick had been reported to him the evening before, and those
two men had been placed on the look-out near the church in anticipation
of my appearance at Old Welmingham. If I had wanted any further proof
that my investigations had taken the right direction at last, the plan
now adopted for watching me would have supplied it.

I walked on away from the church till I reached one of the inhabited
houses, with a patch of kitchen garden attached to it on which a
labourer was at work. He directed me to the clerk’s abode, a cottage at
some little distance off, standing by itself on the outskirts of the
forsaken village. The clerk was indoors, and was just putting on his
greatcoat. He was a cheerful, familiar, loudly-talkative old man, with
a very poor opinion (as I soon discovered) of the place in which he
lived, and a happy sense of superiority to his neighbours in virtue of
the great personal distinction of having once been in London.

“It’s well you came so early, sir,” said the old man, when I had
mentioned the object of my visit. “I should have been away in ten
minutes more. Parish business, sir, and a goodish long trot before it’s
all done for a man at my age. But, bless you, I’m strong on my legs
still! As long as a man don’t give at his legs, there’s a deal of work
left in him. Don’t you think so yourself, sir?”

He took his keys down while he was talking from a hook behind the
fireplace, and locked his cottage door behind us.

“Nobody at home to keep house for me,” said the clerk, with a cheerful
sense of perfect freedom from all family encumbrances. “My wife’s in
the churchyard there, and my children are all married. A wretched place
this, isn’t it, sir? But the parish is a large one—every man couldn’t
get through the business as I do. It’s learning does it, and I’ve had
my share, and a little more. I can talk the Queen’s English (God bless
the Queen!), and that’s more than most of the people about here can do.
You’re from London, I suppose, sir? I’ve been in London a matter of
five-and-twenty year ago. What’s the news there now, if you please?”

Chattering on in this way, he led me back to the vestry. I looked about
to see if the two spies were still in sight. They were not visible
anywhere. After having discovered my application to the clerk, they
had probably concealed themselves where they could watch my next
proceedings in perfect freedom.

The vestry door was of stout old oak, studded with strong nails, and
the clerk put his large heavy key into the lock with the air of a man
who knew that he had a difficulty to encounter, and who was not quite
certain of creditably conquering it.

“I’m obliged to bring you this way, sir,” he said, “because the door
from the vestry to the church is bolted on the vestry side. We might
have got in through the church otherwise. This is a perverse lock, if
ever there was one yet. It’s big enough for a prison-door—it’s been
hampered over and over again, and it ought to be changed for a new one.
I’ve mentioned that to the churchwarden fifty times over at least—he’s
always saying, ‘I’ll see about it’—and he never does see. Ah, it’s a
sort of lost corner, this place. Not like London—is it, sir? Bless you,
we are all asleep here! We don’t march with the times.”

After some twisting and turning of the key, the heavy lock yielded, and
he opened the door.

The vestry was larger than I should have supposed it to be, judging
from the outside only. It was a dim, mouldy, melancholy old room, with
a low, raftered ceiling. Round two sides of it, the sides nearest to
the interior of the church, ran heavy wooden presses, worm-eaten and
gaping with age. Hooked to the inner corner of one of these presses
hung several surplices, all bulging out at their lower ends in an
irreverent-looking bundle of limp drapery. Below the surplices, on the
floor, stood three packing-cases, with the lids half off, half on, and
the straw profusely bursting out of their cracks and crevices in every
direction. Behind them, in a corner, was a litter of dusty papers,
some large and rolled up like architects’ plans, some loosely strung
together on files like bills or letters. The room had once been lighted
by a small side window, but this had been bricked up, and a lantern
skylight was now substituted for it. The atmosphere of the place was
heavy and mouldy, being rendered additionally oppressive by the closing
of the door which led into the church. This door also was composed of
solid oak, and was bolted at the top and bottom on the vestry side.

“We might be tidier, mightn’t we, sir?” said the cheerful clerk; “but
when you’re in a lost corner of a place like this, what are you to do?
Why, look here now, just look at these packing-cases. There they’ve
been, for a year or more, ready to go down to London—there they are,
littering the place, and there they’ll stop as long as the nails hold
them together. I’ll tell you what, sir, as I said before, this is not
London. We are all asleep here. Bless you, WE don’t march with the
times!”

“What is there in the packing-cases?” I asked.

“Bits of old wood carvings from the pulpit, and panels from the
chancel, and images from the organ-loft,” said the clerk. “Portraits
of the twelve apostles in wood, and not a whole nose among ’em. All
broken, and worm-eaten, and crumbling to dust at the edges. As brittle
as crockery, sir, and as old as the church, if not older.”

“And why were they going to London? To be repaired?”

“That’s it, sir, to be repaired, and where they were past repair, to be
copied in sound wood. But, bless you, the money fell short, and there
they are, waiting for new subscriptions, and nobody to subscribe. It
was all done a year ago, sir. Six gentlemen dined together about it, at
the hotel in the new town. They made speeches, and passed resolutions,
and put their names down, and printed off thousands of prospectuses.
Beautiful prospectuses, sir, all flourished over with Gothic devices
in red ink, saying it was a disgrace not to restore the church and
repair the famous carvings, and so on. There are the prospectuses that
couldn’t be distributed, and the architect’s plans and estimates,
and the whole correspondence which set everybody at loggerheads and
ended in a dispute, all down together in that corner, behind the
packing-cases. The money dribbled in a little at first—but what CAN
you expect out of London? There was just enough, you know, to pack the
broken carvings, and get the estimates, and pay the printer’s bill,
and after that there wasn’t a halfpenny left. There the things are,
as I said before. We have nowhere else to put them—nobody in the new
town cares about accommodating us—we’re in a lost corner—and this is an
untidy vestry—and who’s to help it?—that’s what I want to know.”

My anxiety to examine the register did not dispose me to offer much
encouragement to the old man’s talkativeness. I agreed with him that
nobody could help the untidiness of the vestry, and then suggested that
we should proceed to our business without more delay.

“Ay, ay, the marriage-register, to be sure,” said the clerk, taking
a little bunch of keys from his pocket. “How far do you want to look
back, sir?”

Marian had informed me of Sir Percival’s age at the time when we had
spoken together of his marriage engagement with Laura. She had then
described him as being forty-five years old. Calculating back from
this, and making due allowance for the year that had passed since I had
gained my information, I found that he must have been born in eighteen
hundred and four, and that I might safely start on my search through
the register from that date.

“I want to begin with the year eighteen hundred and four,” I said.

“Which way after that, sir?” asked the clerk. “Forwards to our time or
backwards away from us?”

“Backwards from eighteen hundred and four.”

He opened the door of one of the presses—the press from the side of
which the surplices were hanging—and produced a large volume bound
in greasy brown leather. I was struck by the insecurity of the place
in which the register was kept. The door of the press was warped and
cracked with age, and the lock was of the smallest and commonest kind.
I could have forced it easily with the walking-stick I carried in my
hand.

“Is that considered a sufficiently secure place for the register?”
I inquired. “Surely a book of such importance as this ought to be
protected by a better lock, and kept carefully in an iron safe?”

“Well, now, that’s curious!” said the clerk, shutting up the book
again, just after he had opened it, and smacking his hand cheerfully
on the cover. “Those were the very words my old master was always
saying years and years ago, when I was a lad. ‘Why isn’t the register’
(meaning this register here, under my hand)—‘why isn’t it kept in an
iron safe?’ If I’ve heard him say that once, I’ve heard him say it
a hundred times. He was the solicitor in those days, sir, who had
the appointment of vestry-clerk to this church. A fine hearty old
gentleman, and the most particular man breathing. As long as he lived
he kept a copy of this book in his office at Knowlesbury, and had it
posted up regular, from time to time, to correspond with the fresh
entries here. You would hardly think it, but he had his own appointed
days, once or twice in every quarter, for riding over to this church on
his old white pony, to check the copy, by the register, with his own
eyes and hands. ‘How do I know?’ (he used to say) ‘how do I know that
the register in this vestry may not be stolen or destroyed? Why isn’t
it kept in an iron safe? Why can’t I make other people as careful as
I am myself? Some of these days there will be an accident happen, and
when the register’s lost, then the parish will find out the value of my
copy.’ He used to take his pinch of snuff after that, and look about
him as bold as a lord. Ah! the like of him for doing business isn’t
easy to find now. You may go to London and not match him, even THERE.
Which year did you say, sir? Eighteen hundred and what?”

“Eighteen hundred and four,” I replied, mentally resolving to give the
old man no more opportunities of talking, until my examination of the
register was over.

The clerk put on his spectacles, and turned over the leaves of the
register, carefully wetting his finger and thumb at every third page.
“There it is, sir,” said he, with another cheerful smack on the open
volume. “There’s the year you want.”

As I was ignorant of the month in which Sir Percival was born, I began
my backward search with the early part of the year. The register-book
was of the old-fashioned kind, the entries being all made on blank
pages in manuscript, and the divisions which separated them being
indicated by ink lines drawn across the page at the close of each entry.

I reached the beginning of the year eighteen hundred and four without
encountering the marriage, and then travelled back through December
eighteen hundred and three—through November and October—through——

No! not through September also. Under the heading of that month in the
year I found the marriage.

I looked carefully at the entry. It was at the bottom of a page,
and was for want of room compressed into a smaller space than
that occupied by the marriages above. The marriage immediately
before it was impressed on my attention by the circumstance of the
bridegroom’s Christian name being the same as my own. The entry
immediately following it (on the top of the next page) was noticeable
in another way from the large space it occupied, the record in this
case registering the marriages of two brothers at the same time.
The register of the marriage of Sir Felix Glyde was in no respect
remarkable except for the narrowness of the space into which it was
compressed at the bottom of the page. The information about his wife
was the usual information given in such cases. She was described as
“Cecilia Jane Elster, of Park-View Cottages, Knowlesbury, only daughter
of the late Patrick Elster, Esq., formerly of Bath.”

I noted down these particulars in my pocket-book, feeling as I did so
both doubtful and disheartened about my next proceedings. The Secret
which I had believed until this moment to be within my grasp seemed now
farther from my reach than ever.

What suggestions of any mystery unexplained had arisen out of my
visit to the vestry? I saw no suggestions anywhere. What progress
had I made towards discovering the suspected stain on the reputation
of Sir Percival’s mother? The one fact I had ascertained vindicated
her reputation. Fresh doubts, fresh difficulties, fresh delays began
to open before me in interminable prospect. What was I to do next?
The one immediate resource left to me appeared to be this. I might
institute inquiries about “Miss Elster of Knowlesbury,” on the chance
of advancing towards the main object of my investigation, by first
discovering the secret of Mrs. Catherick’s contempt for Sir Percival’s
mother.

“Have you found what you wanted, sir?” said the clerk, as I closed the
register-book.

“Yes,” I replied, “but I have some inquiries still to make. I suppose
the clergyman who officiated here in the year eighteen hundred and
three is no longer alive?”

“No, no, sir, he was dead three or four years before I came here, and
that was as long ago as the year twenty-seven. I got this place, sir,”
persisted my talkative old friend, “through the clerk before me leaving
it. They say he was driven out of house and home by his wife—and she’s
living still down in the new town there. I don’t know the rights of
the story myself—all I know is I got the place. Mr. Wansborough got
it for me—the son of my old master that I was telling you of. He’s a
free, pleasant gentleman as ever lived—rides to the hounds, keeps his
pointers and all that. He’s vestry-clerk here now as his father was
before him.”

“Did you not tell me your former master lived at Knowlesbury?” I asked,
calling to mind the long story about the precise gentleman of the old
school with which my talkative friend had wearied me before he opened
the register-book.

“Yes, to be sure, sir,” replied the clerk. “Old Mr. Wansborough lived
at Knowlesbury, and young Mr. Wansborough lives there too.”

“You said just now he was vestry-clerk, like his father before him. I
am not quite sure that I know what a vestry-clerk is.”

“Don’t you indeed, sir?—and you come from London too! Every
parish church, you know, has a vestry-clerk and a parish-clerk.
The parish-clerk is a man like me (except that I’ve got a deal
more learning than most of them—though I don’t boast of it). The
vestry-clerk is a sort of an appointment that the lawyers get, and if
there’s any business to be done for the vestry, why there they are to
do it. It’s just the same in London. Every parish church there has got
its vestry-clerk—and you may take my word for it he’s sure to be a
lawyer.”

“Then young Mr. Wansborough is a lawyer, I suppose?”

“Of course he is, sir! A lawyer in High Street, Knowlesbury—the old
offices that his father had before him. The number of times I’ve swept
those offices out, and seen the old gentleman come trotting in to
business on his white pony, looking right and left all down the street
and nodding to everybody! Bless you, he was a popular character!—he’d
have done in London!”

“How far is it to Knowlesbury from this place?”

“A long stretch, sir,” said the clerk, with that exaggerated idea of
distances, and that vivid perception of difficulties in getting from
place to place, which is peculiar to all country people. “Nigh on five
mile, I can tell you!”

It was still early in the forenoon. There was plenty of time for a walk
to Knowlesbury and back again to Welmingham; and there was no person
probably in the town who was fitter to assist my inquiries about the
character and position of Sir Percival’s mother before her marriage
than the local solicitor. Resolving to go at once to Knowlesbury on
foot, I led the way out of the vestry.

“Thank you kindly, sir,” said the clerk, as I slipped my little present
into his hand. “Are you really going to walk all the way to Knowlesbury
and back? Well! you’re strong on your legs, too—and what a blessing
that is, isn’t it? There’s the road, you can’t miss it. I wish I was
going your way—it’s pleasant to meet with gentlemen from London in a
lost corner like this. One hears the news. Wish you good-morning, sir,
and thank you kindly once more.”

We parted. As I left the church behind me I looked back, and there were
the two men again on the road below, with a third in their company,
that third person being the short man in black whom I had traced to the
railway the evening before.

The three stood talking together for a little while, then separated.
The man in black went away by himself towards Welmingham—the other two
remained together, evidently waiting to follow me as soon as I walked
on.

I proceeded on my way without letting the fellows see that I took any
special notice of them. They caused me no conscious irritation of
feeling at that moment—on the contrary, they rather revived my sinking
hopes. In the surprise of discovering the evidence of the marriage, I
had forgotten the inference I had drawn on first perceiving the men in
the neighbourhood of the vestry. Their reappearance reminded me that
Sir Percival had anticipated my visit to Old Welmingham church as the
next result of my interview with Mrs. Catherick—otherwise he would
never have placed his spies there to wait for me. Smoothly and fairly
as appearances looked in the vestry, there was something wrong beneath
them—there was something in the register-book, for aught I knew, that I
had not discovered yet.



X


Once out of sight of the church, I pressed forward briskly on my way to
Knowlesbury.

The road was, for the most part, straight and level. Whenever I looked
back over it I saw the two spies steadily following me. For the greater
part of the way they kept at a safe distance behind. But once or
twice they quickened their pace, as if with the purpose of overtaking
me, then stopped, consulted together, and fell back again to their
former position. They had some special object evidently in view, and
they seemed to be hesitating or differing about the best means of
accomplishing it. I could not guess exactly what their design might
be, but I felt serious doubts of reaching Knowlesbury without some
mischance happening to me on the way. These doubts were realised.

I had just entered on a lonely part of the road, with a sharp turn at
some distance ahead, and had just concluded (calculating by time) that
I must be getting near to the town, when I suddenly heard the steps of
the men close behind me.

Before I could look round, one of them (the man by whom I had been
followed in London) passed rapidly on my left side and hustled me with
his shoulder. I had been more irritated by the manner in which he and
his companion had dogged my steps all the way from Old Welmingham
than I was myself aware of, and I unfortunately pushed the fellow
away smartly with my open hand. He instantly shouted for help. His
companion, the tall man in the gamekeeper’s clothes, sprang to my right
side, and the next moment the two scoundrels held me pinioned between
them in the middle of the road.

The conviction that a trap had been laid for me, and the vexation of
knowing that I had fallen into it, fortunately restrained me from
making my position still worse by an unavailing struggle with two men,
one of whom would, in all probability, have been more than a match for
me single-handed. I repressed the first natural movement by which I had
attempted to shake them off, and looked about to see if there was any
person near to whom I could appeal.

A labourer was at work in an adjoining field who must have witnessed
all that had passed. I called to him to follow us to the town. He
shook his head with stolid obstinacy, and walked away in the direction
of a cottage which stood back from the high-road. At the same time
the men who held me between them declared their intention of charging
me with an assault. I was cool enough and wise enough now to make no
opposition. “Drop your hold of my arms,” I said, “and I will go with
you to the town.” The man in the gamekeeper’s dress roughly refused.
But the shorter man was sharp enough to look to consequences, and not
to let his companion commit himself by unnecessary violence. He made a
sign to the other, and I walked on between them with my arms free.

We reached the turning in the road, and there, close before us, were
the suburbs of Knowlesbury. One of the local policemen was walking
along the path by the roadside. The men at once appealed to him. He
replied that the magistrate was then sitting at the town-hall, and
recommended that we should appear before him immediately.

We went on to the town-hall. The clerk made out a formal summons, and
the charge was preferred against me, with the customary exaggeration
and the customary perversion of the truth on such occasions. The
magistrate (an ill-tempered man, with a sour enjoyment in the exercise
of his own power) inquired if any one on or near the road had witnessed
the assault, and, greatly to my surprise, the complainant admitted the
presence of the labourer in the field. I was enlightened, however,
as to the object of the admission by the magistrate’s next words. He
remanded me at once for the production of the witness, expressing, at
the same time, his willingness to take bail for my reappearance if I
could produce one responsible surety to offer it. If I had been known
in the town he would have liberated me on my own recognisances, but as
I was a total stranger it was necessary that I should find responsible
bail.

The whole object of the stratagem was now disclosed to me. It had
been so managed as to make a remand necessary in a town where I was a
perfect stranger, and where I could not hope to get my liberty on bail.
The remand merely extended over three days, until the next sitting
of the magistrate. But in that time, while I was in confinement,
Sir Percival might use any means he pleased to embarrass my future
proceedings—perhaps to screen himself from detection altogether—without
the slightest fear of any hindrance on my part. At the end of the three
days the charge would, no doubt, be withdrawn, and the attendance of
the witness would be perfectly useless.

My indignation, I may almost say, my despair, at this mischievous check
to all further progress—so base and trifling in itself, and yet so
disheartening and so serious in its probable results—quite unfitted
me at first to reflect on the best means of extricating myself from
the dilemma in which I now stood. I had the folly to call for writing
materials, and to think of privately communicating my real position to
the magistrate. The hopelessness and the imprudence of this proceeding
failed to strike me before I had actually written the opening lines
of the letter. It was not till I had pushed the paper away—not till,
I am ashamed to say, I had almost allowed the vexation of my helpless
position to conquer me—that a course of action suddenly occurred to
my mind, which Sir Percival had probably not anticipated, and which
might set me free again in a few hours. I determined to communicate the
situation in which I was placed to Mr. Dawson, of Oak Lodge.

I had visited this gentleman’s house, it may be remembered, at the time
of my first inquiries in the Blackwater Park neighbourhood, and I had
presented to him a letter of introduction from Miss Halcombe, in which
she recommended me to his friendly attention in the strongest terms. I
now wrote, referring to this letter, and to what I had previously told
Mr. Dawson of the delicate and dangerous nature of my inquiries. I had
not revealed to him the truth about Laura, having merely described my
errand as being of the utmost importance to private family interests
with which Miss Halcombe was concerned. Using the same caution still, I
now accounted for my presence at Knowlesbury in the same manner, and I
put it to the doctor to say whether the trust reposed in me by a lady
whom he well knew, and the hospitality I had myself received in his
house, justified me or not in asking him to come to my assistance in a
place where I was quite friendless.

I obtained permission to hire a messenger to drive away at once with
my letter in a conveyance which might be used to bring the doctor back
immediately. Oak Lodge was on the Knowlesbury side of Blackwater. The
man declared he could drive there in forty minutes, and could bring Mr.
Dawson back in forty more. I directed him to follow the doctor wherever
he might happen to be, if he was not at home, and then sat down to wait
for the result with all the patience and all the hope that I could
summon to help me.

It was not quite half-past one when the messenger departed. Before
half-past three he returned, and brought the doctor with him. Mr.
Dawson’s kindness, and the delicacy with which he treated his prompt
assistance quite as a matter of course, almost overpowered me. The bail
required was offered, and accepted immediately. Before four o’clock, on
that afternoon, I was shaking hands warmly with the good old doctor—a
free man again—in the streets of Knowlesbury.

Mr. Dawson hospitably invited me to go back with him to Oak Lodge, and
take up my quarters there for the night. I could only reply that my
time was not my own, and I could only ask him to let me pay my visit
in a few days, when I might repeat my thanks, and offer to him all
the explanations which I felt to be only his due, but which I was not
then in a position to make. We parted with friendly assurances on both
sides, and I turned my steps at once to Mr. Wansborough’s office in the
High Street.

Time was now of the last importance.

The news of my being free on bail would reach Sir Percival, to an
absolute certainty, before night. If the next few hours did not put me
in a position to justify his worst fears, and to hold him helpless at
my mercy, I might lose every inch of the ground I had gained, never
to recover it again. The unscrupulous nature of the man, the local
influence he possessed, the desperate peril of exposure with which
my blindfold inquiries threatened him—all warned me to press on to
positive discovery, without the useless waste of a single minute. I had
found time to think while I was waiting for Mr. Dawson’s arrival, and
I had well employed it. Certain portions of the conversation of the
talkative old clerk, which had wearied me at the time, now recurred
to my memory with a new significance, and a suspicion crossed my mind
darkly which had not occurred to me while I was in the vestry. On my
way to Knowlesbury, I had only proposed to apply to Mr. Wansborough for
information on the subject of Sir Percival’s mother. My object now was
to examine the duplicate register of Old Welmingham Church.

Mr. Wansborough was in his office when I inquired for him.

He was a jovial, red-faced, easy-looking man—more like a country squire
than a lawyer—and he seemed to be both surprised and amused by my
application. He had heard of his father’s copy of the register, but
had not even seen it himself. It had never been inquired after, and it
was no doubt in the strong room among other papers that had not been
disturbed since his father’s death. It was a pity (Mr. Wansborough
said) that the old gentleman was not alive to hear his precious copy
asked for at last. He would have ridden his favourite hobby harder than
ever now. How had I come to hear of the copy? was it through anybody in
the town?

I parried the question as well as I could. It was impossible at this
stage of the investigation to be too cautious, and it was just as well
not to let Mr. Wansborough know prematurely that I had already examined
the original register. I described myself, therefore, as pursuing a
family inquiry, to the object of which every possible saving of time
was of great importance. I was anxious to send certain particulars
to London by that day’s post, and one look at the duplicate register
(paying, of course, the necessary fees) might supply what I required,
and save me a further journey to Old Welmingham. I added that, in the
event of my subsequently requiring a copy of the original register, I
should make application to Mr. Wansborough’s office to furnish me with
the document.

After this explanation no objection was made to producing the copy.
A clerk was sent to the strong room, and after some delay returned
with the volume. It was of exactly the same size as the volume in the
vestry, the only difference being that the copy was more smartly bound.
I took it with me to an unoccupied desk. My hands were trembling—my
head was burning hot—I felt the necessity of concealing my agitation
as well as I could from the persons about me in the room, before I
ventured on opening the book.

On the blank page at the beginning, to which I first turned, were
traced some lines in faded ink. They contained these words—

“Copy of the Marriage Register of Welmingham Parish Church. Executed
under my orders, and afterwards compared, entry by entry, with the
original, by myself. (Signed) Robert Wansborough, vestry-clerk.” Below
this note there was a line added, in another handwriting, as follows:
“Extending from the first of January, 1800, to the thirtieth of June,
1815.”

I turned to the month of September, eighteen hundred and three. I found
the marriage of the man whose Christian name was the same as my own.
I found the double register of the marriages of the two brothers. And
between these entries, at the bottom of the page?

Nothing! Not a vestige of the entry which recorded the marriage of Sir
Felix Glyde and Cecilia Jane Elster in the register of the church!

My heart gave a great bound, and throbbed as if it would stifle me.
I looked again—I was afraid to believe the evidence of my own eyes.
No! not a doubt. The marriage was not there. The entries on the copy
occupied exactly the same places on the page as the entries in the
original. The last entry on one page recorded the marriage of the
man with my Christian name. Below it there was a blank space—a space
evidently left because it was too narrow to contain the entry of the
marriages of the two brothers, which in the copy, as in the original,
occupied the top of the next page. That space told the whole story!
There it must have remained in the church register from eighteen
hundred and three (when the marriages had been solemnised and the copy
had been made) to eighteen hundred and twenty-seven, when Sir Percival
appeared at Old Welmingham. Here, at Knowlesbury, was the chance of
committing the forgery shown to me in the copy, and there, at Old
Welmingham, was the forgery committed in the register of the church.

My head turned giddy—I held by the desk to keep myself from falling. Of
all the suspicions which had struck me in relation to that desperate
man, not one had been near the truth.

The idea that he was not Sir Percival Glyde at all, that he had no more
claim to the baronetcy and to Blackwater Park than the poorest labourer
who worked on the estate, had never once occurred to my mind. At one
time I had thought he might be Anne Catherick’s father—at another time
I had thought he might have been Anne Catherick’s husband—the offence
of which he was really guilty had been, from first to last, beyond the
widest reach of my imagination.

The paltry means by which the fraud had been effected, the magnitude
and daring of the crime that it represented, the horror of the
consequences involved in its discovery, overwhelmed me. Who could
wonder now at the brute-restlessness of the wretch’s life—at his
desperate alternations between abject duplicity and reckless
violence—at the madness of guilty distrust which had made him imprison
Anne Catherick in the Asylum, and had given him over to the vile
conspiracy against his wife, on the bare suspicion that the one and the
other knew his terrible secret? The disclosure of that secret might,
in past years, have hanged him—might now transport him for life. The
disclosure of that secret, even if the sufferers by his deception
spared him the penalties of the law, would deprive him at one blow of
the name, the rank, the estate, the whole social existence that he had
usurped. This was the Secret, and it was mine! A word from me, and
house, lands, baronetcy, were gone from him for ever—a word from me,
and he was driven out into the world, a nameless, penniless, friendless
outcast! The man’s whole future hung on my lips—and he knew it by this
time as certainly as I did!

That last thought steadied me. Interests far more precious than my own
depended on the caution which must now guide my slightest actions.
There was no possible treachery which Sir Percival might not attempt
against me. In the danger and desperation of his position he would be
staggered by no risks, he would recoil at no crime—he would literally
hesitate at nothing to save himself.

I considered for a minute. My first necessity was to secure positive
evidence in writing of the discovery that I had just made, and in the
event of any personal misadventure happening to me, to place that
evidence beyond Sir Percival’s reach. The copy of the register was sure
to be safe in Mr. Wansborough’s strong room. But the position of the
original in the vestry was, as I had seen with my own eyes, anything
but secure.

In this emergency I resolved to return to the church, to apply again to
the clerk, and to take the necessary extract from the register before
I slept that night. I was not then aware that a legally-certified
copy was necessary, and that no document merely drawn out by myself
could claim the proper importance as a proof. I was not aware of
this, and my determination to keep my present proceedings a secret
prevented me from asking any questions which might have procured the
necessary information. My one anxiety was the anxiety to get back to
Old Welmingham. I made the best excuses I could for the discomposure in
my face and manner which Mr. Wansborough had already noticed, laid the
necessary fee on his table, arranged that I should write to him in a
day or two, and left the office, with my head in a whirl and my blood
throbbing through my veins at fever heat.

It was just getting dark. The idea occurred to me that I might be
followed again and attacked on the high-road.

My walking-stick was a light one, of little or no use for purposes
of defence. I stopped before leaving Knowlesbury and bought a stout
country cudgel, short, and heavy at the head. With this homely weapon,
if any one man tried to stop me I was a match for him. If more than one
attacked me I could trust to my heels. In my school-days I had been a
noted runner, and I had not wanted for practice since in the later time
of my experience in Central America.

I started from the town at a brisk pace, and kept the middle of the
road.

A small misty rain was falling, and it was impossible for the first
half of the way to make sure whether I was followed or not. But at the
last half of my journey, when I supposed myself to be about two miles
from the church, I saw a man run by me in the rain, and then heard
the gate of a field by the roadside shut to sharply. I kept straight
on, with my cudgel ready in my hand, my ears on the alert, and my
eyes straining to see through the mist and the darkness. Before I had
advanced a hundred yards there was a rustling in the hedge on my right,
and three men sprang out into the road.

I drew aside on the instant to the footpath. The two foremost men were
carried beyond me before they could check themselves. The third was as
quick as lightning. He stopped, half turned, and struck at me with his
stick. The blow was aimed at hazard, and was not a severe one. It fell
on my left shoulder. I returned it heavily on his head. He staggered
back and jostled his two companions just as they were both rushing at
me. This circumstance gave me a moment’s start. I slipped by them, and
took to the middle of the road again at the top of my speed.

The two unhurt men pursued me. They were both good runners—the road
was smooth and level, and for the first five minutes or more I was
conscious that I did not gain on them. It was perilous work to run for
long in the darkness. I could barely see the dim black line of the
hedges on either side, and any chance obstacle in the road would have
thrown me down to a certainty. Ere long I felt the ground changing—it
descended from the level at a turn, and then rose again beyond.
Downhill the men rather gained on me, but uphill I began to distance
them. The rapid, regular thump of their feet grew fainter on my ear,
and I calculated by the sound that I was far enough in advance to take
to the fields with a good chance of their passing me in the darkness.
Diverging to the footpath, I made for the first break that I could
guess at, rather than see, in the hedge. It proved to be a closed gate.
I vaulted over, and finding myself in a field, kept across it steadily
with my back to the road. I heard the men pass the gate, still running,
then in a minute more heard one of them call to the other to come back.
It was no matter what they did now, I was out of their sight and out of
their hearing. I kept straight across the field, and when I had reached
the farther extremity of it, waited there for a minute to recover my
breath.

It was impossible to venture back to the road, but I was determined
nevertheless to get to Old Welmingham that evening.

Neither moon nor stars appeared to guide me. I only knew that I had
kept the wind and rain at my back on leaving Knowlesbury, and if I
now kept them at my back still, I might at least be certain of not
advancing altogether in the wrong direction.

Proceeding on this plan, I crossed the country—meeting with no worse
obstacles than hedges, ditches, and thickets, which every now and then
obliged me to alter my course for a little while—until I found myself
on a hill-side, with the ground sloping away steeply before me. I
descended to the bottom of the hollow, squeezed my way through a hedge,
and got out into a lane. Having turned to the right on leaving the
road, I now turned to the left, on the chance of regaining the line
from which I had wandered. After following the muddy windings of the
lane for ten minutes or more, I saw a cottage with a light in one of
the windows. The garden gate was open to the lane, and I went in at
once to inquire my way.

Before I could knock at the door it was suddenly opened, and a man
came running out with a lighted lantern in his hand. He stopped and
held it up at the sight of me. We both started as we saw each other.
My wanderings had led me round the outskirts of the village, and had
brought me out at the lower end of it. I was back at Old Welmingham,
and the man with the lantern was no other than my acquaintance of the
morning, the parish clerk.

His manner appeared to have altered strangely in the interval since I
had last seen him. He looked suspicious and confused—his ruddy cheeks
were deeply flushed—and his first words, when he spoke, were quite
unintelligible to me.

“Where are the keys?” he asked. “Have you taken them?”

“What keys?” I repeated. “I have this moment come from Knowlesbury.
What keys do you mean?”

“The keys of the vestry. Lord save us and help us! what shall I do? The
keys are gone! Do you hear?” cried the old man, shaking the lantern at
me in his agitation, “the keys are gone!”

“How? When? Who can have taken them?”

“I don’t know,” said the clerk, staring about him wildly in the
darkness. “I’ve only just got back. I told you I had a long day’s work
this morning—I locked the door and shut the window down—it’s open now,
the window’s open. Look! somebody has got in there and taken the keys.”

He turned to the casement window to show me that it was wide open.
The door of the lantern came loose from its fastening as he swayed it
round, and the wind blew the candle out instantly.

“Get another light,” I said, “and let us both go to the vestry
together. Quick! quick!”

I hurried him into the house. The treachery that I had every reason to
expect, the treachery that might deprive me of every advantage I had
gained, was at that moment, perhaps, in process of accomplishment. My
impatience to reach the church was so great that I could not remain
inactive in the cottage while the clerk lit the lantern again. I walked
out, down the garden path, into the lane.

Before I had advanced ten paces a man approached me from the direction
leading to the church. He spoke respectfully as we met. I could not see
his face, but judging by his voice only, he was a perfect stranger to
me.

“I beg your pardon, Sir Percival——” he began.

I stopped him before he could say more.

“The darkness misleads you,” I said. “I am not Sir Percival.”

The man drew back directly.

“I thought it was my master,” he muttered, in a confused, doubtful way.

“You expected to meet your master here?”

“I was told to wait in the lane.”

With that answer he retraced his steps. I looked back at the cottage
and saw the clerk coming out, with the lantern lighted once more. I
took the old man’s arm to help him on the more quickly. We hastened
along the lane, and passed the person who had accosted me. As well as I
could see by the light of the lantern, he was a servant out of livery.

“Who’s that?” whispered the clerk. “Does he know anything about the
keys?”

“We won’t wait to ask him,” I replied. “We will go on to the vestry
first.”

The church was not visible, even by daytime, until the end of the lane
was reached. As we mounted the rising ground which led to the building
from that point, one of the village children—a boy—came close up to us,
attracted by the light we carried, and recognised the clerk.

“I say, measter,” said the boy, pulling officiously at the clerk’s
coat, “there be summun up yander in the church. I heerd un lock the
door on hisself—I heerd un strike a loight wi’ a match.”

The clerk trembled and leaned against me heavily.

“Come! come!” I said encouragingly. “We are not too late. We will catch
the man, whoever he is. Keep the lantern, and follow me as fast as you
can.”

I mounted the hill rapidly. The dark mass of the church-tower was the
first object I discerned dimly against the night sky. As I turned aside
to get round to the vestry, I heard heavy footsteps close to me. The
servant had ascended to the church after us. “I don’t mean any harm,”
he said, when I turned round on him, “I’m only looking for my master.”
The tones in which he spoke betrayed unmistakable fear. I took no
notice of him and went on.

The instant I turned the corner and came in view of the vestry, I saw
the lantern-skylight on the roof brilliantly lit up from within. It
shone out with dazzling brightness against the murky, starless sky.

I hurried through the churchyard to the door.

As I got near there was a strange smell stealing out on the damp
night air. I heard a snapping noise inside—I saw the light above grow
brighter and brighter—a pane of the glass cracked—I ran to the door and
put my hand on it. The vestry was on fire!

Before I could move, before I could draw my breath after that
discovery, I was horror-struck by a heavy thump against the door from
the inside. I heard the key worked violently in the lock—I heard a
man’s voice behind the door, raised to a dreadful shrillness, screaming
for help.

The servant who had followed me staggered back shuddering, and dropped
to his knees. “Oh, my God!” he said, “it’s Sir Percival!”

As the words passed his lips the clerk joined us, and at the same
moment there was another and a last grating turn of the key in the lock.

“The Lord have mercy on his soul!” said the old man. “He is doomed and
dead. He has hampered the lock.”

I rushed to the door. The one absorbing purpose that had filled all
my thoughts, that had controlled all my actions, for weeks and weeks
past, vanished in an instant from my mind. All remembrance of the
heartless injury the man’s crimes had inflicted—of the love, the
innocence, the happiness he had pitilessly laid waste—of the oath I
had sworn in my own heart to summon him to the terrible reckoning that
he deserved—passed from my memory like a dream. I remembered nothing
but the horror of his situation. I felt nothing but the natural human
impulse to save him from a frightful death.

“Try the other door!” I shouted. “Try the door into the church! The
lock’s hampered. You’re a dead man if you waste another moment on it.”

There had been no renewed cry for help when the key was turned for
the last time. There was no sound now of any kind, to give token that
he was still alive. I heard nothing but the quickening crackle of the
flames, and the sharp snap of the glass in the skylight above.

I looked round at my two companions. The servant had risen to his
feet—he had taken the lantern, and was holding it up vacantly at the
door. Terror seemed to have struck him with downright idiocy—he waited
at my heels, he followed me about when I moved like a dog. The clerk
sat crouched up on one of the tombstones, shivering, and moaning to
himself. The one moment in which I looked at them was enough to show me
that they were both helpless.

Hardly knowing what I did, acting desperately on the first impulse that
occurred to me, I seized the servant and pushed him against the vestry
wall. “Stoop!” I said, “and hold by the stones. I am going to climb
over you to the roof—I am going to break the skylight, and give him
some air!”

The man trembled from head to foot, but he held firm. I got on his
back, with my cudgel in my mouth, seized the parapet with both hands,
and was instantly on the roof. In the frantic hurry and agitation of
the moment, it never struck me that I might let out the flame instead
of letting in the air. I struck at the skylight, and battered in the
cracked, loosened glass at a blow. The fire leaped out like a wild
beast from its lair. If the wind had not chanced, in the position I
occupied, to set it away from me, my exertions might have ended then
and there. I crouched on the roof as the smoke poured out above me
with the flame. The gleams and flashes of the light showed me the
servant’s face staring up vacantly under the wall—the clerk risen to
his feet on the tombstone, wringing his hands in despair—and the scanty
population of the village, haggard men and terrified women, clustered
beyond in the churchyard—all appearing and disappearing, in the red
of the dreadful glare, in the black of the choking smoke. And the man
beneath my feet!—the man, suffocating, burning, dying so near us all,
so utterly beyond our reach!

The thought half maddened me. I lowered myself from the roof, by my
hands, and dropped to the ground.

“The key of the church!” I shouted to the clerk. “We must try it that
way—we may save him yet if we can burst open the inner door.”

“No, no, no!” cried the old man. “No hope! the church key and the
vestry key are on the same ring—both inside there! Oh, sir, he’s past
saving—he’s dust and ashes by this time!”

“They’ll see the fire from the town,” said a voice from among the men
behind me. “There’s a ingine in the town. They’ll save the church.”

I called to that man—HE had his wits about him—I called to him to come
and speak to me. It would be a quarter of an hour at least before
the town engine could reach us. The horror of remaining inactive all
that time was more than I could face. In defiance of my own reason
I persuaded myself that the doomed and lost wretch in the vestry
might still be lying senseless on the floor, might not be dead yet.
If we broke open the door, might we save him? I knew the strength
of the heavy lock—I knew the thickness of the nailed oak—I knew the
hopelessness of assailing the one and the other by ordinary means. But
surely there were beams still left in the dismantled cottages near the
church? What if we got one, and used it as a battering-ram against the
door?

The thought leaped through me like the fire leaping out of the
shattered skylight. I appealed to the man who had spoken first of the
fire-engine in the town. “Have you got your pickaxes handy?” Yes, they
had. “And a hatchet, and a saw, and a bit of rope?” Yes! yes! yes!
I ran down among the villagers, with the lantern in my hand. “Five
shillings apiece to every man who helps me!” They started into life
at the words. That ravenous second hunger of poverty—the hunger for
money—roused them into tumult and activity in a moment. “Two of you
for more lanterns, if you have them! Two of you for the pickaxes and
the tools! The rest after me to find the beam!” They cheered—with
shrill starveling voices they cheered. The women and the children fled
back on either side. We rushed in a body down the churchyard path to
the first empty cottage. Not a man was left behind but the clerk—the
poor old clerk standing on the flat tombstone sobbing and wailing over
the church. The servant was still at my heels—his white, helpless,
panic-stricken face was close over my shoulder as we pushed into the
cottage. There were rafters from the torn-down floor above, lying loose
on the ground—but they were too light. A beam ran across over our
heads, but not out of reach of our arms and our pickaxes—a beam fast
at each end in the ruined wall, with ceiling and flooring all ripped
away, and a great gap in the roof above, open to the sky. We attacked
the beam at both ends at once. God! how it held—how the brick and
mortar of the wall resisted us! We struck, and tugged, and tore. The
beam gave at one end—it came down with a lump of brickwork after it.
There was a scream from the women all huddled in the doorway to look at
us—a shout from the men—two of them down but not hurt. Another tug all
together—and the beam was loose at both ends. We raised it, and gave
the word to clear the doorway. Now for the work! now for the rush at
the door! There is the fire streaming into the sky, streaming brighter
than ever to light us! Steady along the churchyard path—steady with the
beam for a rush at the door. One, two, three—and off. Out rings the
cheering again, irrepressibly. We have shaken it already, the hinges
must give if the lock won’t. Another run with the beam! One, two,
three—and off. It’s loose! the stealthy fire darts at us through the
crevice all round it. Another, and a last rush! The door falls in with
a crash. A great hush of awe, a stillness of breathless expectation,
possesses every living soul of us. We look for the body. The scorching
heat on our faces drives us back: we see nothing—above, below, all
through the room, we see nothing but a sheet of living fire.


“Where is he?” whispered the servant, staring vacantly at the flames.

“He’s dust and ashes,” said the clerk. “And the books are dust and
ashes—and oh, sirs! the church will be dust and ashes soon.”

Those were the only two who spoke. When they were silent again, nothing
stirred in the stillness but the bubble and the crackle of the flames.

Hark!

A harsh rattling sound in the distance—then the hollow beat of horses’
hoofs at full gallop—then the low roar, the all-predominant tumult of
hundreds of human voices clamouring and shouting together. The engine
at last.

The people about me all turned from the fire, and ran eagerly to the
brow of the hill. The old clerk tried to go with the rest, but his
strength was exhausted. I saw him holding by one of the tombstones.
“Save the church!” he cried out faintly, as if the firemen could hear
him already.

“Save the church!”

The only man who never moved was the servant. There he stood, his eyes
still fastened on the flames in a changeless, vacant stare. I spoke to
him, I shook him by the arm. He was past rousing. He only whispered
once more, “Where is he?”

In ten minutes the engine was in position, the well at the back of the
church was feeding it, and the hose was carried to the doorway of the
vestry. If help had been wanted from me I could not have afforded it
now. My energy of will was gone—my strength was exhausted—the turmoil
of my thoughts was fearfully and suddenly stilled, now I knew that he
was dead.

I stood useless and helpless—looking, looking, looking into the burning
room.

I saw the fire slowly conquered. The brightness of the glare faded—the
steam rose in white clouds, and the smouldering heaps of embers showed
red and black through it on the floor. There was a pause—then an
advance all together of the firemen and the police which blocked up
the doorway—then a consultation in low voices—and then two men were
detached from the rest, and sent out of the churchyard through the
crowd. The crowd drew back on either side in dead silence to let them
pass.

After a while a great shudder ran through the people, and the living
lane widened slowly. The men came back along it with a door from one of
the empty houses. They carried it to the vestry and went in. The police
closed again round the doorway, and men stole out from among the crowd
by twos and threes and stood behind them to be the first to see. Others
waited near to be the first to hear. Women and children were among
these last.

The tidings from the vestry began to flow out among the crowd—they
dropped slowly from mouth to mouth till they reached the place where
I was standing. I heard the questions and answers repeated again and
again in low, eager tones all round me.

“Have they found him?” “Yes.”—“Where?” “Against the door, on his
face.”—“Which door?” “The door that goes into the church. His head was
against it—he was down on his face.”—“Is his face burnt?” “No.” “Yes,
it is.” “No, scorched, not burnt—he lay on his face, I tell you.”—“Who
was he? A lord, they say.” “No, not a lord. SIR Something; Sir means
Knight.” “And Baronight, too.” “No.” “Yes, it does.”—“What did he
want in there?” “No good, you may depend on it.”—“Did he do it on
purpose?”—“Burn himself on purpose!”—“I don’t mean himself, I mean the
vestry.”—“Is he dreadful to look at?” “Dreadful!”—“Not about the face,
though?” “No, no, not so much about the face. Don’t anybody know him?”
“There’s a man says he does.”—“Who?” “A servant, they say. But he’s
struck stupid-like, and the police don’t believe him.”—“Don’t anybody
else know who it is?” “Hush——!”

The loud, clear voice of a man in authority silenced the low hum of
talking all round me in an instant.

“Where is the gentleman who tried to save him?” said the voice.

“Here, sir—here he is!” Dozens of eager faces pressed about me—dozens
of eager arms parted the crowd. The man in authority came up to me with
a lantern in his hand.

“This way, sir, if you please,” he said quietly.

I was unable to speak to him, I was unable to resist him when he
took my arm. I tried to say that I had never seen the dead man in
his lifetime—that there was no hope of identifying him by means of a
stranger like me. But the words failed on my lips. I was faint, and
silent, and helpless.

“Do you know him, sir?”

I was standing inside a circle of men. Three of them opposite to me
were holding lanterns low down to the ground. Their eyes, and the eyes
of all the rest, were fixed silently and expectantly on my face. I knew
what was at my feet—I knew why they were holding the lanterns so low to
the ground.

“Can you identify him, sir?”

My eyes dropped slowly. At first I saw nothing under them but a coarse
canvas cloth. The dripping of the rain on it was audible in the
dreadful silence. I looked up, along the cloth, and there at the end,
stark and grim and black, in the yellow light—there was his dead face.

So, for the first and last time, I saw him. So the Visitation of God
ruled it that he and I should meet.



XI

The inquest was hurried for certain local reasons which weighed with
the coroner and the town authorities. It was held on the afternoon of
the next day. I was necessarily one among the witnesses summoned to
assist the objects of the investigation.

My first proceeding in the morning was to go to the post-office,
and inquire for the letter which I expected from Marian. No change
of circumstances, however extraordinary, could affect the one great
anxiety which weighed on my mind while I was away from London. The
morning’s letter, which was the only assurance I could receive that no
misfortune had happened in my absence, was still the absorbing interest
with which my day began.

To my relief, the letter from Marian was at the office waiting for me.

Nothing had happened—they were both as safe and as well as when I
had left them. Laura sent her love, and begged that I would let her
know of my return a day beforehand. Her sister added, in explanation
of this message, that she had saved “nearly a sovereign” out of her
own private purse, and that she had claimed the privilege of ordering
the dinner and giving the dinner which was to celebrate the day of
my return. I read these little domestic confidences in the bright
morning with the terrible recollection of what had happened the evening
before vivid in my memory. The necessity of sparing Laura any sudden
knowledge of the truth was the first consideration which the letter
suggested to me. I wrote at once to Marian to tell her what I have
told in these pages—presenting the tidings as gradually and gently as
I could, and warning her not to let any such thing as a newspaper fall
in Laura’s way while I was absent. In the case of any other woman, less
courageous and less reliable, I might have hesitated before I ventured
on unreservedly disclosing the whole truth. But I owed it to Marian to
be faithful to my past experience of her, and to trust her as I trusted
myself.

My letter was necessarily a long one. It occupied me until the time
came for proceeding to the inquest.

The objects of the legal inquiry were necessarily beset by peculiar
complications and difficulties. Besides the investigation into the
manner in which the deceased had met his death, there were serious
questions to be settled relating to the cause of the fire, to the
abstraction of the keys, and to the presence of a stranger in the
vestry at the time when the flames broke out. Even the identification
of the dead man had not yet been accomplished. The helpless condition
of the servant had made the police distrustful of his asserted
recognition of his master. They had sent to Knowlesbury overnight to
secure the attendance of witnesses who were well acquainted with the
personal appearance of Sir Percival Glyde, and they had communicated,
the first thing in the morning, with Blackwater Park. These precautions
enabled the coroner and jury to settle the question of identity, and
to confirm the correctness of the servant’s assertion; the evidence
offered by competent witnesses, and by the discovery of certain facts,
being subsequently strengthened by an examination of the dead man’s
watch. The crest and the name of Sir Percival Glyde were engraved
inside it.

The next inquiries related to the fire.

The servant and I, and the boy who had heard the light struck in the
vestry, were the first witnesses called. The boy gave his evidence
clearly enough, but the servant’s mind had not yet recovered the shock
inflicted on it—he was plainly incapable of assisting the objects of
the inquiry, and he was desired to stand down.

To my own relief, my examination was not a long one. I had not known
the deceased—I had never seen him—I was not aware of his presence at
Old Welmingham—and I had not been in the vestry at the finding of the
body. All I could prove was that I had stopped at the clerk’s cottage
to ask my way—that I had heard from him of the loss of the keys—that
I had accompanied him to the church to render what help I could—that
I had seen the fire—that I had heard some person unknown, inside the
vestry, trying vainly to unlock the door—and that I had done what I
could, from motives of humanity, to save the man. Other witnesses, who
had been acquainted with the deceased, were asked if they could explain
the mystery of his presumed abstraction of the keys, and his presence
in the burning room. But the coroner seemed to take it for granted,
naturally enough, that I, as a total stranger in the neighbourhood, and
a total stranger to Sir Percival Glyde, could not be in a position to
offer any evidence on these two points.

The course that I was myself bound to take, when my formal examination
had closed, seemed clear to me. I did not feel called on to volunteer
any statement of my own private convictions; in the first place,
because my doing so could serve no practical purpose, now that all
proof in support of any surmises of mine was burnt with the burnt
register; in the second place, because I could not have intelligibly
stated my opinion—my unsupported opinion—without disclosing the
whole story of the conspiracy, and producing beyond a doubt the same
unsatisfactory effect an the minds of the coroner and the jury, which I
had already produced on the mind of Mr. Kyrle.

In these pages, however, and after the time that has now elapsed, no
such cautions and restraints as are here described need fetter the free
expression of my opinion. I will state briefly, before my pen occupies
itself with other events, how my own convictions lead me to account for
the abstraction of the keys, for the outbreak of the fire, and for the
death of the man.

The news of my being free on bail drove Sir Percival, as I believe, to
his last resources. The attempted attack on the road was one of those
resources, and the suppression of all practical proof of his crime,
by destroying the page of the register on which the forgery had been
committed, was the other, and the surest of the two. If I could produce
no extract from the original book to compare with the certified copy at
Knowlesbury, I could produce no positive evidence, and could threaten
him with no fatal exposure. All that was necessary to the attainment of
his end was, that he should get into the vestry unperceived, that he
should tear out the page in the register, and that he should leave the
vestry again as privately as he had entered it.

On this supposition, it is easy to understand why he waited until
nightfall before he made the attempt, and why he took advantage of the
clerk’s absence to possess himself of the keys. Necessity would oblige
him to strike a light to find his way to the right register, and common
caution would suggest his locking the door on the inside in case of
intrusion on the part of any inquisitive stranger, or on my part, if I
happened to be in the neighbourhood at the time.

I cannot believe that it was any part of his intention to make the
destruction of the register appear to be the result of accident, by
purposely setting the vestry on fire. The bare chance that prompt
assistance might arrive, and that the books might, by the remotest
possibility, be saved, would have been enough, on a moment’s
consideration, to dismiss any idea of this sort from his mind.
Remembering the quantity of combustible objects in the vestry—the
straw, the papers, the packing-cases, the dry wood, the old worm-eaten
presses—all the probabilities, in my estimation, point to the fire as
the result of an accident with his matches or his light.

His first impulse, under these circumstances, was doubtless to try
to extinguish the flames, and failing in that, his second impulse
(ignorant as he was of the state of the lock) had been to attempt to
escape by the door which had given him entrance. When I had called to
him, the flames must have reached across the door leading into the
church, on either side of which the presses extended, and close to
which the other combustible objects were placed. In all probability,
the smoke and flame (confined as they were to the room) had been too
much for him when he tried to escape by the inner door. He must have
dropped in his death-swoon—he must have sunk in the place where he was
found—just as I got on the roof to break the skylight window. Even if
we had been able, afterwards, to get into the church, and to burst open
the door from that side, the delay must have been fatal. He would have
been past saving, long past saving, by that time. We should only have
given the flames free ingress into the church—the church, which was
now preserved, but which, in that event, would have shared the fate of
the vestry. There is no doubt in my mind, there can be no doubt in the
mind of any one, that he was a dead man before ever we got to the empty
cottage, and worked with might and main to tear down the beam.

This is the nearest approach that any theory of mine can make towards
accounting for a result which was visible matter of fact. As I have
described them, so events passed to us outside. As I have related it,
so his body was found.


The inquest was adjourned over one day—no explanation that the eye of
the law could recognise having been discovered thus far to account for
the mysterious circumstances of the case.

It was arranged that more witnesses should be summoned, and that the
London solicitor of the deceased should be invited to attend. A medical
man was also charged with the duty of reporting on the mental condition
of the servant, which appeared at present to debar him from giving any
evidence of the least importance. He could only declare, in a dazed
way, that he had been ordered, on the night of the fire, to wait in
the lane, and that he knew nothing else, except that the deceased was
certainly his master.

My own impression was, that he had been first used (without any guilty
knowledge on his own part) to ascertain the fact of the clerk’s absence
from home on the previous day, and that he had been afterwards ordered
to wait near the church (but out of sight of the vestry) to assist his
master, in the event of my escaping the attack on the road, and of a
collision occurring between Sir Percival and myself. It is necessary
to add, that the man’s own testimony was never obtained to confirm
this view. The medical report of him declared that what little mental
faculty he possessed was seriously shaken; nothing satisfactory was
extracted from him at the adjourned inquest, and for aught I know to
the contrary, he may never have recovered to this day.

I returned to the hotel at Welmingham so jaded in body and mind, so
weakened and depressed by all that I had gone through, as to be quite
unfit to endure the local gossip about the inquest, and to answer the
trivial questions that the talkers addressed to me in the coffee-room.
I withdrew from my scanty dinner to my cheap garret-chamber to secure
myself a little quiet, and to think undisturbed of Laura and Marian.

If I had been a richer man I would have gone back to London, and
would have comforted myself with a sight of the two dear faces again
that night. But I was bound to appear, if called on, at the adjourned
inquest, and doubly bound to answer my bail before the magistrate
at Knowlesbury. Our slender resources had suffered already, and the
doubtful future—more doubtful than ever now—made me dread decreasing
our means unnecessarily by allowing myself an indulgence even at the
small cost of a double railway journey in the carriages of the second
class.

The next day—the day immediately following the inquest—was left at my
own disposal. I began the morning by again applying at the post-office
for my regular report from Marian. It was waiting for me as before,
and it was written throughout in good spirits. I read the letter
thankfully, and then set forth with my mind at ease for the day to go
to Old Welmingham, and to view the scene of the fire by the morning
light.

What changes met me when I got there!

Through all the ways of our unintelligible world the trivial and the
terrible walk hand in hand together. The irony of circumstances holds
no mortal catastrophe in respect. When I reached the church, the
trampled condition of the burial-ground was the only serious trace
left to tell of the fire and the death. A rough hoarding of boards
had been knocked up before the vestry doorway. Rude caricatures were
scrawled on it already, and the village children were fighting and
shouting for the possession of the best peep-hole to see through. On
the spot where I had heard the cry for help from the burning room, on
the spot where the panic-stricken servant had dropped on his knees, a
fussy flock of poultry was now scrambling for the first choice of worms
after the rain; and on the ground at my feet, where the door and its
dreadful burden had been laid, a workman’s dinner was waiting for him,
tied up in a yellow basin, and his faithful cur in charge was yelping
at me for coming near the food. The old clerk, looking idly at the
slow commencement of the repairs, had only one interest that he could
talk about now—the interest of escaping all blame for his own part on
account of the accident that had happened. One of the village women,
whose white wild face I remembered the picture of terror when we pulled
down the beam, was giggling with another woman, the picture of inanity,
over an old washing-tub. There is nothing serious in mortality! Solomon
in all his glory was Solomon with the elements of the contemptible
lurking in every fold of his robes and in every corner of his palace.

As I left the place, my thoughts turned, not for the first time, to
the complete overthrow that all present hope of establishing Laura’s
identity had now suffered through Sir Percival’s death. He was gone—and
with him the chance was gone which had been the one object of all my
labours and all my hopes.

Could I look at my failure from no truer point of view than this?

Suppose he had lived, would that change of circumstance have altered
the result? Could I have made my discovery a marketable commodity, even
for Laura’s sake, after I had found out that robbery of the rights of
others was the essence of Sir Percival’s crime? Could I have offered
the price of MY silence for HIS confession of the conspiracy, when the
effect of that silence must have been to keep the right heir from the
estates, and the right owner from the name? Impossible! If Sir Percival
had lived, the discovery, from which (in my ignorance of the true
nature of the Secret) I had hoped so much, could not have been mine to
suppress or to make public, as I thought best, for the vindication of
Laura’s rights. In common honesty and common honour I must have gone
at once to the stranger whose birthright had been usurped—I must have
renounced the victory at the moment when it was mine by placing my
discovery unreservedly in that stranger’s hands—and I must have faced
afresh all the difficulties which stood between me and the one object
of my life, exactly as I was resolved in my heart of hearts to face
them now!

I returned to Welmingham with my mind composed, feeling more sure of
myself and my resolution than I had felt yet.

On my way to the hotel I passed the end of the square in which Mrs.
Catherick lived. Should I go back to the house, and make another
attempt to see her? No. That news of Sir Percival’s death, which was
the last news she ever expected to hear, must have reached her hours
since. All the proceedings at the inquest had been reported in the
local paper that morning—there was nothing I could tell her which she
did not know already. My interest in making her speak had slackened. I
remembered the furtive hatred in her face when she said, “There is no
news of Sir Percival that I don’t expect—except the news of his death.”
I remembered the stealthy interest in her eyes when they settled on me
at parting, after she had spoken those words. Some instinct, deep in
my heart, which I felt to be a true one, made the prospect of again
entering her presence repulsive to me—I turned away from the square,
and went straight back to the hotel.

Some hours later, while I was resting in the coffee-room, a letter was
placed in my hands by the waiter. It was addressed to me by name, and
I found on inquiry that it had been left at the bar by a woman just as
it was near dusk, and just before the gas was lighted. She had said
nothing, and she had gone away again before there was time to speak to
her, or even to notice who she was.

I opened the letter. It was neither dated nor signed, and the
handwriting was palpably disguised. Before I had read the first
sentence, however, I knew who my correspondent was—Mrs. Catherick.

The letter ran as follows—I copy it exactly, word for word:—


THE STORY CONTINUED BY MRS. CATHERICK

SIR,—You have not come back, as you said you would. No matter—I know
the news, and I write to tell you so. Did you see anything particular
in my face when you left me? I was wondering, in my own mind, whether
the day of his downfall had come at last, and whether you were the
chosen instrument for working it. You were, and you HAVE worked it.

You were weak enough, as I have heard, to try and save his life. If
you had succeeded, I should have looked upon you as my enemy. Now you
have failed, I hold you as my friend. Your inquiries frightened him
into the vestry by night—your inquiries, without your privity and
against your will, have served the hatred and wreaked the vengeance of
three-and-twenty years. Thank you, sir, in spite of yourself.

I owe something to the man who has done this. How can I pay my debt?
If I was a young woman still I might say, “Come, put your arm round my
waist, and kiss me, if you like.” I should have been fond enough of you
even to go that length, and you would have accepted my invitation—you
would, sir, twenty years ago! But I am an old woman now. Well! I can
satisfy your curiosity, and pay my debt in that way. You HAD a great
curiosity to know certain private affairs of mine when you came to see
me—private affairs which all your sharpness could not look into without
my help—private affairs which you have not discovered, even now. You
SHALL discover them—your curiosity shall be satisfied. I will take any
trouble to please you, my estimable young friend!

You were a little boy, I suppose, in the year twenty-seven? I was a
handsome young woman at that time, living at Old Welmingham. I had
a contemptible fool for a husband. I had also the honour of being
acquainted (never mind how) with a certain gentleman (never mind whom).
I shall not call him by his name. Why should I? It was not his own. He
never had a name: you know that, by this time, as well as I do.

It will be more to the purpose to tell you how he worked himself into
my good graces. I was born with the tastes of a lady, and he gratified
them—in other words, he admired me, and he made me presents. No woman
can resist admiration and presents—especially presents, provided they
happen to be just the thing she wants. He was sharp enough to know
that—most men are. Naturally he wanted something in return—all men do.
And what do you think was the something? The merest trifle. Nothing
but the key of the vestry, and the key of the press inside it, when my
husband’s back was turned. Of course he lied when I asked him why he
wished me to get him the keys in that private way. He might have saved
himself the trouble—I didn’t believe him. But I liked my presents, and
I wanted more. So I got him the keys, without my husband’s knowledge,
and I watched him, without his own knowledge. Once, twice, four times I
watched him, and the fourth time I found him out.

I was never over-scrupulous where other people’s affairs were
concerned, and I was not over-scrupulous about his adding one to the
marriages in the register on his own account.

Of course I knew it was wrong, but it did no harm to me, which was one
good reason for not making a fuss about it. And I had not got a gold
watch and chain, which was another, still better—and he had promised
me one from London only the day before, which was a third, best of
all. If I had known what the law considered the crime to be, and how
the law punished it, I should have taken proper care of myself, and
have exposed him then and there. But I knew nothing, and I longed for
the gold watch. All the conditions I insisted on were that he should
take me into his confidence and tell me everything. I was as curious
about his affairs then as you are about mine now. He granted my
conditions—why, you will see presently.

This, put in short, is what I heard from him. He did not willingly tell
me all that I tell you here. I drew some of it from him by persuasion
and some of it by questions. I was determined to have all the truth,
and I believe I got it.

He knew no more than any one else of what the state of things really
was between his father and mother till after his mother’s death. Then
his father confessed it, and promised to do what he could for his son.
He died having done nothing—not having even made a will. The son (who
can blame him?) wisely provided for himself. He came to England at
once, and took possession of the property. There was no one to suspect
him, and no one to say him nay. His father and mother had always lived
as man and wife—none of the few people who were acquainted with them
ever supposed them to be anything else. The right person to claim the
property (if the truth had been known) was a distant relation, who had
no idea of ever getting it, and who was away at sea when his father
died. He had no difficulty so far—he took possession, as a matter of
course. But he could not borrow money on the property as a matter of
course. There were two things wanted of him before he could do this.
One was a certificate of his birth, and the other was a certificate
of his parents’ marriage. The certificate of his birth was easily
got—he was born abroad, and the certificate was there in due form. The
other matter was a difficulty, and that difficulty brought him to Old
Welmingham.

But for one consideration he might have gone to Knowlesbury instead.

His mother had been living there just before she met with his
father—living under her maiden name, the truth being that she was
really a married woman, married in Ireland, where her husband had
ill-used her, and had afterwards gone off with some other person. I
give you this fact on good authority—Sir Felix mentioned it to his
son as the reason why he had not married. You may wonder why the
son, knowing that his parents had met each other at Knowlesbury, did
not play his first tricks with the register of that church, where it
might have been fairly presumed his father and mother were married.
The reason was that the clergyman who did duty at Knowlesbury church,
in the year eighteen hundred and three (when, according to his birth
certificate, his father and mother OUGHT to have been married), was
alive still when he took possession of the property in the New Year of
eighteen hundred and twenty-seven. This awkward circumstance forced
him to extend his inquiries to our neighbourhood. There no such danger
existed, the former clergyman at our church having been dead for some
years.

Old Welmingham suited his purpose as well as Knowlesbury. His father
had removed his mother from Knowlesbury, and had lived with her at a
cottage on the river, a little distance from our village. People who
had known his solitary ways when he was single did not wonder at his
solitary ways when he was supposed to be married. If he had not been a
hideous creature to look at, his retired life with the lady might have
raised suspicions; but, as things were, his hiding his ugliness and his
deformity in the strictest privacy surprised nobody. He lived in our
neighbourhood till he came in possession of the Park. After three or
four and twenty years had passed, who was to say (the clergyman being
dead) that his marriage had not been as private as the rest of his
life, and that it had not taken place at Old Welmingham church?

So, as I told you, the son found our neighbourhood the surest place he
could choose to set things right secretly in his own interests. It may
surprise you to hear that what he really did to the marriage register
was done on the spur of the moment—done on second thoughts.

His first notion was only to tear the leaf out (in the right year and
month), to destroy it privately, to go back to London, and to tell the
lawyers to get him the necessary certificate of his father’s marriage,
innocently referring them of course to the date on the leaf that was
gone. Nobody could say his father and mother had NOT been married after
that, and whether, under the circumstances, they would stretch a point
or not about lending him the money (he thought they would), he had his
answer ready at all events, if a question was ever raised about his
right to the name and the estate.

But when he came to look privately at the register for himself, he
found at the bottom of one of the pages for the year eighteen hundred
and three a blank space left, seemingly through there being no room
to make a long entry there, which was made instead at the top of the
next page. The sight of this chance altered all his plans. It was an
opportunity he had never hoped for, or thought of—and he took it—you
know how. The blank space, to have exactly tallied with his birth
certificate, ought to have occurred in the July part of the register.
It occurred in the September part instead. However, in this case, if
suspicious questions were asked, the answer was not hard to find. He
had only to describe himself as a seven months’ child.

I was fool enough, when he told me his story, to feel some interest and
some pity for him—which was just what he calculated on, as you will
see. I thought him hardly used. It was not his fault that his father
and mother were not married, and it was not his father’s and mother’s
fault either. A more scrupulous woman than I was—a woman who had not
set her heart on a gold watch and chain—would have found some excuses
for him. At all events, I held my tongue, and helped to screen what he
was about.

He was some time getting the ink the right colour (mixing it over and
over again in pots and bottles of mine), and some time afterwards in
practising the handwriting. But he succeeded in the end, and made an
honest woman of his mother after she was dead in her grave! So far, I
don’t deny that he behaved honourably enough to myself. He gave me my
watch and chain, and spared no expense in buying them; both were of
superior workmanship, and very expensive. I have got them still—the
watch goes beautifully.

You said the other day that Mrs. Clements had told you everything she
knew. In that case there is no need for me to write about the trumpery
scandal by which I was the sufferer—the innocent sufferer, I positively
assert. You must know as well as I do what the notion was which my
husband took into his head when he found me and my fine-gentleman
acquaintance meeting each other privately and talking secrets together.
But what you don’t know is how it ended between that same gentleman and
myself. You shall read and see how he behaved to me.

The first words I said to him, when I saw the turn things had taken,
were, “Do me justice—clear my character of a stain on it which you
know I don’t deserve. I don’t want you to make a clean breast of it to
my husband—only tell him, on your word of honour as a gentleman, that
he is wrong, and that I am not to blame in the way he thinks I am. Do
me that justice, at least, after all I have done for you.” He flatly
refused, in so many words. He told me plainly that it was his interest
to let my husband and all my neighbours believe the falsehood—because,
as long as they did so they were quite certain never to suspect the
truth. I had a spirit of my own, and I told him they should know the
truth from my lips. His reply was short, and to the point. If I spoke,
I was a lost woman, as certainly as he was a lost man.

Yes! it had come to that. He had deceived me about the risk I ran
in helping him. He had practised on my ignorance, he had tempted me
with his gifts, he had interested me with his story—and the result of
it was that he made me his accomplice. He owned this coolly, and he
ended by telling me, for the first time, what the frightful punishment
really was for his offence, and for any one who helped him to commit
it. In those days the law was not so tender-hearted as I hear it is
now. Murderers were not the only people liable to be hanged, and women
convicts were not treated like ladies in undeserved distress. I confess
he frightened me—the mean impostor! the cowardly blackguard! Do you
understand now how I hated him? Do you understand why I am taking all
this trouble—thankfully taking it—to gratify the curiosity of the
meritorious young gentleman who hunted him down?

Well, to go on. He was hardly fool enough to drive me to downright
desperation. I was not the sort of woman whom it was quite safe to hunt
into a corner—he knew that, and wisely quieted me with proposals for
the future.

I deserved some reward (he was kind enough to say) for the service I
had done him, and some compensation (he was so obliging as to add) for
what I had suffered. He was quite willing—generous scoundrel!—to make
me a handsome yearly allowance, payable quarterly, on two conditions.
First, I was to hold my tongue—in my own interests as well as in his.
Secondly, I was not to stir away from Welmingham without first letting
him know, and waiting till I had obtained his permission. In my own
neighbourhood, no virtuous female friends would tempt me into dangerous
gossiping at the tea-table. In my own neighbourhood, he would always
know where to find me. A hard condition, that second one—but I accepted
it.

What else was I to do? I was left helpless, with the prospect of a
coming incumbrance in the shape of a child. What else was I to do? Cast
myself on the mercy of my runaway idiot of a husband who had raised the
scandal against me? I would have died first. Besides, the allowance WAS
a handsome one. I had a better income, a better house over my head,
better carpets on my floors, than half the women who turned up the
whites of their eyes at the sight of me. The dress of Virtue, in our
parts, was cotton print. I had silk.

So I accepted the conditions he offered me, and made the best of
them, and fought my battle with my respectable neighbours on their
own ground, and won it in course of time—as you saw yourself. How I
kept his Secret (and mine) through all the years that have passed from
that time to this, and whether my late daughter, Anne, ever really
crept into my confidence, and got the keeping of the Secret too—are
questions, I dare say, to which you are curious to find an answer.
Well! my gratitude refuses you nothing. I will turn to a fresh page
and give you the answer immediately. But you must excuse one thing—you
must excuse my beginning, Mr. Hartright, with an expression of surprise
at the interest which you appear to have felt in my late daughter. It
is quite unaccountable to me. If that interest makes you anxious for
any particulars of her early life, I must refer you to Mrs. Clements,
who knows more of the subject than I do. Pray understand that I do
not profess to have been at all overfond of my late daughter. She was
a worry to me from first to last, with the additional disadvantage
of being always weak in the head. You like candour, and I hope this
satisfies you.

There is no need to trouble you with many personal particulars relating
to those past times. It will be enough to say that I observed the terms
of the bargain on my side, and that I enjoyed my comfortable income in
return, paid quarterly.

Now and then I got away and changed the scene for a short time, always
asking leave of my lord and master first, and generally getting it. He
was not, as I have already told you, fool enough to drive me too hard,
and he could reasonably rely on my holding my tongue for my own sake,
if not for his. One of my longest trips away from home was the trip I
took to Limmeridge to nurse a half-sister there, who was dying. She was
reported to have saved money, and I thought it as well (in case any
accident happened to stop my allowance) to look after my own interests
in that direction. As things turned out, however, my pains were all
thrown away, and I got nothing, because nothing was to be had.

I had taken Anne to the north with me, having my whims and fancies,
occasionally, about my child, and getting, at such times, jealous of
Mrs. Clements’ influence over her. I never liked Mrs. Clements. She was
a poor, empty-headed, spiritless woman—what you call a born drudge—and
I was now and then not averse to plaguing her by taking Anne away. Not
knowing what else to do with my girl while I was nursing in Cumberland,
I put her to school at Limmeridge. The lady of the manor, Mrs. Fairlie
(a remarkably plain-looking woman, who had entrapped one of the
handsomest men in England into marrying her), amused me wonderfully
by taking a violent fancy to my girl. The consequence was, she learnt
nothing at school, and was petted and spoilt at Limmeridge House. Among
other whims and fancies which they taught her there, they put some
nonsense into her head about always wearing white. Hating white and
liking colours myself, I determined to take the nonsense out of her
head as soon as we got home again.

Strange to say, my daughter resolutely resisted me. When she HAD got a
notion once fixed in her mind she was, like other half-witted people,
as obstinate as a mule in keeping it. We quarrelled finely, and Mrs.
Clements, not liking to see it, I suppose, offered to take Anne away
to live in London with her. I should have said Yes, if Mrs. Clements
had not sided with my daughter about her dressing herself in white. But
being determined she should NOT dress herself in white, and disliking
Mrs. Clements more than ever for taking part against me, I said No, and
meant No, and stuck to No. The consequence was, my daughter remained
with me, and the consequence of that, in its turn, was the first
serious quarrel that happened about the Secret.

The circumstance took place long after the time I have just been
writing of. I had been settled for years in the new town, and was
steadily living down my bad character and slowly gaining ground among
the respectable inhabitants. It helped me forward greatly towards this
object to have my daughter with me. Her harmlessness and her fancy
for dressing in white excited a certain amount of sympathy. I left
off opposing her favourite whim on that account, because some of the
sympathy was sure, in course of time, to fall to my share. Some of it
did fall. I date my getting a choice of the two best sittings to let in
the church from that time, and I date the clergyman’s first bow from my
getting the sittings.

Well, being settled in this way, I received a letter one morning from
that highly born gentleman (now deceased) in answer to one of mine,
warning him, according to agreement, of my wishing to leave the town
for a little change of air and scene.

The ruffianly side of him must have been uppermost, I suppose, when
he got my letter, for he wrote back, refusing me in such abominably
insolent language, that I lost all command over myself, and abused him,
in my daughter’s presence, as “a low impostor whom I could ruin for
life if I chose to open my lips and let out his Secret.” I said no more
about him than that, being brought to my senses as soon as those words
had escaped me by the sight of my daughter’s face looking eagerly and
curiously at mine. I instantly ordered her out of the room until I had
composed myself again.

My sensations were not pleasant, I can tell you, when I came to reflect
on my own folly. Anne had been more than usually crazy and queer that
year, and when I thought of the chance there might be of her repeating
my words in the town, and mentioning HIS name in connection with them,
if inquisitive people got hold of her, I was finely terrified at the
possible consequences. My worst fears for myself, my worst dread of
what he might do, led me no farther than this. I was quite unprepared
for what really did happen only the next day.

On that next day, without any warning to me to expect him, he came to
the house.

His first words, and the tone in which he spoke them, surly as it was,
showed me plainly enough that he had repented already of his insolent
answer to my application, and that he had come in a mighty bad temper
to try and set matters right again before it was too late. Seeing my
daughter in the room with me (I had been afraid to let her out of my
sight after what had happened the day before) he ordered her away. They
neither of them liked each other, and he vented the ill-temper on HER
which he was afraid to show to ME.

“Leave us,” he said, looking at her over his shoulder. She looked back
over HER shoulder and waited as if she didn’t care to go. “Do you
hear?” he roared out, “leave the room.” “Speak to me civilly,” says
she, getting red in the face. “Turn the idiot out,” says he, looking
my way. She had always had crazy notions of her own about her dignity,
and that word “idiot” upset her in a moment. Before I could interfere
she stepped up to him in a fine passion. “Beg my pardon, directly,”
says she, “or I’ll make it the worse for you. I’ll let out your
Secret. I can ruin you for life if I choose to open my lips.” My own
words!—repeated exactly from what I had said the day before—repeated,
in his presence, as if they had come from herself. He sat speechless,
as white as the paper I am writing on, while I pushed her out of the
room. When he recovered himself——

No! I am too respectable a woman to mention what he said when he
recovered himself. My pen is the pen of a member of the rector’s
congregation, and a subscriber to the “Wednesday Lectures on
Justification by Faith”—how can you expect me to employ it in writing
bad language? Suppose, for yourself, the raging, swearing frenzy of the
lowest ruffian in England, and let us get on together, as fast as may
be, to the way in which it all ended.

It ended, as you probably guess by this time, in his insisting on
securing his own safety by shutting her up.

I tried to set things right. I told him that she had merely repeated,
like a parrot, the words she had heard me say and that she knew no
particulars whatever, because I had mentioned none. I explained that
she had affected, out of crazy spite against him, to know what she
really did NOT know—that she only wanted to threaten him and aggravate
him for speaking to her as he had just spoken—and that my unlucky words
gave her just the chance of doing mischief of which she was in search.
I referred him to other queer ways of hers, and to his own experience
of the vagaries of half-witted people—it was all to no purpose—he would
not believe me on my oath—he was absolutely certain I had betrayed the
whole Secret. In short, he would hear of nothing but shutting her up.

Under these circumstances, I did my duty as a mother. “No pauper
Asylum,” I said, “I won’t have her put in a pauper Asylum. A Private
Establishment, if you please. I have my feelings as a mother, and my
character to preserve in the town, and I will submit to nothing but a
Private Establishment, of the sort which my genteel neighbours would
choose for afflicted relatives of their own.” Those were my words.
It is gratifying to me to reflect that I did my duty. Though never
overfond of my late daughter, I had a proper pride about her. No pauper
stain—thanks to my firmness and resolution—ever rested on MY child.

Having carried my point (which I did the more easily, in consequence of
the facilities offered by private Asylums), I could not refuse to admit
that there were certain advantages gained by shutting her up. In the
first place, she was taken excellent care of—being treated (as I took
care to mention in the town) on the footing of a lady. In the second
place, she was kept away from Welmingham, where she might have set
people suspecting and inquiring, by repeating my own incautious words.

The only drawback of putting her under restraint was a very slight one.
We merely turned her empty boast about knowing the Secret into a fixed
delusion. Having first spoken in sheer crazy spitefulness against the
man who had offended her, she was cunning enough to see that she had
seriously frightened him, and sharp enough afterwards to discover that
HE was concerned in shutting her up. The consequence was she flamed out
into a perfect frenzy of passion against him, going to the Asylum, and
the first words she said to the nurses, after they had quieted her,
were, that she was put in confinement for knowing his Secret, and that
she meant to open her lips and ruin him, when the right time came.

She may have said the same thing to you, when you thoughtlessly
assisted her escape. She certainly said it (as I heard last summer)
to the unfortunate woman who married our sweet-tempered, nameless
gentleman lately deceased. If either you, or that unlucky lady, had
questioned my daughter closely, and had insisted on her explaining what
she really meant, you would have found her lose all her self-importance
suddenly, and get vacant, and restless, and confused—you would have
discovered that I am writing nothing here but the plain truth. She knew
that there was a Secret—she knew who was connected with it—she knew
who would suffer by its being known—and beyond that, whatever airs of
importance she may have given herself, whatever crazy boasting she may
have indulged in with strangers, she never to her dying day knew more.

Have I satisfied your curiosity? I have taken pains enough to satisfy
it at any rate. There is really nothing else I have to tell you about
myself or my daughter. My worst responsibilities, so far as she was
concerned, were all over when she was secured in the Asylum. I had a
form of letter relating to the circumstances under which she was shut
up, given me to write, in answer to one Miss Halcombe, who was curious
in the matter, and who must have heard plenty of lies about me from a
certain tongue well accustomed to the telling of the same. And I did
what I could afterwards to trace my runaway daughter, and prevent her
from doing mischief by making inquiries myself in the neighbourhood
where she was falsely reported to have been seen. But these, and other
trifles like them, are of little or no interest to you after what you
have heard already.

So far, I have written in the friendliest possible spirit. But I cannot
close this letter without adding a word here of serious remonstrance
and reproof, addressed to yourself.

In the course of your personal interview with me, you audaciously
referred to my late daughter’s parentage on the father’s side, as
if that parentage was a matter of doubt. This was highly improper
and very ungentlemanlike on your part! If we see each other again,
remember, if you please, that I will allow no liberties to be taken
with my reputation, and that the moral atmosphere of Welmingham (to
use a favourite expression of my friend the rector’s) must not be
tainted by loose conversation of any kind. If you allow yourself to
doubt that my husband was Anne’s father, you personally insult me in
the grossest manner. If you have felt, and if you still continue to
feel, an unhallowed curiosity on this subject, I recommend you, in your
own interests, to check it at once, and for ever. On this side of the
grave, Mr. Hartright, whatever may happen on the other, THAT curiosity
will never be gratified.

Perhaps, after what I have just said, you will see the necessity of
writing me an apology. Do so, and I will willingly receive it. I will,
afterwards, if your wishes point to a second interview with me, go
a step farther, and receive you. My circumstances only enable me to
invite you to tea—not that they are at all altered for the worse by
what has happened. I have always lived, as I think I told you, well
within my income, and I have saved enough, in the last twenty years,
to make me quite comfortable for the rest of my life. It is not my
intention to leave Welmingham. There are one or two little advantages
which I have still to gain in the town. The clergyman bows to me—as you
saw. He is married, and his wife is not quite so civil. I propose to
join the Dorcas Society, and I mean to make the clergyman’s wife bow to
me next.

If you favour me with your company, pray understand that the
conversation must be entirely on general subjects. Any attempted
reference to this letter will be quite useless—I am determined not to
acknowledge having written it. The evidence has been destroyed in the
fire, I know, but I think it desirable to err on the side of caution,
nevertheless.

On this account no names are mentioned here, nor is any signature
attached to these lines: the handwriting is disguised throughout, and
I mean to deliver the letter myself, under circumstances which will
prevent all fear of its being traced to my house. You can have no
possible cause to complain of these precautions, seeing that they do
not affect the information I here communicate, in consideration of the
special indulgence which you have deserved at my hands. My hour for tea
is half-past five, and my buttered toast waits for nobody.



THE STORY CONTINUED BY WALTER HARTRIGHT



I


My first impulse, after reading Mrs. Catherick’s extraordinary
narrative, was to destroy it. The hardened shameless depravity of the
whole composition, from beginning to end—the atrocious perversity of
mind which persistently associated me with a calamity for which I was
in no sense answerable, and with a death which I had risked my life in
trying to avert—so disgusted me, that I was on the point of tearing the
letter, when a consideration suggested itself which warned me to wait a
little before I destroyed it.

This consideration was entirely unconnected with Sir Percival. The
information communicated to me, so far as it concerned him, did little
more than confirm the conclusions at which I had already arrived.

He had committed his offence, as I had supposed him to have committed
it, and the absence of all reference, on Mrs. Catherick’s part, to
the duplicate register at Knowlesbury, strengthened my previous
conviction that the existence of the book, and the risk of detection
which it implied, must have been necessarily unknown to Sir Percival.
My interest in the question of the forgery was now at an end, and my
only object in keeping the letter was to make it of some future service
in clearing up the last mystery that still remained to baffle me—the
parentage of Anne Catherick on the father’s side. There were one or two
sentences dropped in her mother’s narrative, which it might be useful
to refer to again, when matters of more immediate importance allowed me
leisure to search for the missing evidence. I did not despair of still
finding that evidence, and I had lost none of my anxiety to discover
it, for I had lost none of my interest in tracing the father of the
poor creature who now lay at rest in Mrs. Fairlie’s grave.

Accordingly, I sealed up the letter and put it away carefully in my
pocket-book, to be referred to again when the time came.

The next day was my last in Hampshire. When I had appeared again before
the magistrate at Knowlesbury, and when I had attended at the adjourned
inquest, I should be free to return to London by the afternoon or the
evening train.

My first errand in the morning was, as usual, to the post-office. The
letter from Marian was there, but I thought when it was handed to me
that it felt unusually light. I anxiously opened the envelope. There
was nothing inside but a small strip of paper folded in two. The few
blotted hurriedly-written lines which were traced on it contained these
words:

“Come back as soon as you can. I have been obliged to move. Come to
Gower’s Walk, Fulham (number five). I will be on the look-out for
you. Don’t be alarmed about us, we are both safe and well. But come
back.—Marian.”

The news which those lines contained—news which I instantly associated
with some attempted treachery on the part of Count Fosco—fairly
overwhelmed me. I stood breathless with the paper crumpled up in my
hand. What had happened? What subtle wickedness had the Count planned
and executed in my absence? A night had passed since Marian’s note was
written—hours must elapse still before I could get back to them—some
new disaster might have happened already of which I was ignorant. And
here, miles and miles away from them, here I must remain—held, doubly
held, at the disposal of the law!

I hardly know to what forgetfulness of my obligations anxiety and
alarm might not have tempted me, but for the quieting influence of
my faith in Marian. My absolute reliance on her was the one earthly
consideration which helped me to restrain myself, and gave me courage
to wait. The inquest was the first of the impediments in the way of
my freedom of action. I attended it at the appointed time, the legal
formalities requiring my presence in the room, but as it turned out,
not calling on me to repeat my evidence. This useless delay was a hard
trial, although I did my best to quiet my impatience by following the
course of the proceedings as closely as I could.

The London solicitor of the deceased (Mr. Merriman) was among the
persons present. But he was quite unable to assist the objects of
the inquiry. He could only say that he was inexpressibly shocked
and astonished, and that he could throw no light whatever on the
mysterious circumstances of the case. At intervals during the adjourned
investigation, he suggested questions which the Coroner put, but which
led to no results. After a patient inquiry, which lasted nearly three
hours, and which exhausted every available source of information, the
jury pronounced the customary verdict in cases of sudden death by
accident. They added to the formal decision a statement, that there
had been no evidence to show how the keys had been abstracted, how the
fire had been caused, or what the purpose was for which the deceased
had entered the vestry. This act closed the proceedings. The legal
representative of the dead man was left to provide for the necessities
of the interment, and the witnesses were free to retire.

Resolved not to lose a minute in getting to Knowlesbury, I paid my bill
at the hotel, and hired a fly to take me to the town. A gentleman who
heard me give the order, and who saw that I was going alone, informed
me that he lived in the neighbourhood of Knowlesbury, and asked if I
would have any objection to his getting home by sharing the fly with
me. I accepted his proposal as a matter of course.

Our conversation during the drive was naturally occupied by the one
absorbing subject of local interest.

My new acquaintance had some knowledge of the late Sir Percival’s
solicitor, and he and Mr. Merriman had been discussing the state of
the deceased gentleman’s affairs and the succession to the property.
Sir Percival’s embarrassments were so well known all over the county
that his solicitor could only make a virtue of necessity and plainly
acknowledge them. He had died without leaving a will, and he had no
personal property to bequeath, even if he had made one, the whole
fortune which he had derived from his wife having been swallowed up
by his creditors. The heir to the estate (Sir Percival having left
no issue) was a son of Sir Felix Glyde’s first cousin, an officer in
command of an East Indiaman. He would find his unexpected inheritance
sadly encumbered, but the property would recover with time, and, if
“the captain” was careful, he might be a rich man yet before he died.

Absorbed as I was in the one idea of getting to London, this
information (which events proved to be perfectly correct) had an
interest of its own to attract my attention. I thought it justified me
in keeping secret my discovery of Sir Percival’s fraud. The heir, whose
rights he had usurped, was the heir who would now have the estate.
The income from it, for the last three-and-twenty years, which should
properly have been his, and which the dead man had squandered to the
last farthing, was gone beyond recall. If I spoke, my speaking would
confer advantage on no one. If I kept the secret, my silence concealed
the character of the man who had cheated Laura into marrying him. For
her sake, I wished to conceal it—for her sake, still, I tell this story
under feigned names.

I parted with my chance companion at Knowlesbury, and went at once to
the town-hall. As I had anticipated, no one was present to prosecute
the case against me—the necessary formalities were observed, and I was
discharged. On leaving the court a letter from Mr. Dawson was put into
my hand. It informed me that he was absent on professional duty, and it
reiterated the offer I had already received from him of any assistance
which I might require at his hands. I wrote back, warmly acknowledging
my obligations to his kindness, and apologising for not expressing my
thanks personally, in consequence of my immediate recall on pressing
business to town.

Half an hour later I was speeding back to London by the express train.



II

It was between nine and ten o’clock before I reached Fulham, and found
my way to Gower’s Walk.

Both Laura and Marian came to the door to let me in. I think we had
hardly known how close the tie was which bound us three together, until
the evening came which united us again. We met as if we had been parted
for months instead of for a few days only. Marian’s face was sadly
worn and anxious. I saw who had known all the danger and borne all the
trouble in my absence the moment I looked at her. Laura’s brighter
looks and better spirits told me how carefully she had been spared all
knowledge of the dreadful death at Welmingham, and of the true reason
of our change of abode.

The stir of the removal seemed to have cheered and interested her.
She only spoke of it as a happy thought of Marian’s to surprise me on
my return with a change from the close, noisy street to the pleasant
neighbourhood of trees and fields and the river. She was full of
projects for the future—of the drawings she was to finish—of the
purchasers I had found in the country who were to buy them—of the
shillings and sixpences she had saved, till her purse was so heavy that
she proudly asked me to weigh it in my own hand. The change for the
better which had been wrought in her during the few days of my absence
was a surprise to me for which I was quite unprepared—and for all the
unspeakable happiness of seeing it, I was indebted to Marian’s courage
and to Marian’s love.

When Laura had left us, and when we could speak to one another without
restraint, I tried to give some expression to the gratitude and the
admiration which filled my heart. But the generous creature would not
wait to hear me. That sublime self-forgetfulness of women, which yields
so much and asks so little, turned all her thoughts from herself to me.

“I had only a moment left before post-time,” she said, “or I should
have written less abruptly. You look worn and weary, Walter. I am
afraid my letter must have seriously alarmed you?”

“Only at first,” I replied. “My mind was quieted, Marian, by my trust
in you. Was I right in attributing this sudden change of place to some
threatened annoyance on the part of Count Fosco?”

“Perfectly right,” she said. “I saw him yesterday, and worse than that,
Walter—I spoke to him.”

“Spoke to him? Did he know where we lived? Did he come to the house?”

“He did. To the house—but not upstairs. Laura never saw him—Laura
suspects nothing. I will tell you how it happened: the danger, I
believe and hope, is over now. Yesterday, I was in the sitting-room,
at our old lodgings. Laura was drawing at the table, and I was walking
about and setting things to rights. I passed the window, and as I
passed it, looked out into the street. There, on the opposite side of
the way, I saw the Count, with a man talking to him——”

“Did he notice you at the window?”

“No—at least, I thought not. I was too violently startled to be quite
sure.”

“Who was the other man? A stranger?”

“Not a stranger, Walter. As soon as I could draw my breath again, I
recognised him. He was the owner of the Lunatic Asylum.”

“Was the Count pointing out the house to him?”

“No, they were talking together as if they had accidentally met in
the street. I remained at the window looking at them from behind the
curtain. If I had turned round, and if Laura had seen my face at that
moment——Thank God, she was absorbed over her drawing! They soon parted.
The man from the Asylum went one way, and the Count the other. I began
to hope they were in the street by chance, till I saw the Count come
back, stop opposite to us again, take out his card-case and pencil,
write something, and then cross the road to the shop below us. I ran
past Laura before she could see me, and said I had forgotten something
upstairs. As soon as I was out of the room I went down to the first
landing and waited—I was determined to stop him if he tried to come
upstairs. He made no such attempt. The girl from the shop came through
the door into the passage, with his card in her hand—a large gilt card
with his name, and a coronet above it, and these lines underneath in
pencil: ‘Dear lady’ (yes! the villain could address me in that way
still)—‘dear lady, one word, I implore you, on a matter serious to us
both.’ If one can think at all, in serious difficulties, one thinks
quick. I felt directly that it might be a fatal mistake to leave
myself and to leave you in the dark, where such a man as the Count was
concerned. I felt that the doubt of what he might do, in your absence,
would be ten times more trying to me if I declined to see him than if I
consented. ‘Ask the gentleman to wait in the shop,’ I said. ‘I will be
with him in a moment.’ I ran upstairs for my bonnet, being determined
not to let him speak to me indoors. I knew his deep ringing voice, and
I was afraid Laura might hear it, even in the shop. In less than a
minute I was down again in the passage, and had opened the door into
the street. He came round to meet me from the shop. There he was in
deep mourning, with his smooth bow and his deadly smile, and some idle
boys and women near him, staring at his great size, his fine black
clothes, and his large cane with the gold knob to it. All the horrible
time at Blackwater came back to me the moment I set eyes on him. All
the old loathing crept and crawled through me, when he took off his hat
with a flourish and spoke to me, as if we had parted on the friendliest
terms hardly a day since.”

“You remember what he said?”

“I can’t repeat it, Walter. You shall know directly what he said about
you—-but I can’t repeat what he said to me. It was worse than the
polite insolence of his letter. My hands tingled to strike him, as if
I had been a man! I only kept them quiet by tearing his card to pieces
under my shawl. Without saying a word on my side, I walked away from
the house (for fear of Laura seeing us), and he followed, protesting
softly all the way. In the first by-street I turned, and asked him what
he wanted with me. He wanted two things. First, if I had no objection,
to express his sentiments. I declined to hear them. Secondly, to
repeat the warning in his letter. I asked, what occasion there was
for repeating it. He bowed and smiled, and said he would explain. The
explanation exactly confirmed the fears I expressed before you left us.
I told you, if you remember, that Sir Percival would be too headstrong
to take his friend’s advice where you were concerned, and that there
was no danger to be dreaded from the Count till his own interests were
threatened, and he was roused into acting for himself?”

“I recollect, Marian.”

“Well, so it has really turned out. The Count offered his advice,
but it was refused. Sir Percival would only take counsel of his own
violence, his own obstinacy, and his own hatred of you. The Count let
him have his way, first privately ascertaining, in case of his own
interests being threatened next, where we lived. You were followed,
Walter, on returning here, after your first journey to Hampshire, by
the lawyer’s men for some distance from the railway, and by the Count
himself to the door of the house. How he contrived to escape being
seen by you he did not tell me, but he found us out on that occasion,
and in that way. Having made the discovery, he took no advantage of
it till the news reached him of Sir Percival’s death, and then, as I
told you, he acted for himself, because he believed you would next
proceed against the dead man’s partner in the conspiracy. He at once
made his arrangements to meet the owner of the Asylum in London, and to
take him to the place where his runaway patient was hidden, believing
that the results, whichever way they ended, would be to involve you in
interminable legal disputes and difficulties, and to tie your hands
for all purposes of offence, so far as he was concerned. That was his
purpose, on his own confession to me. The only consideration which made
him hesitate, at the last moment——”

“Yes?”

“It is hard to acknowledge it, Walter, and yet I must. I was the
only consideration. No words can say how degraded I feel in my own
estimation when I think of it, but the one weak point in that man’s
iron character is the horrible admiration he feels for me. I have
tried, for the sake of my own self-respect, to disbelieve it as long
as I could; but his looks, his actions, force on me the shameful
conviction of the truth. The eyes of that monster of wickedness
moistened while he was speaking to me—they did, Walter! He declared
that at the moment of pointing out the house to the doctor, he thought
of my misery if I was separated from Laura, of my responsibility if I
was called on to answer for effecting her escape, and he risked the
worst that you could do to him, the second time, for my sake. All
he asked was that I would remember the sacrifice, and restrain your
rashness, in my own interests—interests which he might never be able to
consult again. I made no such bargain with him—I would have died first.
But believe him or not, whether it is true or false that he sent the
doctor away with an excuse, one thing is certain, I saw the man leave
him without so much as a glance at our window, or even at our side of
the way.”

“I believe it, Marian. The best men are not consistent in good—why
should the worst men be consistent in evil? At the same time, I suspect
him of merely attempting to frighten you, by threatening what he cannot
really do. I doubt his power of annoying us, by means of the owner of
the Asylum, now that Sir Percival is dead, and Mrs. Catherick is free
from all control. But let me hear more. What did the Count say of me?”

“He spoke last of you. His eyes brightened and hardened, and his manner
changed to what I remember it in past times—to that mixture of pitiless
resolution and mountebank mockery which makes it so impossible to
fathom him. ‘Warn Mr. Hartright!’ he said in his loftiest manner. ‘He
has a man of brains to deal with, a man who snaps his big fingers at
the laws and conventions of society, when he measures himself with ME.
If my lamented friend had taken my advice, the business of the inquest
would have been with the body of Mr. Hartright. But my lamented friend
was obstinate. See! I mourn his loss—inwardly in my soul, outwardly on
my hat. This trivial crape expresses sensibilities which I summon Mr.
Hartright to respect. They may be transformed to immeasurable enmities
if he ventures to disturb them. Let him be content with what he has
got—with what I leave unmolested, for your sake, to him and to you.
Say to him (with my compliments), if he stirs me, he has Fosco to deal
with. In the English of the Popular Tongue, I inform him—Fosco sticks
at nothing. Dear lady, good morning.’ His cold grey eyes settled on my
face—he took off his hat solemnly—bowed, bare-headed—and left me.”

“Without returning? without saying more last words?”

“He turned at the corner of the street, and waved his hand, and then
struck it theatrically on his breast. I lost sight of him after that.
He disappeared in the opposite direction to our house, and I ran back
to Laura. Before I was indoors again, I had made up my mind that we
must go. The house (especially in your absence) was a place of danger
instead of a place of safety, now that the Count had discovered it. If
I could have felt certain of your return, I should have risked waiting
till you came back. But I was certain of nothing, and I acted at once
on my own impulse. You had spoken, before leaving us, of moving into a
quieter neighbourhood and purer air, for the sake of Laura’s health.
I had only to remind her of that, and to suggest surprising you and
saving you trouble by managing the move in your absence, to make her
quite as anxious for the change as I was. She helped me to pack up your
things, and she has arranged them all for you in your new working-room
here.”

“What made you think of coming to this place?”

“My ignorance of other localities in the neighbourhood of London. I
felt the necessity of getting as far away as possible from our old
lodgings, and I knew something of Fulham, because I had once been at
school there. I despatched a messenger with a note, on the chance
that the school might still be in existence. It was in existence—the
daughters of my old mistress were carrying it on for her, and they
engaged this place from the instructions I had sent. It was just
post-time when the messenger returned to me with the address of the
house. We moved after dark—we came here quite unobserved. Have I done
right, Walter? Have I justified your trust in me?”

I answered her warmly and gratefully, as I really felt. But the anxious
look still remained on her face while I was speaking, and the first
question she asked, when I had done, related to Count Fosco.

I saw that she was thinking of him now with a changed mind. No fresh
outbreak of anger against him, no new appeal to me to hasten the day of
reckoning escaped her. Her conviction that the man’s hateful admiration
of herself was really sincere, seemed to have increased a hundredfold
her distrust of his unfathomable cunning, her inborn dread of the
wicked energy and vigilance of all his faculties. Her voice fell low,
her manner was hesitating, her eyes searched into mine with an eager
fear when she asked me what I thought of his message, and what I meant
to do next after hearing it.

“Not many weeks have passed, Marian,” I answered, “since my interview
with Mr. Kyrle. When he and I parted, the last words I said to him
about Laura were these: ‘Her uncle’s house shall open to receive her,
in the presence of every soul who followed the false funeral to the
grave; the lie that records her death shall be publicly erased from the
tombstone by the authority of the head of the family, and the two men
who have wronged her shall answer for their crime to ME, though the
justice that sits in tribunals is powerless to pursue them.’ One of
those men is beyond mortal reach. The other remains, and my resolution
remains.”

Her eyes lit up—her colour rose. She said nothing, but I saw all her
sympathies gathering to mine in her face.

“I don’t disguise from myself, or from you,” I went on, “that the
prospect before us is more than doubtful. The risks we have run already
are, it may be, trifles compared with the risks that threaten us in
the future, but the venture shall be tried, Marian, for all that. I
am not rash enough to measure myself against such a man as the Count
before I am well prepared for him. I have learnt patience—I can wait
my time. Let him believe that his message has produced its effect—let
him know nothing of us, and hear nothing of us—let us give him full
time to feel secure—his own boastful nature, unless I seriously mistake
him, will hasten that result. This is one reason for waiting, but there
is another more important still. My position, Marian, towards you and
towards Laura ought to be a stronger one than it is now before I try
our last chance.”

She leaned near to me, with a look of surprise.

“How can it be stronger?” she asked.

“I will tell you,” I replied, “when the time comes. It has not come
yet—it may never come at all. I may be silent about it to Laura for
ever—I must be silent now, even to YOU, till I see for myself that I
can harmlessly and honourably speak. Let us leave that subject. There
is another which has more pressing claims on our attention. You have
kept Laura, mercifully kept her, in ignorance of her husband’s death——”

“Oh, Walter, surely it must be long yet before we tell her of it?”

“No, Marian. Better that you should reveal it to her now, than that
accident, which no one can guard against, should reveal it to her
at some future time. Spare her all the details—break it to her very
tenderly, but tell her that he is dead.”

“You have a reason, Walter, for wishing her to know of her husband’s
death besides the reason you have just mentioned?”

“I have.”

“A reason connected with that subject which must not be mentioned
between us yet?—which may never be mentioned to Laura at all?”

She dwelt on the last words meaningly. When I answered her in the
affirmative, I dwelt on them too.

Her face grew pale. For a while she looked at me with a sad, hesitating
interest. An unaccustomed tenderness trembled in her dark eyes and
softened her firm lips, as she glanced aside at the empty chair in
which the dear companion of all our joys and sorrows had been sitting.

“I think I understand,” she said. “I think I owe it to her and to you,
Walter, to tell her of her husband’s death.”

She sighed, and held my hand fast for a moment—then dropped it
abruptly, and left the room. On the next day Laura knew that his death
had released her, and that the error and the calamity of her life lay
buried in his tomb.


His name was mentioned among us no more. Thenceforward, we shrank from
the slightest approach to the subject of his death, and in the same
scrupulous manner, Marian and I avoided all further reference to that
other subject, which, by her consent and mine, was not to be mentioned
between us yet. It was not the less present in our minds—it was rather
kept alive in them by the restraint which we had imposed on ourselves.
We both watched Laura more anxiously than ever, sometimes waiting and
hoping, sometimes waiting and fearing, till the time came.

By degrees we returned to our accustomed way of life. I resumed the
daily work, which had been suspended during my absence in Hampshire.
Our new lodgings cost us more than the smaller and less convenient
rooms which we had left, and the claim thus implied on my increased
exertions was strengthened by the doubtfulness of our future prospects.
Emergencies might yet happen which would exhaust our little fund at the
banker’s, and the work of my hands might be, ultimately, all we had to
look to for support. More permanent and more lucrative employment than
had yet been offered to me was a necessity of our position—a necessity
for which I now diligently set myself to provide.

It must not be supposed that the interval of rest and seclusion of
which I am now writing, entirely suspended, on my part, all pursuit
of the one absorbing purpose with which my thoughts and actions are
associated in these pages. That purpose was, for months and months yet,
never to relax its claims on me. The slow ripening of it still left me
a measure of precaution to take, an obligation of gratitude to perform,
and a doubtful question to solve.

The measure of precaution related, necessarily, to the Count. It was
of the last importance to ascertain, if possible, whether his plans
committed him to remaining in England—or, in other words, to remaining
within my reach. I contrived to set this doubt at rest by very simple
means. His address in St. John’s Wood being known to me, I inquired in
the neighbourhood, and having found out the agent who had the disposal
of the furnished house in which he lived, I asked if number five,
Forest Road, was likely to be let within a reasonable time. The reply
was in the negative. I was informed that the foreign gentleman then
residing in the house had renewed his term of occupation for another
six months, and would remain in possession until the end of June in the
following year. We were then at the beginning of December only. I left
the agent with my mind relieved from all present fear of the Count’s
escaping me.

The obligation I had to perform took me once more into the presence of
Mrs. Clements. I had promised to return, and to confide to her those
particulars relating to the death and burial of Anne Catherick which
I had been obliged to withhold at our first interview. Changed as
circumstances now were, there was no hindrance to my trusting the good
woman with as much of the story of the conspiracy as it was necessary
to tell. I had every reason that sympathy and friendly feeling could
suggest to urge on me the speedy performance of my promise, and I did
conscientiously and carefully perform it. There is no need to burden
these pages with any statement of what passed at the interview. It will
be more to the purpose to say, that the interview itself necessarily
brought to my mind the one doubtful question still remaining to be
solved—the question of Anne Catherick’s parentage on the father’s side.

A multitude of small considerations in connection with this
subject—trifling enough in themselves, but strikingly important when
massed together—had latterly led my mind to a conclusion which I
resolved to verify. I obtained Marian’s permission to write to Major
Donthorne, of Varneck Hall (where Mrs. Catherick had lived in service
for some years previous to her marriage), to ask him certain questions.
I made the inquiries in Marian’s name, and described them as relating
to matters of personal history in her family, which might explain
and excuse my application. When I wrote the letter I had no certain
knowledge that Major Donthorne was still alive—I despatched it on the
chance that he might be living, and able and willing to reply.

After a lapse of two days proof came, in the shape of a letter, that
the Major was living, and that he was ready to help us.

The idea in my mind when I wrote to him, and the nature of my inquiries
will be easily inferred from his reply. His letter answered my
questions by communicating these important facts—

In the first place, “the late Sir Percival Glyde, of Blackwater Park,”
had never set foot in Varneck Hall. The deceased gentleman was a total
stranger to Major Donthorne, and to all his family.

In the second place, “the late Mr. Philip Fairlie, of Limmeridge
House,” had been, in his younger days, the intimate friend and constant
guest of Major Donthorne. Having refreshed his memory by looking back
to old letters and other papers, the Major was in a position to say
positively that Mr. Philip Fairlie was staying at Varneck Hall in the
month of August, eighteen hundred and twenty-six, and that he remained
there for the shooting during the month of September and part of
October following. He then left, to the best of the Major’s belief,
for Scotland, and did not return to Varneck Hall till after a lapse of
time, when he reappeared in the character of a newly-married man.

Taken by itself, this statement was, perhaps, of little positive value,
but taken in connection with certain facts, every one of which either
Marian or I knew to be true, it suggested one plain conclusion that
was, to our minds, irresistible.

Knowing, now, that Mr. Philip Fairlie had been at Varneck Hall in the
autumn of eighteen hundred and twenty-six, and that Mrs. Catherick had
been living there in service at the same time, we knew also—first,
that Anne had been born in June, eighteen hundred and twenty-seven;
secondly, that she had always presented an extraordinary personal
resemblance to Laura; and, thirdly, that Laura herself was strikingly
like her father. Mr. Philip Fairlie had been one of the notoriously
handsome men of his time. In disposition entirely unlike his brother
Frederick, he was the spoilt darling of society, especially of the
women—an easy, light-hearted, impulsive, affectionate man—generous
to a fault—constitutionally lax in his principles, and notoriously
thoughtless of moral obligations where women were concerned. Such were
the facts we knew—such was the character of the man. Surely the plain
inference that follows needs no pointing out?

Read by the new light which had now broken upon me, even Mrs.
Catherick’s letter, in despite of herself, rendered its mite of
assistance towards strengthening the conclusion at which I had arrived.
She had described Mrs. Fairlie (in writing to me) as “plain-looking,”
and as having “entrapped the handsomest man in England into marrying
her.” Both assertions were gratuitously made, and both were false.
Jealous dislike (which, in such a woman as Mrs. Catherick, would
express itself in petty malice rather than not express itself at
all) appeared to me to be the only assignable cause for the peculiar
insolence of her reference to Mrs. Fairlie, under circumstances which
did not necessitate any reference at all.

The mention here of Mrs. Fairlie’s name naturally suggests one other
question. Did she ever suspect whose child the little girl brought to
her at Limmeridge might be?

Marian’s testimony was positive on this point. Mrs. Fairlie’s
letter to her husband, which had been read to me in former days—the
letter describing Anne’s resemblance to Laura, and acknowledging
her affectionate interest in the little stranger—had been written,
beyond all question, in perfect innocence of heart. It even seemed
doubtful, on consideration, whether Mr. Philip Fairlie himself had been
nearer than his wife to any suspicion of the truth. The disgracefully
deceitful circumstances under which Mrs. Catherick had married, the
purpose of concealment which the marriage was intended to answer, might
well keep her silent for caution’s sake, perhaps for her own pride’s
sake also, even assuming that she had the means, in his absence, of
communicating with the father of her unborn child.

As this surmise floated through my mind, there rose on my memory the
remembrance of the Scripture denunciation which we have all thought of
in our time with wonder and with awe: “The sins of the fathers shall
be visited on the children.” But for the fatal resemblance between the
two daughters of one father, the conspiracy of which Anne had been the
innocent instrument and Laura the innocent victim could never have been
planned. With what unerring and terrible directness the long chain of
circumstances led down from the thoughtless wrong committed by the
father to the heartless injury inflicted on the child!

These thoughts came to me, and others with them, which drew my mind
away to the little Cumberland churchyard where Anne Catherick now
lay buried. I thought of the bygone days when I had met her by Mrs.
Fairlie’s grave, and met her for the last time. I thought of her poor
helpless hands beating on the tombstone, and her weary, yearning words,
murmured to the dead remains of her protectress and her friend: “Oh,
if I could die, and be hidden and at rest with YOU!” Little more than
a year had passed since she breathed that wish; and how inscrutably,
how awfully, it had been fulfilled! The words she had spoken to Laura
by the shores of the lake, the very words had now come true. “Oh, if
I could only be buried with your mother! If I could only wake at her
side when the angel’s trumpet sounds and the graves give up their dead
at the resurrection!” Through what mortal crime and horror, through
what darkest windings of the way down to death—the lost creature
had wandered in God’s leading to the last home that, living, she
never hoped to reach! In that sacred rest I leave her—in that dread
companionship let her remain undisturbed.


So the ghostly figure which has haunted these pages, as it haunted my
life, goes down into the impenetrable gloom. Like a shadow she first
came to me in the loneliness of the night. Like a shadow she passes
away in the loneliness of the dead.



III

Four months elapsed. April came—the month of spring—the month of change.

The course of time had flowed through the interval since the winter
peacefully and happily in our new home. I had turned my long leisure
to good account, had largely increased my sources of employment, and
had placed our means of subsistence on surer grounds. Freed from the
suspense and the anxiety which had tried her so sorely and hung over
her so long, Marian’s spirits rallied, and her natural energy of
character began to assert itself again, with something, if not all, of
the freedom and the vigour of former times.

More pliable under change than her sister, Laura showed more plainly
the progress made by the healing influences of her new life. The worn
and wasted look which had prematurely aged her face was fast leaving
it, and the expression which had been the first of its charms in past
days was the first of its beauties that now returned. My closest
observations of her detected but one serious result of the conspiracy
which had once threatened her reason and her life. Her memory of
events, from the period of her leaving Blackwater Park to the period
of our meeting in the burial-ground of Limmeridge Church, was lost
beyond all hope of recovery. At the slightest reference to that time
she changed and trembled still, her words became confused, her memory
wandered and lost itself as helplessly as ever. Here, and here only,
the traces of the past lay deep—too deep to be effaced.

In all else she was now so far on the way to recovery that, on her
best and brightest days, she sometimes looked and spoke like the Laura
of old times. The happy change wrought its natural result in us both.
From their long slumber, on her side and on mine, those imperishable
memories of our past life in Cumberland now awoke, which were one and
all alike, the memories of our love.

Gradually and insensibly our daily relations towards each other became
constrained. The fond words which I had spoken to her so naturally,
in the days of her sorrow and her suffering, faltered strangely on my
lips. In the time when my dread of losing her was most present to my
mind, I had always kissed her when she left me at night and when she
met me in the morning. The kiss seemed now to have dropped between
us—to be lost out of our lives. Our hands began to tremble again when
they met. We hardly ever looked long at one another out of Marian’s
presence. The talk often flagged between us when we were alone. When
I touched her by accident I felt my heart beating fast, as it used to
beat at Limmeridge House—I saw the lovely answering flush glowing again
in her cheeks, as if we were back among the Cumberland Hills in our
past characters of master and pupil once more. She had long intervals
of silence and thoughtfulness, and denied she had been thinking when
Marian asked her the question. I surprised myself one day neglecting my
work to dream over the little water-colour portrait of her which I had
taken in the summer-house where we first met—just as I used to neglect
Mr. Fairlie’s drawings to dream over the same likeness when it was
newly finished in the bygone time. Changed as all the circumstances now
were, our position towards each other in the golden days of our first
companionship seemed to be revived with the revival of our love. It was
as if Time had drifted us back on the wreck of our early hopes to the
old familiar shore!

To any other woman I could have spoken the decisive words which I still
hesitated to speak to HER. The utter helplessness of her position—her
friendless dependence on all the forbearing gentleness that I could
show her—my fear of touching too soon some secret sensitiveness
in her which my instinct as a man might not have been fine enough
to discover—these considerations, and others like them, kept me
self-distrustfully silent. And yet I knew that the restraint on both
sides must be ended, that the relations in which we stood towards one
another must be altered in some settled manner for the future, and that
it rested with me, in the first instance, to recognise the necessity
for a change.

The more I thought of our position, the harder the attempt to alter
it appeared, while the domestic conditions on which we three had been
living together since the winter remained undisturbed. I cannot account
for the capricious state of mind in which this feeling originated, but
the idea nevertheless possessed me that some previous change of place
and circumstances, some sudden break in the quiet monotony of our
lives, so managed as to vary the home aspect under which we had been
accustomed to see each other, might prepare the way for me to speak,
and might make it easier and less embarrassing for Laura and Marian to
hear.

With this purpose in view, I said, one morning, that I thought we
had all earned a little holiday and a change of scene. After some
consideration, it was decided that we should go for a fortnight to the
sea-side.

On the next day we left Fulham for a quiet town on the south coast. At
that early season of the year we were the only visitors in the place.
The cliffs, the beach, and the walks inland were all in the solitary
condition which was most welcome to us. The air was mild—the prospects
over hill and wood and down were beautifully varied by the shifting
April light and shade, and the restless sea leapt under our windows, as
if it felt, like the land, the glow and freshness of spring.

I owed it to Marian to consult her before I spoke to Laura, and to be
guided afterwards by her advice.

On the third day from our arrival I found a fit opportunity of speaking
to her alone. The moment we looked at one another, her quick instinct
detected the thought in my mind before I could give it expression. With
her customary energy and directness she spoke at once, and spoke first.

“You are thinking of that subject which was mentioned between us on
the evening of your return from Hampshire,” she said. “I have been
expecting you to allude to it for some time past. There must be a
change in our little household, Walter, we cannot go on much longer as
we are now. I see it as plainly as you do—as plainly as Laura sees it,
though she says nothing. How strangely the old times in Cumberland seem
to have come back! You and I are together again, and the one subject of
interest between us is Laura once more. I could almost fancy that this
room is the summer-house at Limmeridge, and that those waves beyond us
are beating on our sea-shore.”

“I was guided by your advice in those past days,” I said, “and now,
Marian, with reliance tenfold greater I will be guided by it again.”

She answered by pressing my hand. I saw that she was deeply touched by
my reference to the past. We sat together near the window, and while I
spoke and she listened, we looked at the glory of the sunlight shining
on the majesty of the sea.

“Whatever comes of this confidence between us,” I said, “whether it
ends happily or sorrowfully for ME, Laura’s interests will still be
the interests of my life. When we leave this place, on whatever terms
we leave it, my determination to wrest from Count Fosco the confession
which I failed to obtain from his accomplice, goes back with me to
London, as certainly as I go back myself. Neither you nor I can tell
how that man may turn on me, if I bring him to bay; we only know, by
his own words and actions, that he is capable of striking at me through
Laura, without a moment’s hesitation, or a moment’s remorse. In our
present position I have no claim on her which society sanctions, which
the law allows, to strengthen me in resisting him, and in protecting
HER. This places me at a serious disadvantage. If I am to fight our
cause with the Count, strong in the consciousness of Laura’s safety, I
must fight it for my Wife. Do you agree to that, Marian, so far?”

“To every word of it,” she answered.

“I will not plead out of my own heart,” I went on; “I will not appeal
to the love which has survived all changes and all shocks—I will rest
my only vindication of myself for thinking of her, and speaking of
her as my wife, on what I have just said. If the chance of forcing a
confession from the Count is, as I believe it to be, the last chance
left of publicly establishing the fact of Laura’s existence, the least
selfish reason that I can advance for our marriage is recognised by
us both. But I may be wrong in my conviction—other means of achieving
our purpose may be in our power, which are less uncertain and less
dangerous. I have searched anxiously, in my own mind, for those means,
and I have not found them. Have you?”

“No. I have thought about it too, and thought in vain.”

“In all likelihood,” I continued, “the same questions have occurred
to you, in considering this difficult subject, which have occurred to
me. Ought we to return with her to Limmeridge, now that she is like
herself again, and trust to the recognition of her by the people of
the village, or by the children at the school? Ought we to appeal to
the practical test of her handwriting? Suppose we did so. Suppose
the recognition of her obtained, and the identity of the handwriting
established. Would success in both those cases do more than supply
an excellent foundation for a trial in a court of law? Would the
recognition and the handwriting prove her identity to Mr. Fairlie and
take her back to Limmeridge House, against the evidence of her aunt,
against the evidence of the medical certificate, against the fact of
the funeral and the fact of the inscription on the tomb? No! We could
only hope to succeed in throwing a serious doubt on the assertion of
her death, a doubt which nothing short of a legal inquiry can settle.
I will assume that we possess (what we have certainly not got) money
enough to carry this inquiry on through all its stages. I will assume
that Mr. Fairlie’s prejudices might be reasoned away—that the false
testimony of the Count and his wife, and all the rest of the false
testimony, might be confuted—that the recognition could not possibly
be ascribed to a mistake between Laura and Anne Catherick, or the
handwriting be declared by our enemies to be a clever fraud—all these
are assumptions which, more or less, set plain probabilities at
defiance; but let them pass—and let us ask ourselves what would be the
first consequence or the first questions put to Laura herself on the
subject of the conspiracy. We know only too well what the consequence
would be, for we know that she has never recovered her memory of what
happened to her in London. Examine her privately, or examine her
publicly, she is utterly incapable of assisting the assertion of her
own case. If you don’t see this, Marian, as plainly as I see it, we
will go to Limmeridge and try the experiment to-morrow.”

“I DO see it, Walter. Even if we had the means of paying all the
law expenses, even if we succeeded in the end, the delays would be
unendurable, the perpetual suspense, after what we have suffered
already, would be heartbreaking. You are right about the hopelessness
of going to Limmeridge. I wish I could feel sure that you are right
also in determining to try that last chance with the Count. IS it a
chance at all?”

“Beyond a doubt, Yes. It is the chance of recovering the lost date of
Laura’s journey to London. Without returning to the reasons I gave
you some time since, I am still as firmly persuaded as ever that
there is a discrepancy between the date of that journey and the date
on the certificate of death. There lies the weak point of the whole
conspiracy—it crumbles to pieces if we attack it in that way, and the
means of attacking it are in possession of the Count. If I succeed in
wresting them from him, the object of your life and mine is fulfilled.
If I fail, the wrong that Laura has suffered will, in this world, never
be redressed.”

“Do you fear failure yourself, Walter?”

“I dare not anticipate success, and for that very reason, Marian, I
speak openly and plainly as I have spoken now. In my heart and my
conscience I can say it, Laura’s hopes for the future are at their
lowest ebb. I know that her fortune is gone—I know that the last chance
of restoring her to her place in the world lies at the mercy of her
worst enemy, of a man who is now absolutely unassailable, and who may
remain unassailable to the end. With every worldly advantage gone from
her, with all prospect of recovering her rank and station more than
doubtful, with no clearer future before her than the future which her
husband can provide, the poor drawing-master may harmlessly open his
heart at last. In the days of her prosperity, Marian, I was only the
teacher who guided her hand—I ask for it, in her adversity, as the hand
of my wife!”

Marian’s eyes met mine affectionately—I could say no more. My heart was
full, my lips were trembling. In spite of myself I was in danger of
appealing to her pity. I got up to leave the room. She rose at the same
moment, laid her hand gently on my shoulder, and stopped me.

“Walter!” she said, “I once parted you both, for your good and for
hers. Wait here, my brother!—wait, my dearest, best friend, till Laura
comes, and tells you what I have done now!”

For the first time since the farewell morning at Limmeridge she touched
my forehead with her lips. A tear dropped on my face as she kissed me.
She turned quickly, pointed to the chair from which I had risen, and
left the room.

I sat down alone at the window to wait through the crisis of my
life. My mind in that breathless interval felt like a total blank.
I was conscious of nothing but a painful intensity of all familiar
perceptions. The sun grew blinding bright, the white sea birds chasing
each other far beyond me seemed to be flitting before my face, the
mellow murmur of the waves on the beach was like thunder in my ears.

The door opened, and Laura came in alone. So she had entered the
breakfast-room at Limmeridge House on the morning when we parted.
Slowly and falteringly, in sorrow and in hesitation, she had once
approached me. Now she came with the haste of happiness in her feet,
with the light of happiness radiant in her face. Of their own accord
those dear arms clasped themselves round me, of their own accord the
sweet lips came to meet mine. “My darling!” she whispered, “we may own
we love each other now?” Her head nestled with a tender contentedness
on my bosom. “Oh,” she said innocently, “I am so happy at last!”


Ten days later we were happier still. We were married.



IV

The course of this narrative, steadily flowing on, bears me away from
the morning-time of our married life, and carries me forward to the end.

In a fortnight more we three were back in London, and the shadow was
stealing over us of the struggle to come.

Marian and I were careful to keep Laura in ignorance of the cause that
had hurried us back—the necessity of making sure of the Count. It was
now the beginning of May, and his term of occupation at the house in
Forest Road expired in June. If he renewed it (and I had reasons,
shortly to be mentioned, for anticipating that he would), I might be
certain of his not escaping me. But if by any chance he disappointed my
expectations and left the country, then I had no time to lose in arming
myself to meet him as I best might.

In the first fulness of my new happiness, there had been moments
when my resolution faltered—moments when I was tempted to be safely
content, now that the dearest aspiration of my life was fulfilled
in the possession of Laura’s love. For the first time I thought
faint-heartedly of the greatness of the risk, of the adverse chances
arrayed against me, of the fair promise of our new life, and of the
peril in which I might place the happiness which we had so hardly
earned. Yes! let me own it honestly. For a brief time I wandered, in
the sweet guiding of love, far from the purpose to which I had been
true under sterner discipline and in darker days. Innocently Laura had
tempted me aside from the hard path—innocently she was destined to lead
me back again.

At times, dreams of the terrible past still disconnectedly recalled to
her, in the mystery of sleep, the events of which her waking memory
had lost all trace. One night (barely two weeks after our marriage),
when I was watching her at rest, I saw the tears come slowly through
her closed eyelids, I heard the faint murmuring words escape her which
told me that her spirit was back again on the fatal journey from
Blackwater Park. That unconscious appeal, so touching and so awful in
the sacredness of her sleep, ran through me like fire. The next day was
the day we came back to London—the day when my resolution returned to
me with tenfold strength.

The first necessity was to know something of the man. Thus far, the
true story of his life was an impenetrable mystery to me.

I began with such scanty sources of information as were at my own
disposal. The important narrative written by Mr. Frederick Fairlie
(which Marian had obtained by following the directions I had given to
her in the winter) proved to be of no service to the special object
with which I now looked at it. While reading it I reconsidered the
disclosure revealed to me by Mrs. Clements of the series of deceptions
which had brought Anne Catherick to London, and which had there devoted
her to the interests of the conspiracy. Here, again, the Count had not
openly committed himself—here, again, he was, to all practical purpose,
out of my reach.

I next returned to Marian’s journal at Blackwater Park. At my request
she read to me again a passage which referred to her past curiosity
about the Count, and to the few particulars which she had discovered
relating to him.

The passage to which I allude occurs in that part of her journal which
delineates his character and his personal appearance. She describes him
as “not having crossed the frontiers of his native country for years
past”—as “anxious to know if any Italian gentlemen were settled in the
nearest town to Blackwater Park”—as “receiving letters with all sorts
of odd stamps on them, and one with a large official-looking seal on
it.” She is inclined to consider that his long absence from his native
country may be accounted for by assuming that he is a political exile.
But she is, on the other hand, unable to reconcile this idea with the
reception of the letter from abroad bearing “the large official-looking
seal”—letters from the Continent addressed to political exiles being
usually the last to court attention from foreign post-offices in that
way.

The considerations thus presented to me in the diary, joined to certain
surmises of my own that grew out of them, suggested a conclusion which
I wondered I had not arrived at before. I now said to myself—what Laura
had once said to Marian at Blackwater Park, what Madame Fosco had
overheard by listening at the door—the Count is a spy!

Laura had applied the word to him at hazard, in natural anger at his
proceedings towards herself. I applied it to him with the deliberate
conviction that his vocation in life was the vocation of a spy. On this
assumption, the reason for his extraordinary stay in England so long
after the objects of the conspiracy had been gained, became, to my
mind, quite intelligible.

The year of which I am now writing was the year of the famous Crystal
Palace Exhibition in Hyde Park. Foreigners in unusually large numbers
had arrived already, and were still arriving in England. Men were among
us by hundreds whom the ceaseless distrustfulness of their governments
had followed privately, by means of appointed agents, to our shores.
My surmises did not for a moment class a man of the Count’s abilities
and social position with the ordinary rank and file of foreign spies.
I suspected him of holding a position of authority, of being entrusted
by the government which he secretly served with the organisation and
management of agents specially employed in this country, both men and
women, and I believed Mrs. Rubelle, who had been so opportunely found
to act as nurse at Blackwater Park, to be, in all probability, one of
the number.

Assuming that this idea of mine had a foundation in truth, the position
of the Count might prove to be more assailable than I had hitherto
ventured to hope. To whom could I apply to know something more of the
man’s history and of the man himself than I knew now?

In this emergency it naturally occurred to my mind that a countryman
of his own, on whom I could rely, might be the fittest person to help
me. The first man whom I thought of under these circumstances was also
the only Italian with whom I was intimately acquainted—my quaint little
friend, Professor Pesca.


The professor has been so long absent from these pages that he has run
some risk of being forgotten altogether.

It is the necessary law of such a story as mine that the persons
concerned in it only appear when the course of events takes them
up—they come and go, not by favour of my personal partiality, but by
right of their direct connection with the circumstances to be detailed.
For this reason, not Pesca alone, but my mother and sister as well,
have been left far in the background of the narrative. My visits to the
Hampstead cottage, my mother’s belief in the denial of Laura’s identity
which the conspiracy had accomplished, my vain efforts to overcome the
prejudice on her part and on my sister’s to which, in their jealous
affection for me, they both continued to adhere, the painful necessity
which that prejudice imposed on me of concealing my marriage from them
till they had learnt to do justice to my wife—all these little domestic
occurrences have been left unrecorded because they were not essential
to the main interest of the story. It is nothing that they added to my
anxieties and embittered my disappointments—the steady march of events
has inexorably passed them by.

For the same reason I have said nothing here of the consolation that I
found in Pesca’s brotherly affection for me, when I saw him again after
the sudden cessation of my residence at Limmeridge House. I have not
recorded the fidelity with which my warm-hearted little friend followed
me to the place of embarkation when I sailed for Central America, or
the noisy transport of joy with which he received me when we next met
in London. If I had felt justified in accepting the offers of service
which he made to me on my return, he would have appeared again long
ere this. But, though I knew that his honour and his courage were to
be implicitly relied on, I was not so sure that his discretion was to
be trusted, and, for that reason only, I followed the course of all my
inquiries alone. It will now be sufficiently understood that Pesca was
not separated from all connection with me and my interests, although he
has hitherto been separated from all connection with the progress of
this narrative. He was as true and as ready a friend of mine still as
ever he had been in his life.


Before I summoned Pesca to my assistance it was necessary to see for
myself what sort of man I had to deal with. Up to this time I had never
once set eyes on Count Fosco.

Three days after my return with Laura and Marian to London, I set
forth alone for Forest Road, St. John’s Wood, between ten and eleven
o’clock in the morning. It was a fine day—I had some hours to spare—and
I thought it likely, if I waited a little for him, that the Count
might be tempted out. I had no great reason to fear the chance of his
recognising me in the daytime, for the only occasion when I had been
seen by him was the occasion on which he had followed me home at night.

No one appeared at the windows in the front of the house. I walked
down a turning which ran past the side of it, and looked over the low
garden wall. One of the back windows on the lower floor was thrown up
and a net was stretched across the opening. I saw nobody, but I heard,
in the room, first a shrill whistling and singing of birds, then the
deep ringing voice which Marian’s description had made familiar to me.
“Come out on my little finger, my pret-pret-pretties!” cried the voice.
“Come out and hop upstairs! One, two, three—and up! Three, two, one—and
down! One, two, three—twit-twit-twit-tweet!” The Count was exercising
his canaries as he used to exercise them in Marian’s time at Blackwater
Park.

I waited a little while, and the singing and the whistling ceased.
“Come, kiss me, my pretties!” said the deep voice. There was a
responsive twittering and chirping—a low, oily laugh—a silence of
a minute or so, and then I heard the opening of the house door. I
turned and retraced my steps. The magnificent melody of the Prayer in
Rossini’s Moses, sung in a sonorous bass voice, rose grandly through
the suburban silence of the place. The front garden gate opened and
closed. The Count had come out.

He crossed the road and walked towards the western boundary of the
Regent’s Park. I kept on my own side of the way, a little behind him,
and walked in that direction also.

Marian had prepared me for his high stature, his monstrous corpulence,
and his ostentatious mourning garments, but not for the horrible
freshness and cheerfulness and vitality of the man. He carried his
sixty years as if they had been fewer than forty. He sauntered
along, wearing his hat a little on one side, with a light jaunty
step, swinging his big stick, humming to himself, looking up from
time to time at the houses and gardens on either side of him with
superb, smiling patronage. If a stranger had been told that the
whole neighbourhood belonged to him, that stranger would not have
been surprised to hear it. He never looked back, he paid no apparent
attention to me, no apparent attention to any one who passed him on
his own side of the road, except now and then, when he smiled and
smirked, with an easy paternal good humour, at the nursery-maids and
the children whom he met. In this way he led me on, till we reached a
colony of shops outside the western terraces of the Park.

Here he stopped at a pastrycook’s, went in (probably to give an order),
and came out again immediately with a tart in his hand. An Italian was
grinding an organ before the shop, and a miserable little shrivelled
monkey was sitting on the instrument. The Count stopped, bit a piece
for himself out of the tart, and gravely handed the rest to the monkey.
“My poor little man!” he said, with grotesque tenderness, “you look
hungry. In the sacred name of humanity, I offer you some lunch!” The
organ-grinder piteously put in his claim to a penny from the benevolent
stranger. The Count shrugged his shoulders contemptuously, and passed
on.

We reached the streets and the better class of shops between the
New Road and Oxford Street. The Count stopped again and entered a
small optician’s shop, with an inscription in the window announcing
that repairs were neatly executed inside. He came out again with an
opera-glass in his hand, walked a few paces on, and stopped to look at
a bill of the opera placed outside a music-seller’s shop. He read the
bill attentively, considered a moment, and then hailed an empty cab as
it passed him. “Opera Box-office,” he said to the man, and was driven
away.

I crossed the road, and looked at the bill in my turn. The performance
announced was Lucrezia Borgia, and it was to take place that evening.
The opera-glass in the Count’s hand, his careful reading of the bill,
and his direction to the cabman, all suggested that he proposed making
one of the audience. I had the means of getting an admission for myself
and a friend to the pit by applying to one of the scene-painters
attached to the theatre, with whom I had been well acquainted in past
times. There was a chance at least that the Count might be easily
visible among the audience to me and to any one with me, and in this
case I had the means of ascertaining whether Pesca knew his countryman
or not that very night.

This consideration at once decided the disposal of my evening. I
procured the tickets, leaving a note at the Professor’s lodgings on the
way. At a quarter to eight I called to take him with me to the theatre.
My little friend was in a state of the highest excitement, with a
festive flower in his button-hole, and the largest opera-glass I ever
saw hugged up under his arm.

“Are you ready?” I asked.

“Right-all-right,” said Pesca.

We started for the theatre.



V

The last notes of the introduction to the opera were being played, and
the seats in the pit were all filled, when Pesca and I reached the
theatre.

There was plenty of room, however, in the passage that ran round the
pit—precisely the position best calculated to answer the purpose for
which I was attending the performance. I went first to the barrier
separating us from the stalls, and looked for the Count in that part
of the theatre. He was not there. Returning along the passage, on the
left-hand side from the stage, and looking about me attentively, I
discovered him in the pit. He occupied an excellent place, some twelve
or fourteen seats from the end of a bench, within three rows of the
stalls. I placed myself exactly on a line with him; Pesca standing by
my side. The Professor was not yet aware of the purpose for which I had
brought him to the theatre, and he was rather surprised that we did not
move nearer to the stage.

The curtain rose, and the opera began.

Throughout the whole of the first act we remained in our position—the
Count, absorbed by the orchestra and the stage, never casting so much
as a chance glance at us. Not a note of Donizetti’s delicious music
was lost on him. There he sat, high above his neighbours, smiling, and
nodding his great head enjoyingly from time to time. When the people
near him applauded the close of an air (as an English audience in such
circumstances always WILL applaud), without the least consideration
for the orchestral movement which immediately followed it, he looked
round at them with an expression of compassionate remonstrance, and
held up one hand with a gesture of polite entreaty. At the more
refined passages of the singing, at the more delicate phases of the
music, which passed unapplauded by others, his fat hands, adorned
with perfectly-fitting black kid gloves, softly patted each other, in
token of the cultivated appreciation of a musical man. At such times,
his oily murmur of approval, “Bravo! Bra-a-a-a!” hummed through the
silence, like the purring of a great cat. His immediate neighbours
on either side—hearty, ruddy-faced people from the country, basking
amazedly in the sunshine of fashionable London—seeing and hearing him,
began to follow his lead. Many a burst of applause from the pit that
night started from the soft, comfortable patting of the black-gloved
hands. The man’s voracious vanity devoured this implied tribute to
his local and critical supremacy with an appearance of the highest
relish. Smiles rippled continuously over his fat face. He looked about
him, at the pauses in the music, serenely satisfied with himself and
his fellow-creatures. “Yes! yes! these barbarous English people are
learning something from ME. Here, there, and everywhere, I—Fosco—am an
influence that is felt, a man who sits supreme!” If ever face spoke,
his face spoke then, and that was its language.

The curtain fell on the first act, and the audience rose to look about
them. This was the time I had waited for—the time to try if Pesca knew
him.

He rose with the rest, and surveyed the occupants of the boxes grandly
with his opera-glass. At first his back was towards us, but he turned
round in time, to our side of the theatre, and looked at the boxes
above us, using his glass for a few minutes—then removing it, but still
continuing to look up. This was the moment I chose, when his full face
was in view, for directing Pesca’s attention to him.

“Do you know that man?” I asked.

“Which man, my friend?”

“The tall, fat man, standing there, with his face towards us.”

Pesca raised himself on tiptoe, and looked at the Count.

“No,” said the Professor. “The big fat man is a stranger to me. Is he
famous? Why do you point him out?”

“Because I have particular reasons for wishing to know something of
him. He is a countryman of yours—his name is Count Fosco. Do you know
that name?”

“Not I, Walter. Neither the name nor the man is known to me.”

“Are you quite sure you don’t recognise him? Look again—look carefully.
I will tell you why I am so anxious about it when we leave the theatre.
Stop! let me help you up here, where you can see him better.”

I helped the little man to perch himself on the edge of the raised
dais upon which the pit-seats were all placed. His small stature was
no hindrance to him—here he could see over the heads of the ladies who
were seated near the outermost part of the bench.

A slim, light-haired man standing by us, whom I had not noticed
before—a man with a scar on his left cheek—looked attentively at Pesca
as I helped him up, and then looked still more attentively, following
the direction of Pesca’s eyes, at the Count. Our conversation might
have reached his ears, and might, as it struck me, have roused his
curiosity.

Meanwhile, Pesca fixed his eyes earnestly on the broad, full, smiling
face turned a little upward, exactly opposite to him.

“No,” he said, “I have never set my two eyes on that big fat man before
in all my life.”

As he spoke the Count looked downwards towards the boxes behind us on
the pit tier.

The eyes of the two Italians met.

The instant before I had been perfectly satisfied, from his own
reiterated assertion, that Pesca did not know the Count. The instant
afterwards I was equally certain that the Count knew Pesca!

Knew him, and—more surprising still—FEARED him as well! There was no
mistaking the change that passed over the villain’s face. The leaden
hue that altered his yellow complexion in a moment, the sudden rigidity
of all his features, the furtive scrutiny of his cold grey eyes, the
motionless stillness of him from head to foot told their own tale. A
mortal dread had mastered him body and soul—and his own recognition of
Pesca was the cause of it!

The slim man with the scar on his cheek was still close by us. He had
apparently drawn his inference from the effect produced on the Count by
the sight of Pesca as I had drawn mine. He was a mild, gentlemanlike
man, looking like a foreigner, and his interest in our proceedings was
not expressed in anything approaching to an offensive manner.

For my own part I was so startled by the change in the Count’s face, so
astounded at the entirely unexpected turn which events had taken, that
I knew neither what to say or do next. Pesca roused me by stepping back
to his former place at my side and speaking first.

“How the fat man stares!” he exclaimed. “Is it at ME? Am I famous? How
can he know me when I don’t know him?”

I kept my eye still on the Count. I saw him move for the first time
when Pesca moved, so as not to lose sight of the little man in the
lower position in which he now stood. I was curious to see what would
happen if Pesca’s attention under these circumstances was withdrawn
from him, and I accordingly asked the Professor if he recognised
any of his pupils that evening among the ladies in the boxes. Pesca
immediately raised the large opera-glass to his eyes, and moved it
slowly all round the upper part of the theatre, searching for his
pupils with the most conscientious scrutiny.

The moment he showed himself to be thus engaged the Count turned round,
slipped past the persons who occupied seats on the farther side of him
from where we stood, and disappeared in the middle passage down the
centre of the pit. I caught Pesca by the arm, and to his inexpressible
astonishment, hurried him round with me to the back of the pit to
intercept the Count before he could get to the door. Somewhat to my
surprise, the slim man hastened out before us, avoiding a stoppage
caused by some people on our side of the pit leaving their places, by
which Pesca and myself were delayed. When we reached the lobby the
Count had disappeared, and the foreigner with the scar was gone too.

“Come home,” I said; “come home, Pesca, to your lodgings. I must speak
to you in private—I must speak directly.”

“My-soul-bless-my-soul!” cried the Professor, in a state of the
extremest bewilderment. “What on earth is the matter?”

I walked on rapidly without answering. The circumstances under which
the Count had left the theatre suggested to me that his extraordinary
anxiety to escape Pesca might carry him to further extremities still.
He might escape me, too, by leaving London. I doubted the future if
I allowed him so much as a day’s freedom to act as he pleased. And I
doubted that foreign stranger, who had got the start of us, and whom I
suspected of intentionally following him out.

With this double distrust in my mind, I was not long in making Pesca
understand what I wanted. As soon as we two were alone in his room, I
increased his confusion and amazement a hundredfold by telling him what
my purpose was as plainly and unreservedly as I have acknowledged it
here.

“My friend, what can I do?” cried the Professor, piteously appealing to
me with both hands. “Deuce-what-the-deuce! how can I help you, Walter,
when I don’t know the man?”

“HE knows YOU—he is afraid of you—he has left the theatre to escape
you. Pesca! there must be a reason for this. Look back into your own
life before you came to England. You left Italy, as you have told me
yourself, for political reasons. You have never mentioned those reasons
to me, and I don’t inquire into them now. I only ask you to consult
your own recollections, and to say if they suggest no past cause for
the terror which the first sight of you produced in that man.”

To my unutterable surprise, these words, harmless as they appeared to
ME, produced the same astounding effect on Pesca which the sight of
Pesca had produced on the Count. The rosy face of my little friend
whitened in an instant, and he drew back from me slowly, trembling from
head to foot.

“Walter!” he said. “You don’t know what you ask.”

He spoke in a whisper—he looked at me as if I had suddenly revealed to
him some hidden danger to both of us. In less than one minute of time
he was so altered from the easy, lively, quaint little man of all my
past experience, that if I had met him in the street, changed as I saw
him now, I should most certainly not have known him again.

“Forgive me, if I have unintentionally pained and shocked you,” I
replied. “Remember the cruel wrong my wife has suffered at Count
Fosco’s hands. Remember that the wrong can never be redressed, unless
the means are in my power of forcing him to do her justice. I spoke in
HER interests, Pesca—I ask you again to forgive me—I can say no more.”

I rose to go. He stopped me before I reached the door.

“Wait,” he said. “You have shaken me from head to foot. You don’t
know how I left my country, and why I left my country. Let me compose
myself, let me think, if I can.”

I returned to my chair. He walked up and down the room, talking to
himself incoherently in his own language. After several turns backwards
and forwards, he suddenly came up to me, and laid his little hands with
a strange tenderness and solemnity on my breast.

“On your heart and soul, Walter,” he said, “is there no other way to
get to that man but the chance-way through ME?”

“There is no other way,” I answered.

He left me again, opened the door of the room and looked out cautiously
into the passage, closed it once more, and came back.

“You won your right over me, Walter,” he said, “on the day when you
saved my life. It was yours from that moment, when you pleased to take
it. Take it now. Yes! I mean what I say. My next words, as true as the
good God is above us, will put my life into your hands.”

The trembling earnestness with which he uttered this extraordinary
warning, carried with it, to my mind, the conviction that he spoke the
truth.

“Mind this!” he went on, shaking his hands at me in the vehemence of
his agitation. “I hold no thread, in my own mind, between that man
Fosco, and the past time which I call back to me for your sake. If you
find the thread, keep it to yourself—tell me nothing—on my knees I beg
and pray, let me be ignorant, let me be innocent, let me be blind to
all the future as I am now!”

He said a few words more, hesitatingly and disconnectedly, then stopped
again.

I saw that the effort of expressing himself in English, on an occasion
too serious to permit him the use of the quaint turns and phrases of
his ordinary vocabulary, was painfully increasing the difficulty he
had felt from the first in speaking to me at all. Having learnt to
read and understand his native language (though not to speak it), in
the earlier days of our intimate companionship, I now suggested to him
that he should express himself in Italian, while I used English in
putting any questions which might be necessary to my enlightenment.
He accepted the proposal. In his smooth-flowing language, spoken with
a vehement agitation which betrayed itself in the perpetual working
of his features, in the wildness and the suddenness of his foreign
gesticulations, but never in the raising of his voice, I now heard the
words which armed me to meet the last struggle, that is left for this
story to record.[3]

[3] It is only right to mention here, that I repeat Pesco’s statement
to me with the careful suppressions and alterations which the serious
nature of the subject and my own sense of duty to my friend demand. My
first and last concealments from the reader are those which caution
renders absolutely necessary in this portion of the narrative.

“You know nothing of my motive for leaving Italy,” he began, “except
that it was for political reasons. If I had been driven to this
country by the persecution of my government, I should not have kept
those reasons a secret from you or from any one. I have concealed
them because no government authority has pronounced the sentence of
my exile. You have heard, Walter, of the political societies that
are hidden in every great city on the continent of Europe? To one of
those societies I belonged in Italy—and belong still in England. When
I came to this country, I came by the direction of my chief. I was
over-zealous in my younger time—I ran the risk of compromising myself
and others. For those reasons I was ordered to emigrate to England
and to wait. I emigrated—I have waited—I wait still. To-morrow I may
be called away—ten years hence I may be called away. It is all one to
me—I am here, I support myself by teaching, and I wait. I violate no
oath (you shall hear why presently) in making my confidence complete by
telling you the name of the society to which I belong. All I do is to
put my life in your hands. If what I say to you now is ever known by
others to have passed my lips, as certainly as we two sit here, I am a
dead man.”

He whispered the next words in my ear. I keep the secret which he thus
communicated. The society to which he belonged will be sufficiently
individualised for the purpose of these pages, if I call it “The
Brotherhood,” on the few occasions when any reference to the subject
will be needed in this place.

“The object of the Brotherhood,” Pesca went on, “is, briefly, the
object of other political societies of the same sort—the destruction of
tyranny and the assertion of the rights of the people. The principles
of the Brotherhood are two. So long as a man’s life is useful, or
even harmless only, he has the right to enjoy it. But, if his life
inflicts injury on the well-being of his fellow-men, from that moment
he forfeits the right, and it is not only no crime, but a positive
merit, to deprive him of it. It is not for me to say in what frightful
circumstances of oppression and suffering this society took its rise.
It is not for you to say—you Englishmen, who have conquered your
freedom so long ago, that you have conveniently forgotten what blood
you shed, and what extremities you proceeded to in the conquering—it is
not for you to say how far the worst of all exasperations may, or may
not, carry the maddened men of an enslaved nation. The iron that has
entered into our souls has gone too deep for you to find it. Leave the
refugee alone! Laugh at him, distrust him, open your eyes in wonder at
that secret self which smoulders in him, sometimes under the everyday
respectability and tranquillity of a man like me—sometimes under the
grinding poverty, the fierce squalor, of men less lucky, less pliable,
less patient than I am—but judge us not! In the time of your first
Charles you might have done us justice—the long luxury of your own
freedom has made you incapable of doing us justice now.”

All the deepest feelings of his nature seemed to force themselves to
the surface in those words—all his heart was poured out to me for the
first time in our lives—but still his voice never rose, still his dread
of the terrible revelation he was making to me never left him.

“So far,” he resumed, “you think the society like other societies. Its
object (in your English opinion) is anarchy and revolution. It takes
the life of a bad king or a bad minister, as if the one and the other
were dangerous wild beasts to be shot at the first opportunity. I grant
you this. But the laws of the Brotherhood are the laws of no other
political society on the face of the earth. The members are not known
to one another. There is a president in Italy; there are presidents
abroad. Each of these has his secretary. The presidents and the
secretaries know the members, but the members, among themselves, are
all strangers, until their chiefs see fit, in the political necessity
of the time, or in the private necessity of the society, to make them
known to each other. With such a safeguard as this there is no oath
among us on admittance. We are identified with the Brotherhood by a
secret mark, which we all bear, which lasts while our lives last. We
are told to go about our ordinary business, and to report ourselves to
the president, or the secretary, four times a year, in the event of our
services being required. We are warned, if we betray the Brotherhood,
or if we injure it by serving other interests, that we die by the
principles of the Brotherhood—die by the hand of a stranger who may
be sent from the other end of the world to strike the blow—or by the
hand of our own bosom-friend, who may have been a member unknown to
us through all the years of our intimacy. Sometimes the death is
delayed—sometimes it follows close on the treachery. It is our first
business to know how to wait—our second business to know how to obey
when the word is spoken. Some of us may wait our lives through, and
may not be wanted. Some of us may be called to the work, or to the
preparation for the work, the very day of our admission. I myself—the
little, easy, cheerful man you know, who, of his own accord, would
hardly lift up his handkerchief to strike down the fly that buzzes
about his face—I, in my younger time, under provocation so dreadful
that I will not tell you of it, entered the Brotherhood by an impulse,
as I might have killed myself by an impulse. I must remain in it now—it
has got me, whatever I may think of it in my better circumstances and
my cooler manhood, to my dying day. While I was still in Italy I was
chosen secretary, and all the members of that time, who were brought
face to face with my president, were brought face to face also with me.”

I began to understand him—I saw the end towards which his extraordinary
disclosure was now tending. He waited a moment, watching me
earnestly—watching till he had evidently guessed what was passing in my
mind before he resumed.

“You have drawn your own conclusion already,” he said. “I see it in
your face. Tell me nothing—keep me out of the secret of your thoughts.
Let me make my one last sacrifice of myself, for your sake, and then
have done with this subject, never to return to it again.”

He signed to me not to answer him—rose—removed his coat—and rolled up
the shirt-sleeve on his left arm.

“I promised you that this confidence should be complete,” he whispered,
speaking close at my ear, with his eyes looking watchfully at the door.
“Whatever comes of it you shall not reproach me with having hidden
anything from you which it was necessary to your interests to know. I
have said that the Brotherhood identifies its members by a mark that
lasts for life. See the place, and the mark on it for yourself.”

He raised his bare arm, and showed me, high on the upper part of it and
in the inner side, a brand deeply burnt in the flesh and stained of a
bright blood-red colour. I abstain from describing the device which the
brand represented. It will be sufficient to say that it was circular
in form, and so small that it would have been completely covered by a
shilling coin.

“A man who has this mark, branded in this place,” he said, covering his
arm again, “is a member of the Brotherhood. A man who has been false to
the Brotherhood is discovered sooner or later by the chiefs who know
him—presidents or secretaries, as the case may be. And a man discovered
by the chiefs is dead. NO HUMAN LAWS CAN PROTECT HIM. Remember what you
have seen and heard—draw what conclusions YOU like—act as you please.
But, in the name of God, whatever you discover, whatever you do, tell
me nothing! Let me remain free from a responsibility which it horrifies
me to think of—which I know, in my conscience, is not my responsibility
now. For the last time I say it—on my honour as a gentleman, on my oath
as a Christian, if the man you pointed out at the Opera knows ME, he
is so altered, or so disguised, that I do not know him. I am ignorant
of his proceedings or his purposes in England. I never saw him, I
never heard the name he goes by, to my knowledge, before to-night. I
say no more. Leave me a little, Walter. I am overpowered by what has
happened—I am shaken by what I have said. Let me try to be like myself
again when we meet next.”

He dropped into a chair, and turning away from me, hid his face in his
hands. I gently opened the door so as not to disturb him, and spoke
my few parting words in low tones, which he might hear or not, as he
pleased.

“I will keep the memory of to-night in my heart of hearts,” I said.
“You shall never repent the trust you have reposed in me. May I come to
you to-morrow? May I come as early as nine o’clock?”

“Yes, Walter,” he replied, looking up at me kindly, and speaking
in English once more, as if his one anxiety now was to get back to
our former relations towards each other. “Come to my little bit of
breakfast before I go my ways among the pupils that I teach.”

“Good-night, Pesca.”

“Good-night, my friend.”



VI

My first conviction as soon as I found myself outside the house, was
that no alternative was left me but to act at once on the information I
had received—to make sure of the Count that night, or to risk the loss,
if I only delayed till the morning, of Laura’s last chance. I looked at
my watch—it was ten o’clock.

Not the shadow of a doubt crossed my mind of the purpose for which
the Count had left the theatre. His escape from us, that evening, was
beyond all question the preliminary only to his escape from London. The
mark of the Brotherhood was on his arm—I felt as certain of it as if he
had shown me the brand; and the betrayal of the Brotherhood was on his
conscience—I had seen it in his recognition of Pesca.

It was easy to understand why that recognition had not been mutual. A
man of the Count’s character would never risk the terrible consequences
of turning spy without looking to his personal security quite as
carefully as he looked to his golden reward. The shaven face, which I
had pointed out at the Opera, might have been covered by a beard in
Pesca’s time—his dark brown hair might be a wig—his name was evidently
a false one. The accident of time might have helped him as well—his
immense corpulence might have come with his later years. There was
every reason why Pesca should not have known him again—every reason
also why he should have known Pesca, whose singular personal appearance
made a marked man of him, go where he might.

I have said that I felt certain of the purpose in the Count’s mind
when he escaped us at the theatre. How could I doubt it, when I saw,
with my own eyes, that he believed himself, in spite of the change in
his appearance, to have been recognised by Pesca, and to be therefore
in danger of his life? If I could get speech of him that night, if I
could show him that I, too knew of the mortal peril in which he stood,
what result would follow? Plainly this. One of us must be master of the
situation—one of us must inevitably be at the mercy of the other.

I owed it to myself to consider the chances against me before I
confronted them. I owed it to my wife to do all that lay in my power to
lessen the risk.

The chances against me wanted no reckoning up—they were all merged in
one. If the Count discovered, by my own avowal, that the direct way
to his safety lay through my life, he was probably the last man in
existence who would shrink from throwing me off my guard and taking
that way, when he had me alone within his reach. The only means of
defence against him on which I could at all rely to lessen the risk,
presented themselves, after a little careful thinking, clearly enough.
Before I made any personal acknowledgment of my discovery in his
presence, I must place the discovery itself where it would be ready
for instant use against him, and safe from any attempt at suppression
on his part. If I laid the mine under his feet before I approached
him, and if I left instructions with a third person to fire it on the
expiration of a certain time, unless directions to the contrary were
previously received under my own hand, or from my own lips—in that
event the Count’s security was absolutely dependent upon mine, and I
might hold the vantage ground over him securely, even in his own house.

This idea occurred to me when I was close to the new lodgings which we
had taken on returning from the sea-side. I went in without disturbing
any one, by the help of my key. A light was in the hall, and I stole
up with it to my workroom to make my preparations, and absolutely to
commit myself to an interview with the Count, before either Laura or
Marian could have the slightest suspicion of what I intended to do.

A letter addressed to Pesca represented the surest measure of
precaution which it was now possible for me to take. I wrote as follows—

“The man whom I pointed out to you at the Opera is a member of the
Brotherhood, and has been false to his trust. Put both these assertions
to the test instantly. You know the name he goes by in England. His
address is No. 5 Forest Road, St. John’s Wood. On the love you once
bore me, use the power entrusted to you without mercy and without delay
against that man. I have risked all and lost all—and the forfeit of my
failure has been paid with my life.”

I signed and dated these lines, enclosed them in an envelope, and
sealed it up. On the outside I wrote this direction: “Keep the
enclosure unopened until nine o’clock to-morrow morning. If you do
not hear from me, or see me, before that time, break the seal when
the clock strikes, and read the contents.” I added my initials, and
protected the whole by enclosing it in a second sealed envelope,
addressed to Pesca at his lodgings.

Nothing remained to be done after this but to find the means of
sending my letter to its destination immediately. I should then have
accomplished all that lay in my power. If anything happened to me in
the Count’s house, I had now provided for his answering it with his
life.

That the means of preventing his escape, under any circumstances
whatever, were at Pesca’s disposal, if he chose to exert them, I did
not for an instant doubt. The extraordinary anxiety which he had
expressed to remain unenlightened as to the Count’s identity—or, in
other words, to be left uncertain enough about facts to justify him
to his own conscience in remaining passive—betrayed plainly that the
means of exercising the terrible justice of the Brotherhood were
ready to his hand, although, as a naturally humane man, he had shrunk
from plainly saying as much in my presence. The deadly certainty with
which the vengeance of foreign political societies can hunt down a
traitor to the cause, hide himself where he may, had been too often
exemplified, even in my superficial experience, to allow of any doubt.
Considering the subject only as a reader of newspapers, cases recurred
to my memory, both in London and in Paris, of foreigners found stabbed
in the streets, whose assassins could never be traced—of bodies and
parts of bodies thrown into the Thames and the Seine, by hands that
could never be discovered—of deaths by secret violence which could
only be accounted for in one way. I have disguised nothing relating to
myself in these pages, and I do not disguise here that I believed I had
written Count Fosco’s death-warrant, if the fatal emergency happened
which authorised Pesca to open my enclosure.

I left my room to go down to the ground floor of the house, and
speak to the landlord about finding me a messenger. He happened to
be ascending the stairs at the time, and we met on the landing. His
son, a quick lad, was the messenger he proposed to me on hearing what
I wanted. We had the boy upstairs, and I gave him his directions. He
was to take the letter in a cab, to put it into Professor Pesca’s
own hands, and to bring me back a line of acknowledgment from that
gentleman—returning in the cab, and keeping it at the door for my use.
It was then nearly half-past ten. I calculated that the boy might be
back in twenty minutes, and that I might drive to St. John’s Wood, on
his return, in twenty minutes more.

When the lad had departed on his errand I returned to my own room for
a little while, to put certain papers in order, so that they might be
easily found in case of the worst. The key of the old-fashioned bureau
in which the papers were kept I sealed up, and left it on my table,
with Marian’s name written on the outside of the little packet. This
done, I went downstairs to the sitting-room, in which I expected to
find Laura and Marian awaiting my return from the Opera. I felt my hand
trembling for the first time when I laid it on the lock of the door.

No one was in the room but Marian. She was reading, and she looked at
her watch, in surprise, when I came in.

“How early you are back!” she said. “You must have come away before the
Opera was over.”

“Yes,” I replied, “neither Pesca nor I waited for the end. Where is
Laura?”

“She had one of her bad headaches this evening, and I advised her to go
to bed when we had done tea.”

I left the room again on the pretext of wishing to see whether Laura
was asleep. Marian’s quick eyes were beginning to look inquiringly at
my face—Marian’s quick instinct was beginning to discover that I had
something weighing on my mind.

When I entered the bedchamber, and softly approached the bedside by the
dim flicker of the night-lamp, my wife was asleep.

We had not been married quite a month yet. If my heart was heavy,
if my resolution for a moment faltered again, when I looked at her
face turned faithfully to my pillow in her sleep—when I saw her hand
resting open on the coverlid, as if it was waiting unconsciously for
mine—surely there was some excuse for me? I only allowed myself a few
minutes to kneel down at the bedside, and to look close at her—so close
that her breath, as it came and went, fluttered on my face. I only
touched her hand and her cheek with my lips at parting. She stirred in
her sleep and murmured my name, but without waking. I lingered for an
instant at the door to look at her again. “God bless and keep you, my
darling!” I whispered, and left her.

Marian was at the stairhead waiting for me. She had a folded slip of
paper in her hand.

“The landlord’s son has brought this for you,” she said. “He has got a
cab at the door—he says you ordered him to keep it at your disposal.”

“Quite right, Marian. I want the cab—I am going out again.”

I descended the stairs as I spoke, and looked into the sitting-room to
read the slip of paper by the light on the table. It contained these
two sentences in Pesca’s handwriting—

“Your letter is received. If I don’t see you before the time you
mention, I will break the seal when the clock strikes.”

I placed the paper in my pocket-book, and made for the door. Marian
met me on the threshold, and pushed me back into the room, where the
candle-light fell full on my face. She held me by both hands, and her
eyes fastened searchingly on mine.

“I see!” she said, in a low eager whisper. “You are trying the last
chance to-night.”

“Yes, the last chance and the best,” I whispered back.

“Not alone! Oh, Walter, for God’s sake, not alone! Let me go with you.
Don’t refuse me because I’m only a woman. I must go! I will go! I’ll
wait outside in the cab!”

It was my turn now to hold HER. She tried to break away from me and get
down first to the door.

“If you want to help me,” I said, “stop here and sleep in my wife’s
room to-night. Only let me go away with my mind easy about Laura, and I
answer for everything else. Come, Marian, give me a kiss, and show that
you have the courage to wait till I come back.”

I dared not allow her time to say a word more. She tried to hold me
again. I unclasped her hands, and was out of the room in a moment. The
boy below heard me on the stairs, and opened the hall-door. I jumped
into the cab before the driver could get off the box. “Forest Road, St.
John’s Wood,” I called to him through the front window. “Double fare if
you get there in a quarter of an hour.” “I’ll do it, sir.” I looked at
my watch. Eleven o’clock. Not a minute to lose.

The rapid motion of the cab, the sense that every instant now was
bringing me nearer to the Count, the conviction that I was embarked at
last, without let or hindrance, on my hazardous enterprise, heated me
into such a fever of excitement that I shouted to the man to go faster
and faster. As we left the streets, and crossed St. John’s Wood Road,
my impatience so completely overpowered me that I stood up in the cab
and stretched my head out of the window, to see the end of the journey
before we reached it. Just as a church clock in the distance struck the
quarter past, we turned into the Forest Road. I stopped the driver a
little away from the Count’s house, paid and dismissed him, and walked
on to the door.

As I approached the garden gate, I saw another person advancing towards
it also from the direction opposite to mine. We met under the gas lamp
in the road, and looked at each other. I instantly recognised the
light-haired foreigner with the scar on his cheek, and I thought he
recognised me. He said nothing, and instead of stopping at the house,
as I did, he slowly walked on. Was he in the Forest Road by accident?
Or had he followed the Count home from the Opera?

I did not pursue those questions. After waiting a little till the
foreigner had slowly passed out of sight, I rang the gate bell. It was
then twenty minutes past eleven—late enough to make it quite easy for
the Count to get rid of me by the excuse that he was in bed.

The only way of providing against this contingency was to send in my
name without asking any preliminary questions, and to let him know,
at the same time, that I had a serious motive for wishing to see him
at that late hour. Accordingly, while I was waiting, I took out my
card and wrote under my name “On important business.” The maid-servant
answered the door while I was writing the last word in pencil, and
asked me distrustfully what I “pleased to want.”

“Be so good as to take that to your master,” I replied, giving her the
card.

I saw, by the girl’s hesitation of manner, that if I had asked for
the Count in the first instance she would only have followed her
instructions by telling me he was not at home. She was staggered by
the confidence with which I gave her the card. After staring at me,
in great perturbation, she went back into the house with my message,
closing the door, and leaving me to wait in the garden.

In a minute or so she reappeared. “Her master’s compliments, and would
I be so obliging as to say what my business was?” “Take my compliments
back,” I replied, “and say that the business cannot be mentioned to any
one but your master.” She left me again, again returned, and this time
asked me to walk in.

I followed her at once. In another moment I was inside the Count’s
house.



VII

There was no lamp in the hall, but by the dim light of the kitchen
candle, which the girl had brought upstairs with her, I saw an elderly
lady steal noiselessly out of a back room on the ground floor. She
cast one viperish look at me as I entered the hall, but said nothing,
and went slowly upstairs without returning my bow. My familiarity with
Marian’s journal sufficiently assured me that the elderly lady was
Madame Fosco.

The servant led me to the room which the Countess had just left. I
entered it, and found myself face to face with the Count.

He was still in his evening dress, except his coat, which he had
thrown across a chair. His shirt-sleeves were turned up at the wrists,
but no higher. A carpet-bag was on one side of him, and a box on the
other. Books, papers, and articles of wearing apparel were scattered
about the room. On a table, at one side of the door, stood the cage,
so well known to me by description, which contained his white mice.
The canaries and the cockatoo were probably in some other room. He was
seated before the box, packing it, when I went in, and rose with some
papers in his hand to receive me. His face still betrayed plain traces
of the shock that had overwhelmed him at the Opera. His fat cheeks hung
loose, his cold grey eyes were furtively vigilant, his voice, look, and
manner were all sharply suspicious alike, as he advanced a step to meet
me, and requested, with distant civility, that I would take a chair.

“You come here on business, sir?” he said. “I am at a loss to know what
that business can possibly be.”

The unconcealed curiosity, with which he looked hard in my face while
he spoke, convinced me that I had passed unnoticed by him at the Opera.
He had seen Pesca first, and from that moment till he left the theatre
he had evidently seen nothing else. My name would necessarily suggest
to him that I had not come into his house with other than a hostile
purpose towards himself, but he appeared to be utterly ignorant thus
far of the real nature of my errand.

“I am fortunate in finding you here to-night,” I said. “You seem to be
on the point of taking a journey?”

“Is your business connected with my journey?”

“In some degree.”

“In what degree? Do you know where I am going to?”

“No. I only know why you are leaving London.”

He slipped by me with the quickness of thought, locked the door, and
put the key in his pocket.

“You and I, Mr. Hartright, are excellently well acquainted with one
another by reputation,” he said. “Did it, by any chance, occur to you
when you came to this house that I was not the sort of man you could
trifle with?”

“It did occur to me,” I replied. “And I have not come to trifle with
you. I am here on a matter of life and death, and if that door which
you have locked was open at this moment, nothing you could say or do
would induce me to pass through it.”

I walked farther into the room, and stood opposite to him on the rug
before the fireplace. He drew a chair in front of the door, and sat
down on it, with his left arm resting on the table. The cage with the
white mice was close to him, and the little creatures scampered out of
their sleeping-place as his heavy arm shook the table, and peered at
him through the gaps in the smartly painted wires.

“On a matter of life and death,” he repeated to himself. “Those words
are more serious, perhaps, than you think. What do you mean?”

“What I say.”

The perspiration broke out thickly on his broad forehead. His left hand
stole over the edge of the table. There was a drawer in it, with a
lock, and the key was in the lock. His finger and thumb closed over the
key, but did not turn it.

“So you know why I am leaving London?” he went on. “Tell me the reason,
if you please.” He turned the key, and unlocked the drawer as he spoke.

“I can do better than that,” I replied. “I can SHOW you the reason, if
you like.”

“How can you show it?”

“You have got your coat off,” I said. “Roll up the shirt-sleeve on your
left arm, and you will see it there.”

The same livid leaden change passed over his face which I had seen pass
over it at the theatre. The deadly glitter in his eyes shone steady
and straight into mine. He said nothing. But his left hand slowly
opened the table-drawer, and softly slipped into it. The harsh grating
noise of something heavy that he was moving unseen to me sounded for a
moment, then ceased. The silence that followed was so intense that the
faint ticking nibble of the white mice at their wires was distinctly
audible where I stood.

My life hung by a thread, and I knew it. At that final moment I thought
with HIS mind, I felt with HIS fingers—I was as certain as if I had
seen it of what he kept hidden from me in the drawer.

“Wait a little,” I said. “You have got the door locked—you see I don’t
move—you see my hands are empty. Wait a little. I have something more
to say.”

“You have said enough,” he replied, with a sudden composure so
unnatural and so ghastly that it tried my nerves as no outbreak of
violence could have tried them. “I want one moment for my own thoughts,
if you please. Do you guess what I am thinking about?”

“Perhaps I do.”

“I am thinking,” he remarked quietly, “whether I shall add to the
disorder in this room by scattering your brains about the fireplace.”

If I had moved at that moment, I saw in his face that he would have
done it.

“I advise you to read two lines of writing which I have about me,” I
rejoined, “before you finally decide that question.”

The proposal appeared to excite his curiosity. He nodded his head.
I took Pesca’s acknowledgment of the receipt of my letter out of my
pocket-book, handed it to him at arm’s length, and returned to my
former position in front of the fireplace.

He read the lines aloud: “Your letter is received. If I don’t hear from
you before the time you mention, I will break the seal when the clock
strikes.”

Another man in his position would have needed some explanation of
those words—the Count felt no such necessity. One reading of the note
showed him the precaution that I had taken as plainly as if he had
been present at the time when I adopted it. The expression of his face
changed on the instant, and his hand came out of the drawer empty.

“I don’t lock up my drawer, Mr. Hartright,” he said, “and I don’t say
that I may not scatter your brains about the fireplace yet. But I am a
just man even to my enemy, and I will acknowledge beforehand that they
are cleverer brains than I thought them. Come to the point, sir! You
want something of me?”

“I do, and I mean to have it.”

“On conditions?”

“On no conditions.”

His hand dropped into the drawer again.

“Bah! we are travelling in a circle,” he said, “and those clever brains
of yours are in danger again. Your tone is deplorably imprudent,
sir—moderate it on the spot! The risk of shooting you on the place
where you stand is less to me than the risk of letting you out of
this house, except on conditions that I dictate and approve. You have
not got my lamented friend to deal with now—you are face to face with
Fosco! If the lives of twenty Mr. Hartrights were the stepping-stones
to my safety, over all those stones I would go, sustained by my sublime
indifference, self-balanced by my impenetrable calm. Respect me, if you
love your own life! I summon you to answer three questions before you
open your lips again. Hear them—they are necessary to this interview.
Answer them—they are necessary to ME.” He held up one finger of his
right hand. “First question!” he said. “You come here possessed of
information which may be true or may be false—where did you get it?”

“I decline to tell you.”

“No matter—I shall find out. If that information is true—mind I say,
with the whole force of my resolution, if—you are making your market
of it here by treachery of your own or by treachery of some other man.
I note that circumstance for future use in my memory, which forgets
nothing, and proceed.” He held up another finger. “Second question!
Those lines you invited me to read are without signature. Who wrote
them?”

“A man whom I have every reason to depend on, and whom you have every
reason to fear.”

My answer reached him to some purpose. His left hand trembled audibly
in the drawer.

“How long do you give me,” he asked, putting his third question in a
quieter tone, “before the clock strikes and the seal is broken?”

“Time enough for you to come to my terms,” I replied.

“Give me a plainer answer, Mr. Hartright. What hour is the clock to
strike?”

“Nine, to-morrow morning.”

“Nine, to-morrow morning? Yes, yes—your trap is laid for me before I
can get my passport regulated and leave London. It is not earlier, I
suppose? We will see about that presently—I can keep you hostage here,
and bargain with you to send for your letter before I let you go. In
the meantime, be so good next as to mention your terms.”

“You shall hear them. They are simple, and soon stated. You know whose
interests I represent in coming here?”

He smiled with the most supreme composure, and carelessly waved his
right hand.

“I consent to hazard a guess,” he said jeeringly. “A lady’s interests,
of course!”

“My Wife’s interests.”

He looked at me with the first honest expression that had crossed his
face in my presence—an expression of blank amazement. I could see that
I sank in his estimation as a dangerous man from that moment. He shut
up the drawer at once, folded his arms over his breast, and listened to
me with a smile of satirical attention.

“You are well enough aware,” I went on, “of the course which my
inquiries have taken for many months past, to know that any attempted
denial of plain facts will be quite useless in my presence. You are
guilty of an infamous conspiracy! And the gain of a fortune of ten
thousand pounds was your motive for it.”

He said nothing. But his face became overclouded suddenly by a lowering
anxiety.

“Keep your gain,” I said. (His face lightened again immediately, and
his eyes opened on me in wider and wider astonishment.) “I am not here
to disgrace myself by bargaining for money which has passed through
your hands, and which has been the price of a vile crime——”

“Gently, Mr. Hartright. Your moral clap-traps have an excellent effect
in England—keep them for yourself and your own countrymen, if you
please. The ten thousand pounds was a legacy left to my excellent wife
by the late Mr. Fairlie. Place the affair on those grounds, and I will
discuss it if you like. To a man of my sentiments, however, the subject
is deplorably sordid. I prefer to pass it over. I invite you to resume
the discussion of your terms. What do you demand?”

“In the first place, I demand a full confession of the conspiracy,
written and signed in my presence by yourself.”

He raised his finger again. “One!” he said, checking me off with the
steady attention of a practical man.

“In the second place, I demand a plain proof, which does not depend
on your personal asseveration, of the date at which my wife left
Blackwater Park and travelled to London.”

“So! so! you can lay your finger, I see, on the weak place,” he
remarked composedly. “Any more?”

“At present, no more.”

“Good! you have mentioned your terms, now listen to mine. The
responsibility to myself of admitting what you are pleased to call the
‘conspiracy’ is less, perhaps, upon the whole, than the responsibility
of laying you dead on that hearthrug. Let us say that I meet your
proposal—on my own conditions. The statement you demand of me shall
be written, and the plain proof shall be produced. You call a letter
from my late lamented friend informing me of the day and hour of his
wife’s arrival in London, written, signed, and dated by himself, a
proof, I suppose? I can give you this. I can also send you to the man
of whom I hired the carriage to fetch my visitor from the railway, on
the day when she arrived—his order-book may help you to your date,
even if his coachman who drove me proves to be of no use. These things
I can do, and will do, on conditions. I recite them. First condition!
Madame Fosco and I leave this house when and how we please, without
interference of any kind on your part. Second condition! You wait
here, in company with me, to see my agent, who is coming at seven
o’clock in the morning to regulate my affairs. You give my agent a
written order to the man who has got your sealed letter to resign
his possession of it. You wait here till my agent places that letter
unopened in my hands, and you then allow me one clear half-hour to
leave the house—after which you resume your own freedom of action and
go where you please. Third condition! You give me the satisfaction of
a gentleman for your intrusion into my private affairs, and for the
language you have allowed yourself to use to me at this conference. The
time and place, abroad, to be fixed in a letter from my hand when I
am safe on the Continent, and that letter to contain a strip of paper
measuring accurately the length of my sword. Those are my terms. Inform
me if you accept them—Yes or No.”


The extraordinary mixture of prompt decision, far-sighted cunning, and
mountebank bravado in this speech, staggered me for a moment—and only
for a moment. The one question to consider was, whether I was justified
or not in possessing myself of the means of establishing Laura’s
identity at the cost of allowing the scoundrel who had robbed her of
it to escape me with impunity. I knew that the motive of securing the
just recognition of my wife in the birthplace from which she had been
driven out as an impostor, and of publicly erasing the lie that still
profaned her mother’s tombstone, was far purer, in its freedom from all
taint of evil passion, than the vindictive motive which had mingled
itself with my purpose from the first. And yet I cannot honestly
say that my own moral convictions were strong enough to decide the
struggle in me by themselves. They were helped by my remembrance of Sir
Percival’s death. How awfully, at the last moment, had the working of
the retribution THERE been snatched from my feeble hands! What right
had I to decide, in my poor mortal ignorance of the future, that this
man, too, must escape with impunity because he escaped ME? I thought
of these things—perhaps with the superstition inherent in my nature,
perhaps with a sense worthier of me than superstition. It was hard,
when I had fastened my hold on him at last, to loosen it again of
my own accord—but I forced myself to make the sacrifice. In plainer
words, I determined to be guided by the one higher motive of which I
was certain, the motive of serving the cause of Laura and the cause of
Truth.


“I accept your conditions,” I said. “With one reservation on my part.”

“What reservation may that be?” he asked.

“It refers to the sealed letter,” I answered. “I require you to destroy
it unopened in my presence as soon as it is placed in your hands.”

My object in making this stipulation was simply to prevent him from
carrying away written evidence of the nature of my communication with
Pesca. The fact of my communication he would necessarily discover,
when I gave the address to his agent in the morning. But he could
make no use of it on his own unsupported testimony—even if he really
ventured to try the experiment—which need excite in me the slightest
apprehension on Pesca’s account.

“I grant your reservation,” he replied, after considering the question
gravely for a minute or two. “It is not worth dispute—the letter shall
be destroyed when it comes into my hands.”

He rose, as he spoke, from the chair in which he had been sitting
opposite to me up to this time. With one effort he appeared to free his
mind from the whole pressure on it of the interview between us thus
far. “Ouf!” he cried, stretching his arms luxuriously, “the skirmish
was hot while it lasted. Take a seat, Mr. Hartright. We meet as mortal
enemies hereafter—let us, like gallant gentlemen, exchange polite
attentions in the meantime. Permit me to take the liberty of calling
for my wife.”

He unlocked and opened the door. “Eleanor!” he called out in his
deep voice. The lady of the viperish face came in. “Madame Fosco—Mr.
Hartright,” said the Count, introducing us with easy dignity. “My
angel,” he went on, addressing his wife, “will your labours of packing
up allow you time to make me some nice strong coffee? I have writing
business to transact with Mr. Hartright—and I require the full
possession of my intelligence to do justice to myself.”

Madame Fosco bowed her head twice—once sternly to me, once submissively
to her husband, and glided out of the room.

The Count walked to a writing-table near the window, opened his desk,
and took from it several quires of paper and a bundle of quill pens.
He scattered the pens about the table, so that they might lie ready
in all directions to be taken up when wanted, and then cut the paper
into a heap of narrow slips, of the form used by professional writers
for the press. “I shall make this a remarkable document,” he said,
looking at me over his shoulder. “Habits of literary composition are
perfectly familiar to me. One of the rarest of all the intellectual
accomplishments that a man can possess is the grand faculty of
arranging his ideas. Immense privilege! I possess it. Do you?”

He marched backwards and forwards in the room, until the coffee
appeared, humming to himself, and marking the places at which obstacles
occurred in the arrangement of his ideas, by striking his forehead from
time to time with the palm of his hand. The enormous audacity with
which he seized on the situation in which I placed him, and made it the
pedestal on which his vanity mounted for the one cherished purpose of
self-display, mastered my astonishment by main force. Sincerely as I
loathed the man, the prodigious strength of his character, even in its
most trivial aspects, impressed me in spite of myself.

The coffee was brought in by Madame Fosco. He kissed her hand in
grateful acknowledgment, and escorted her to the door; returned, poured
out a cup of coffee for himself, and took it to the writing-table.

“May I offer you some coffee, Mr. Hartright?” he said, before he sat
down.

I declined.

“What! you think I shall poison you?” he said gaily. “The English
intellect is sound, so far as it goes,” he continued, seating himself
at the table; “but it has one grave defect—it is always cautious in the
wrong place.”

He dipped his pen in the ink, placed the first slip of paper before him
with a thump of his hand on the desk, cleared his throat, and began. He
wrote with great noise and rapidity, in so large and bold a hand, and
with such wide spaces between the lines, that he reached the bottom of
the slip in not more than two minutes certainly from the time when he
started at the top. Each slip as he finished it was paged, and tossed
over his shoulder out of his way on the floor. When his first pen was
worn out, THAT went over his shoulder too, and he pounced on a second
from the supply scattered about the table. Slip after slip, by dozens,
by fifties, by hundreds, flew over his shoulders on either side of him
till he had snowed himself up in paper all round his chair. Hour after
hour passed—and there I sat watching, there he sat writing. He never
stopped, except to sip his coffee, and when that was exhausted, to
smack his forehead from time to time. One o’clock struck, two, three,
four—and still the slips flew about all round him; still the untiring
pen scraped its way ceaselessly from top to bottom of the page, still
the white chaos of paper rose higher and higher all round his chair. At
four o’clock I heard a sudden splutter of the pen, indicative of the
flourish with which he signed his name. “Bravo!” he cried, springing to
his feet with the activity of a young man, and looking me straight in
the face with a smile of superb triumph.

“Done, Mr. Hartright!” he announced with a self-renovating thump of his
fist on his broad breast. “Done, to my own profound satisfaction—to
YOUR profound astonishment, when you read what I have written.
The subject is exhausted: the man—Fosco—is not. I proceed to the
arrangement of my slips—to the revision of my slips—to the reading
of my slips—addressed emphatically to your private ear. Four o’clock
has just struck. Good! Arrangement, revision, reading, from four to
five. Short snooze of restoration for myself from five to six. Final
preparations from six to seven. Affair of agent and sealed letter from
seven to eight. At eight, en route. Behold the programme!”

He sat down cross-legged on the floor among his papers, strung them
together with a bodkin and a piece of string—revised them, wrote all
the titles and honours by which he was personally distinguished at the
head of the first page, and then read the manuscript to me with loud
theatrical emphasis and profuse theatrical gesticulation. The reader
will have an opportunity, ere long, of forming his own opinion of the
document. It will be sufficient to mention here that it answered my
purpose.

He next wrote me the address of the person from whom he had hired the
fly, and handed me Sir Percival’s letter. It was dated from Hampshire
on the 25th of July, and it announced the journey of “Lady Glyde” to
London on the 26th. Thus, on the very day (the 25th) when the doctor’s
certificate declared that she had died in St. John’s Wood, she was
alive, by Sir Percival’s own showing, at Blackwater—and, on the day
after, she was to take a journey! When the proof of that journey was
obtained from the flyman, the evidence would be complete.

“A quarter-past five,” said the Count, looking at his watch. “Time for
my restorative snooze. I personally resemble Napoleon the Great, as
you may have remarked, Mr. Hartright—I also resemble that immortal man
in my power of commanding sleep at will. Excuse me one moment. I will
summon Madame Fosco, to keep you from feeling dull.”

Knowing as well as he did, that he was summoning Madame Fosco to
ensure my not leaving the house while he was asleep, I made no reply,
and occupied myself in tying up the papers which he had placed in my
possession.

The lady came in, cool, pale, and venomous as ever. “Amuse Mr.
Hartright, my angel,” said the Count. He placed a chair for her,
kissed her hand for the second time, withdrew to a sofa, and, in three
minutes, was as peacefully and happily asleep as the most virtuous man
in existence.

Madame Fosco took a book from the table, sat down, and looked at me,
with the steady vindictive malice of a woman who never forgot and never
forgave.

“I have been listening to your conversation with my husband,” she
said. “If I had been in HIS place—I would have laid you dead on the
hearthrug.”

With those words she opened her book, and never looked at me or spoke
to me from that time till the time when her husband woke.

He opened his eyes and rose from the sofa, accurately to an hour from
the time when he had gone to sleep.

“I feel infinitely refreshed,” he remarked. “Eleanor, my good wife,
are you all ready upstairs? That is well. My little packing here
can be completed in ten minutes—my travelling-dress assumed in ten
minutes more. What remains before the agent comes?” He looked about
the room, and noticed the cage with his white mice in it. “Ah!” he
cried piteously, “a last laceration of my sympathies still remains.
My innocent pets! my little cherished children! what am I to do with
them? For the present we are settled nowhere; for the present we travel
incessantly—the less baggage we carry the better for ourselves. My
cockatoo, my canaries, and my little mice—who will cherish them when
their good Papa is gone?”

He walked about the room deep in thought. He had not been at all
troubled about writing his confession, but he was visibly perplexed and
distressed about the far more important question of the disposal of
his pets. After long consideration he suddenly sat down again at the
writing-table.

“An idea!” he exclaimed. “I will offer my canaries and my cockatoo to
this vast Metropolis—my agent shall present them in my name to the
Zoological Gardens of London. The Document that describes them shall be
drawn out on the spot.”

He began to write, repeating the words as they flowed from his pen.

“Number one. Cockatoo of transcendent plumage: attraction, of himself,
to all visitors of taste. Number two. Canaries of unrivalled vivacity
and intelligence: worthy of the garden of Eden, worthy also of the
garden in the Regent’s Park. Homage to British Zoology. Offered by
Fosco.”

The pen spluttered again, and the flourish was attached to his
signature.

“Count! you have not included the mice,” said Madame Fosco.

He left the table, took her hand, and placed it on his heart.

“All human resolution, Eleanor,” he said solemnly, “has its limits.
MY limits are inscribed on that Document. I cannot part with my white
mice. Bear with me, my angel, and remove them to their travelling cage
upstairs.”

“Admirable tenderness!” said Madame Fosco, admiring her husband, with a
last viperish look in my direction. She took up the cage carefully, and
left the room.

The Count looked at his watch. In spite of his resolute assumption of
composure, he was getting anxious for the agent’s arrival. The candles
had long since been extinguished, and the sunlight of the new morning
poured into the room. It was not till five minutes past seven that the
gate bell rang, and the agent made his appearance. He was a foreigner
with a dark beard.

“Mr. Hartright—Monsieur Rubelle,” said the Count, introducing us. He
took the agent (a foreign spy, in every line of his face, if ever there
was one yet) into a corner of the room, whispered some directions to
him, and then left us together. “Monsieur Rubelle,” as soon as we
were alone, suggested with great politeness that I should favour him
with his instructions. I wrote two lines to Pesca, authorising him to
deliver my sealed letter “to the bearer,” directed the note, and handed
it to Monsieur Rubelle.

The agent waited with me till his employer returned, equipped in
travelling costume. The Count examined the address of my letter before
he dismissed the agent. “I thought so!” he said, turning on me with a
dark look, and altering again in his manner from that moment.

He completed his packing, and then sat consulting a travelling map,
making entries in his pocket-book, and looking every now and then
impatiently at his watch. Not another word, addressed to myself, passed
his lips. The near approach of the hour for his departure, and the
proof he had seen of the communication established between Pesca and
myself, had plainly recalled his whole attention to the measures that
were necessary for securing his escape.

A little before eight o’clock, Monsieur Rubelle came back with my
unopened letter in his hand. The Count looked carefully at the
superscription and the seal, lit a candle, and burnt the letter. “I
perform my promise,” he said, “but this matter, Mr. Hartright, shall
not end here.”

The agent had kept at the door the cab in which he had returned. He and
the maid-servant now busied themselves in removing the luggage. Madame
Fosco came downstairs, thickly veiled, with the travelling cage of the
white mice in her hand. She neither spoke to me nor looked towards me.
Her husband escorted her to the cab. “Follow me as far as the passage,”
he whispered in my ear; “I may want to speak to you at the last moment.”

I went out to the door, the agent standing below me in the front
garden. The Count came back alone, and drew me a few steps inside the
passage.

“Remember the Third condition!” he whispered. “You shall hear from me,
Mr. Hartright—I may claim from you the satisfaction of a gentleman
sooner than you think for.” He caught my hand before I was aware of
him, and wrung it hard—then turned to the door, stopped, and came back
to me again.

“One word more,” he said confidentially. “When I last saw Miss
Halcombe, she looked thin and ill. I am anxious about that admirable
woman. Take care of her, sir! With my hand on my heart, I solemnly
implore you, take care of Miss Halcombe!”

Those were the last words he said to me before he squeezed his huge
body into the cab and drove off.

The agent and I waited at the door a few moments looking after him.
While we were standing together, a second cab appeared from a turning a
little way down the road. It followed the direction previously taken by
the Count’s cab, and as it passed the house and the open garden gate, a
person inside looked at us out of the window. The stranger at the Opera
again!—the foreigner with a scar on his left cheek.


“You wait here with me, sir, for half an hour more!” said Monsieur
Rubelle.

“I do.”

We returned to the sitting-room. I was in no humour to speak to the
agent, or to allow him to speak to me. I took out the papers which
the Count had placed in my hands, and read the terrible story of the
conspiracy told by the man who had planned and perpetrated it.



THE STORY CONTINUED BY ISIDOR, OTTAVIO, BALDASSARE FOSCO

(Count of the Holy Roman Empire, Knight Grand Cross of the Order of
the Brazen Crown, Perpetual Arch-Master of the Rosicrucian Masons of
Mesopotamia; Attached (in Honorary Capacities) to Societies Musical,
Societies Medical, Societies Philosophical, and Societies General
Benevolent, throughout Europe; etc. etc. etc.)



THE COUNT’S NARRATIVE

In the summer of eighteen hundred and fifty I arrived in England,
charged with a delicate political mission from abroad. Confidential
persons were semi-officially connected with me, whose exertions I was
authorised to direct, Monsieur and Madame Rubelle being among the
number. Some weeks of spare time were at my disposal, before I entered
on my functions by establishing myself in the suburbs of London.
Curiosity may stop here to ask for some explanation of those functions
on my part. I entirely sympathise with the request. I also regret that
diplomatic reserve forbids me to comply with it.

I arranged to pass the preliminary period of repose, to which I have
just referred, in the superb mansion of my late lamented friend,
Sir Percival Glyde. HE arrived from the Continent with his wife. I
arrived from the Continent with MINE. England is the land of domestic
happiness—how appropriately we entered it under these domestic
circumstances!

The bond of friendship which united Percival and myself was
strengthened, on this occasion, by a touching similarity in the
pecuniary position on his side and on mine. We both wanted money.
Immense necessity! Universal want! Is there a civilised human being who
does not feel for us? How insensible must that man be! Or how rich!

I enter into no sordid particulars, in discussing this part of the
subject. My mind recoils from them. With a Roman austerity, I show my
empty purse and Percival’s to the shrinking public gaze. Let us allow
the deplorable fact to assert itself, once for all, in that manner, and
pass on.

We were received at the mansion by the magnificent creature who
is inscribed on my heart as “Marian,” who is known in the colder
atmosphere of society as “Miss Halcombe.”

Just Heaven! with what inconceivable rapidity I learnt to adore that
woman. At sixty, I worshipped her with the volcanic ardour of eighteen.
All the gold of my rich nature was poured hopelessly at her feet. My
wife—poor angel!—my wife, who adores me, got nothing but the shillings
and the pennies. Such is the World, such Man, such Love. What are we
(I ask) but puppets in a show-box? Oh, omnipotent Destiny, pull our
strings gently! Dance us mercifully off our miserable little stage!

The preceding lines, rightly understood, express an entire system of
philosophy. It is mine.

I resume.


The domestic position at the commencement of our residence at
Blackwater Park has been drawn with amazing accuracy, with profound
mental insight, by the hand of Marian herself. (Pass me the
intoxicating familiarity of mentioning this sublime creature by her
Christian name.) Accurate knowledge of the contents of her journal—to
which I obtained access by clandestine means, unspeakably precious
to me in the remembrance—warns my eager pen from topics which this
essentially exhaustive woman has already made her own.

The interests—interests, breathless and immense!—with which I am here
concerned, begin with the deplorable calamity of Marian’s illness.

The situation at this period was emphatically a serious one. Large
sums of money, due at a certain time, were wanted by Percival (I say
nothing of the modicum equally necessary to myself), and the one source
to look to for supplying them was the fortune of his wife, of which
not one farthing was at his disposal until her death. Bad so far, and
worse still farther on. My lamented friend had private troubles of
his own, into which the delicacy of my disinterested attachment to
him forbade me from inquiring too curiously. I knew nothing but that
a woman, named Anne Catherick, was hidden in the neighbourhood, that
she was in communication with Lady Glyde, and that the disclosure of
a secret, which would be the certain ruin of Percival, might be the
result. He had told me himself that he was a lost man, unless his wife
was silenced, and unless Anne Catherick was found. If he was a lost
man, what would become of our pecuniary interests? Courageous as I am
by nature, I absolutely trembled at the idea!

The whole force of my intelligence was now directed to the finding of
Anne Catherick. Our money affairs, important as they were, admitted of
delay—but the necessity of discovering the woman admitted of none. I
only knew her by description, as presenting an extraordinary personal
resemblance to Lady Glyde. The statement of this curious fact—intended
merely to assist me in identifying the person of whom we were in
search—when coupled with the additional information that Anne Catherick
had escaped from a mad-house, started the first immense conception
in my mind, which subsequently led to such amazing results. That
conception involved nothing less than the complete transformation of
two separate identities. Lady Glyde and Anne Catherick were to change
names, places, and destinies, the one with the other—the prodigious
consequences contemplated by the change being the gain of thirty
thousand pounds, and the eternal preservation of Sir Percival’s secret.

My instincts (which seldom err) suggested to me, on reviewing the
circumstances, that our invisible Anne would, sooner or later, return
to the boat-house at the Blackwater lake. There I posted myself,
previously mentioning to Mrs. Michelson, the housekeeper, that I might
be found when wanted, immersed in study, in that solitary place. It is
my rule never to make unnecessary mysteries, and never to set people
suspecting me for want of a little seasonable candour on my part. Mrs.
Michelson believed in me from first to last. This ladylike person
(widow of a Protestant priest) overflowed with faith. Touched by such
superfluity of simple confidence in a woman of her mature years, I
opened the ample reservoirs of my nature and absorbed it all.

I was rewarded for posting myself sentinel at the lake by the
appearance—not of Anne Catherick herself, but of the person in charge
of her. This individual also overflowed with simple faith, which I
absorbed in myself, as in the case already mentioned. I leave her to
describe the circumstances (if she has not done so already) under which
she introduced me to the object of her maternal care. When I first
saw Anne Catherick she was asleep. I was electrified by the likeness
between this unhappy woman and Lady Glyde. The details of the grand
scheme which had suggested themselves in outline only, up to that
period, occurred to me, in all their masterly combination, at the sight
of the sleeping face. At the same time, my heart, always accessible to
tender influences, dissolved in tears at the spectacle of suffering
before me. I instantly set myself to impart relief. In other words, I
provided the necessary stimulant for strengthening Anne Catherick to
perform the journey to London.


The best years of my life have been passed in the ardent study of
medical and chemical science. Chemistry especially has always had
irresistible attractions for me from the enormous, the illimitable
power which the knowledge of it confers. Chemists—I assert it
emphatically—might sway, if they pleased, the destinies of humanity.
Let me explain this before I go further.

Mind, they say, rules the world. But what rules the mind? The body
(follow me closely here) lies at the mercy of the most omnipotent
of all potentates—the Chemist. Give me—Fosco—chemistry; and when
Shakespeare has conceived Hamlet, and sits down to execute the
conception—with a few grains of powder dropped into his daily food, I
will reduce his mind, by the action of his body, till his pen pours
out the most abject drivel that has ever degraded paper. Under similar
circumstances, revive me the illustrious Newton. I guarantee that
when he sees the apple fall he shall EAT IT, instead of discovering
the principle of gravitation. Nero’s dinner shall transform Nero
into the mildest of men before he has done digesting it, and the
morning draught of Alexander the Great shall make Alexander run for
his life at the first sight of the enemy the same afternoon. On my
sacred word of honour it is lucky for Society that modern chemists
are, by incomprehensible good fortune, the most harmless of mankind.
The mass are worthy fathers of families, who keep shops. The few are
philosophers besotted with admiration for the sound of their own
lecturing voices, visionaries who waste their lives on fantastic
impossibilities, or quacks whose ambition soars no higher than our
corns. Thus Society escapes, and the illimitable power of Chemistry
remains the slave of the most superficial and the most insignificant
ends.

Why this outburst? Why this withering eloquence?

Because my conduct has been misrepresented, because my motives have
been misunderstood. It has been assumed that I used my vast chemical
resources against Anne Catherick, and that I would have used them if
I could against the magnificent Marian herself. Odious insinuations
both! All my interests were concerned (as will be seen presently)
in the preservation of Anne Catherick’s life. All my anxieties were
concentrated on Marian’s rescue from the hands of the licensed
imbecile who attended her, and who found my advice confirmed from
first to last by the physician from London. On two occasions only—both
equally harmless to the individual on whom I practised—did I summon
to myself the assistance of chemical knowledge. On the first of the
two, after following Marian to the inn at Blackwater (studying, behind
a convenient waggon which hid me from her, the poetry of motion,
as embodied in her walk), I availed myself of the services of my
invaluable wife, to copy one and to intercept the other of two letters
which my adored enemy had entrusted to a discarded maid. In this case,
the letters being in the bosom of the girl’s dress, Madame Fosco
could only open them, read them, perform her instructions, seal them,
and put them back again by scientific assistance—which assistance I
rendered in a half-ounce bottle. The second occasion, when the same
means were employed, was the occasion (to which I shall soon refer) of
Lady Glyde’s arrival in London. Never at any other time was I indebted
to my Art as distinguished from myself. To all other emergencies
and complications my natural capacity for grappling, single-handed,
with circumstances, was invariably equal. I affirm the all-pervading
intelligence of that capacity. At the expense of the Chemist I
vindicate the Man.

Respect this outburst of generous indignation. It has inexpressibly
relieved me. En route! Let us proceed.


Having suggested to Mrs. Clement (or Clements, I am not sure which)
that the best method of keeping Anne out of Percival’s reach was
to remove her to London—having found that my proposal was eagerly
received, and having appointed a day to meet the travellers at the
station and to see them leave it, I was at liberty to return to the
house and to confront the difficulties which still remained to be met.

My first proceeding was to avail myself of the sublime devotion of my
wife. I had arranged with Mrs. Clements that she should communicate
her London address, in Anne’s interests, to Lady Glyde. But this was
not enough. Designing persons in my absence might shake the simple
confidence of Mrs. Clements, and she might not write after all. Who
could I find capable of travelling to London by the train she travelled
by, and of privately seeing her home? I asked myself this question. The
conjugal part of me immediately answered—Madame Fosco.

After deciding on my wife’s mission to London, I arranged that the
journey should serve a double purpose. A nurse for the suffering
Marian, equally devoted to the patient and to myself, was a necessity
of my position. One of the most eminently confidential and capable
women in existence was by good fortune at my disposal. I refer to that
respectable matron, Madame Rubelle, to whom I addressed a letter, at
her residence in London, by the hands of my wife.

On the appointed day Mrs. Clements and Anne Catherick met me at the
station. I politely saw them off, I politely saw Madame Fosco off by
the same train. The last thing at night my wife returned to Blackwater,
having followed her instructions with the most unimpeachable accuracy.
She was accompanied by Madame Rubelle, and she brought me the London
address of Mrs. Clements. After-events proved this last precaution to
have been unnecessary. Mrs. Clements punctually informed Lady Glyde of
her place of abode. With a wary eye on future emergencies, I kept the
letter.

The same day I had a brief interview with the doctor, at which I
protested, in the sacred interests of humanity, against his treatment
of Marian’s case. He was insolent, as all ignorant people are. I showed
no resentment, I deferred quarrelling with him till it was necessary
to quarrel to some purpose. My next proceeding was to leave Blackwater
myself. I had my London residence to take in anticipation of coming
events. I had also a little business of the domestic sort to transact
with Mr. Frederick Fairlie. I found the house I wanted in St. John’s
Wood. I found Mr. Fairlie at Limmeridge, Cumberland.

My own private familiarity with the nature of Marian’s correspondence
had previously informed me that she had written to Mr. Fairlie,
proposing, as a relief to Lady Glyde’s matrimonial embarrassments,
to take her on a visit to her uncle in Cumberland. This letter I had
wisely allowed to reach its destination, feeling at the time that it
could do no harm, and might do good. I now presented myself before Mr.
Fairlie to support Marian’s own proposal—with certain modifications
which, happily for the success of my plans, were rendered really
inevitable by her illness. It was necessary that Lady Glyde should
leave Blackwater alone, by her uncle’s invitation, and that she should
rest a night on the journey at her aunt’s house (the house I had in St.
John’s Wood) by her uncle’s express advice. To achieve these results,
and to secure a note of invitation which could be shown to Lady Glyde,
were the objects of my visit to Mr. Fairlie. When I have mentioned that
this gentleman was equally feeble in mind and body, and that I let
loose the whole force of my character on him, I have said enough. I
came, saw, and conquered Fairlie.

On my return to Blackwater Park (with the letter of invitation) I found
that the doctor’s imbecile treatment of Marian’s case had led to the
most alarming results. The fever had turned to typhus. Lady Glyde, on
the day of my return, tried to force herself into the room to nurse her
sister. She and I had no affinities of sympathy—she had committed the
unpardonable outrage on my sensibilities of calling me a spy—she was
a stumbling-block in my way and in Percival’s—but, for all that, my
magnanimity forbade me to put her in danger of infection with my own
hand. At the same time I offered no hindrance to her putting herself
in danger. If she had succeeded in doing so, the intricate knot which
I was slowly and patiently operating on might perhaps have been cut by
circumstances. As it was, the doctor interfered and she was kept out of
the room.

I had myself previously recommended sending for advice to London. This
course had been now taken. The physician, on his arrival, confirmed
my view of the case. The crisis was serious. But we had hope of our
charming patient on the fifth day from the appearance of the typhus. I
was only once absent from Blackwater at this time—when I went to London
by the morning train to make the final arrangements at my house in St.
John’s Wood, to assure myself by private inquiry that Mrs. Clements
had not moved, and to settle one or two little preliminary matters
with the husband of Madame Rubelle. I returned at night. Five days
afterwards the physician pronounced our interesting Marian to be out of
all danger, and to be in need of nothing but careful nursing. This was
the time I had waited for. Now that medical attendance was no longer
indispensable, I played the first move in the game by asserting myself
against the doctor. He was one among many witnesses in my way whom it
was necessary to remove. A lively altercation between us (in which
Percival, previously instructed by me, refused to interfere) served the
purpose in view. I descended on the miserable man in an irresistible
avalanche of indignation, and swept him from the house.

The servants were the next encumbrances to get rid of. Again
I instructed Percival (whose moral courage required perpetual
stimulants), and Mrs. Michelson was amazed, one day, by hearing from
her master that the establishment was to be broken up. We cleared the
house of all the servants but one, who was kept for domestic purposes,
and whose lumpish stupidity we could trust to make no embarrassing
discoveries. When they were gone, nothing remained but to relieve
ourselves of Mrs. Michelson—a result which was easily achieved by
sending this amiable lady to find lodgings for her mistress at the
sea-side.

The circumstances were now exactly what they were required to be. Lady
Glyde was confined to her room by nervous illness, and the lumpish
housemaid (I forget her name) was shut up there at night in attendance
on her mistress. Marian, though fast recovering, still kept her bed,
with Mrs. Rubelle for nurse. No other living creatures but my wife,
myself, and Percival were in the house. With all the chances thus in
our favour I confronted the next emergency, and played the second move
in the game.

The object of the second move was to induce Lady Glyde to leave
Blackwater unaccompanied by her sister. Unless we could persuade her
that Marian had gone on to Cumberland first, there was no chance of
removing her, of her own free will, from the house. To produce this
necessary operation in her mind, we concealed our interesting invalid
in one of the uninhabited bedrooms at Blackwater. At the dead of
night Madame Fosco, Madame Rubelle, and myself (Percival not being
cool enough to be trusted) accomplished the concealment. The scene
was picturesque, mysterious, dramatic in the highest degree. By my
directions the bed had been made, in the morning, on a strong movable
framework of wood. We had only to lift the framework gently at the
head and foot, and to transport our patient where we pleased, without
disturbing herself or her bed. No chemical assistance was needed or
used in this case. Our interesting Marian lay in the deep repose of
convalescence. We placed the candles and opened the doors beforehand.
I, in right of my great personal strength, took the head of the
framework—my wife and Madame Rubelle took the foot. I bore my share
of that inestimably precious burden with a manly tenderness, with a
fatherly care. Where is the modern Rembrandt who could depict our
midnight procession? Alas for the Arts! alas for this most pictorial of
subjects! The modern Rembrandt is nowhere to be found.

The next morning my wife and I started for London, leaving Marian
secluded, in the uninhabited middle of the house, under care of Madame
Rubelle, who kindly consented to imprison herself with her patient for
two or three days. Before taking our departure I gave Percival Mr.
Fairlie’s letter of invitation to his niece (instructing her to sleep
on the journey to Cumberland at her aunt’s house), with directions to
show it to Lady Glyde on hearing from me. I also obtained from him the
address of the Asylum in which Anne Catherick had been confined, and a
letter to the proprietor, announcing to that gentleman the return of
his runaway patient to medical care.

I had arranged, at my last visit to the metropolis, to have our modest
domestic establishment ready to receive us when we arrived in London
by the early train. In consequence of this wise precaution, we were
enabled that same day to play the third move in the game—the getting
possession of Anne Catherick.

Dates are of importance here. I combine in myself the opposite
characteristics of a Man of Sentiment and a Man of Business. I have all
the dates at my fingers’ ends.

On Wednesday, the 24th of July 1850, I sent my wife in a cab to clear
Mrs. Clements out of the way, in the first place. A supposed message
from Lady Glyde in London was sufficient to obtain this result. Mrs.
Clements was taken away in the cab, and was left in the cab, while my
wife (on pretence of purchasing something at a shop) gave her the slip,
and returned to receive her expected visitor at our house in St. John’s
Wood. It is hardly necessary to add that the visitor had been described
to the servants as “Lady Glyde.”

In the meanwhile I had followed in another cab, with a note for Anne
Catherick, merely mentioning that Lady Glyde intended to keep Mrs.
Clements to spend the day with her, and that she was to join them under
care of the good gentleman waiting outside, who had already saved her
from discovery in Hampshire by Sir Percival. The “good gentleman”
sent in this note by a street boy, and paused for results a door or
two farther on. At the moment when Anne appeared at the house door
and closed it this excellent man had the cab door open ready for her,
absorbed her into the vehicle, and drove off.

(Pass me, here, one exclamation in parenthesis. How interesting this
is!)

On the way to Forest Road my companion showed no fear. I can be
paternal—no man more so—when I please, and I was intensely paternal on
this occasion. What titles I had to her confidence! I had compounded
the medicine which had done her good—I had warned her of her danger
from Sir Percival. Perhaps I trusted too implicitly to these
titles—perhaps I underrated the keenness of the lower instincts in
persons of weak intellect—it is certain that I neglected to prepare her
sufficiently for a disappointment on entering my house. When I took her
into the drawing-room—when she saw no one present but Madame Fosco,
who was a stranger to her—she exhibited the most violent agitation;
if she had scented danger in the air, as a dog scents the presence
of some creature unseen, her alarm could not have displayed itself
more suddenly and more causelessly. I interposed in vain. The fear
from which she was suffering I might have soothed, but the serious
heart-disease, under which she laboured, was beyond the reach of
all moral palliatives. To my unspeakable horror she was seized with
convulsions—a shock to the system, in her condition, which might have
laid her dead at any moment at our feet.

The nearest doctor was sent for, and was told that “Lady Glyde”
required his immediate services. To my infinite relief, he was a
capable man. I represented my visitor to him as a person of weak
intellect, and subject to delusions, and I arranged that no nurse but
my wife should watch in the sick-room. The unhappy woman was too ill,
however, to cause any anxiety about what she might say. The one dread
which now oppressed me was the dread that the false Lady Glyde might
die before the true Lady Glyde arrived in London.

I had written a note in the morning to Madame Rubelle, telling her to
join me at her husband’s house on the evening of Friday the 26th, with
another note to Percival, warning him to show his wife her uncle’s
letter of invitation, to assert that Marian had gone on before her,
and to despatch her to town by the midday train, on the 26th, also.
On reflection I had felt the necessity, in Anne Catherick’s state
of health, of precipitating events, and of having Lady Glyde at my
disposal earlier than I had originally contemplated. What fresh
directions, in the terrible uncertainty of my position, could I now
issue? I could do nothing but trust to chance and the doctor. My
emotions expressed themselves in pathetic apostrophes, which I was
just self-possessed enough to couple, in the hearing of other people,
with the name of “Lady Glyde.” In all other respects Fosco, on that
memorable day, was Fosco shrouded in total eclipse.

She passed a bad night, she awoke worn out, but later in the day she
revived amazingly. My elastic spirits revived with her. I could receive
no answers from Percival and Madame Rubelle till the morning of the
next day, the 26th. In anticipation of their following my directions,
which, accident apart, I knew they would do, I went to secure a fly to
fetch Lady Glyde from the railway, directing it to be at my house on
the 26th, at two o’clock. After seeing the order entered in the book,
I went on to arrange matters with Monsieur Rubelle. I also procured
the services of two gentlemen who could furnish me with the necessary
certificates of lunacy. One of them I knew personally—the other was
known to Monsieur Rubelle. Both were men whose vigorous minds soared
superior to narrow scruples—both were labouring under temporary
embarrassments—both believed in ME.

It was past five o’clock in the afternoon before I returned from the
performance of these duties. When I got back Anne Catherick was dead.
Dead on the 25th, and Lady Glyde was not to arrive in London till the
26th!

I was stunned. Meditate on that. Fosco stunned!

It was too late to retrace our steps. Before my return the doctor
had officiously undertaken to save me all trouble by registering the
death, on the date when it happened, with his own hand. My grand
scheme, unassailable hitherto, had its weak place now—no efforts on
my part could alter the fatal event of the 25th. I turned manfully
to the future. Percival’s interests and mine being still at stake,
nothing was left but to play the game through to the end. I recalled my
impenetrable calm—and played it.

On the morning of the 26th Percival’s letter reached me, announcing
his wife’s arrival by the midday train. Madame Rubelle also wrote to
say she would follow in the evening. I started in the fly, leaving the
false Lady Glyde dead in the house, to receive the true Lady Glyde on
her arrival by the railway at three o’clock. Hidden under the seat of
the carriage, I carried with me all the clothes Anne Catherick had worn
on coming into my house—they were destined to assist the resurrection
of the woman who was dead in the person of the woman who was living.
What a situation! I suggest it to the rising romance writers of
England. I offer it, as totally new, to the worn-out dramatists of
France.

Lady Glyde was at the station. There was great crowding and confusion,
and more delay than I liked (in case any of her friends had happened
to be on the spot), in reclaiming her luggage. Her first questions, as
we drove off, implored me to tell her news of her sister. I invented
news of the most pacifying kind, assuring her that she was about to
see her sister at my house. My house, on this occasion only, was in
the neighbourhood of Leicester Square, and was in the occupation of
Monsieur Rubelle, who received us in the hall.

I took my visitor upstairs into a back room, the two medical gentlemen
being there in waiting on the floor beneath to see the patient, and to
give me their certificates. After quieting Lady Glyde by the necessary
assurances about her sister, I introduced my friends separately to
her presence. They performed the formalities of the occasion briefly,
intelligently, conscientiously. I entered the room again as soon as
they had left it, and at once precipitated events by a reference of the
alarming kind to “Miss Halcombe’s” state of health.

Results followed as I had anticipated. Lady Glyde became frightened,
and turned faint. For the second time, and the last, I called Science
to my assistance. A medicated glass of water and a medicated bottle
of smelling-salts relieved her of all further embarrassment and
alarm. Additional applications later in the evening procured her the
inestimable blessing of a good night’s rest. Madame Rubelle arrived
in time to preside at Lady Glyde’s toilet. Her own clothes were taken
away from her at night, and Anne Catherick’s were put on her in the—
morning, with the strictest regard to propriety, by the matronly hands
of the good Rubelle. Throughout the day I kept our patient in a state
of partially-suspended consciousness, until the dexterous assistance
of my medical friends enabled me to procure the necessary order rather
earlier than I had ventured to hope. That evening (the evening of the
27th) Madame Rubelle and I took our revived “Anne Catherick” to the
Asylum. She was received with great surprise, but without suspicion,
thanks to the order and certificates, to Percival’s letter, to the
likeness, to the clothes, and to the patient’s own confused mental
condition at the time. I returned at once to assist Madame Fosco in
the preparations for the burial of the False “Lady Glyde,” having the
clothes and luggage of the true “Lady Glyde” in my possession. They
were afterwards sent to Cumberland by the conveyance which was used for
the funeral. I attended the funeral, with becoming dignity, attired in
the deepest mourning.


My narrative of these remarkable events, written under equally
remarkable circumstances, closes here. The minor precautions which I
observed in communicating with Limmeridge House are already known—so
is the magnificent success of my enterprise—so are the solid pecuniary
results which followed it. I have to assert, with the whole force
of my conviction, that the one weak place in my scheme would never
have been found out if the one weak place in my heart had not been
discovered first. Nothing but my fatal admiration for Marian restrained
me from stepping in to my own rescue when she effected her sister’s
escape. I ran the risk, and trusted in the complete destruction of
Lady Glyde’s identity. If either Marian or Mr. Hartright attempted to
assert that identity, they would publicly expose themselves to the
imputation of sustaining a rank deception, they would be distrusted
and discredited accordingly, and they would therefore be powerless to
place my interests or Percival’s secret in jeopardy. I committed one
error in trusting myself to such a blindfold calculation of chances as
this. I committed another when Percival had paid the penalty of his
own obstinacy and violence, by granting Lady Glyde a second reprieve
from the mad-house, and allowing Mr. Hartright a second chance of
escaping me. In brief, Fosco, at this serious crisis, was untrue to
himself. Deplorable and uncharacteristic fault! Behold the cause, in
my heart—behold, in the image of Marian Halcombe, the first and last
weakness of Fosco’s life!

At the ripe age of sixty, I make this unparalleled confession. Youths!
I invoke your sympathy. Maidens! I claim your tears.

A word more, and the attention of the reader (concentrated breathlessly
on myself) shall be released.

My own mental insight informs me that three inevitable questions will
be asked here by persons of inquiring minds. They shall be stated—they
shall be answered.

First question. What is the secret of Madame Fosco’s unhesitating
devotion of herself to the fulfilment of my boldest wishes, to the
furtherance of my deepest plans? I might answer this by simply
referring to my own character, and by asking, in my turn, Where, in the
history of the world, has a man of my order ever been found without a
woman in the background self-immolated on the altar of his life? But I
remember that I am writing in England, I remember that I was married in
England, and I ask if a woman’s marriage obligations in this country
provide for her private opinion of her husband’s principles? No! They
charge her unreservedly to love, honour, and obey him. That is exactly
what my wife has done. I stand here on a supreme moral elevation, and
I loftily assert her accurate performance of her conjugal duties.
Silence, Calumny! Your sympathy, Wives of England, for Madame Fosco!

Second question. If Anne Catherick had not died when she did, what
should I have done? I should, in that case, have assisted worn-out
Nature in finding permanent repose. I should have opened the doors
of the Prison of Life, and have extended to the captive (incurably
afflicted in mind and body both) a happy release.

Third question. On a calm revision of all the circumstances—Is my
conduct worthy of any serious blame? Most emphatically, No! Have I
not carefully avoided exposing myself to the odium of committing
unnecessary crime? With my vast resources in chemistry, I might have
taken Lady Glyde’s life. At immense personal sacrifice I followed the
dictates of my own ingenuity, my own humanity, my own caution, and
took her identity instead. Judge me by what I might have done. How
comparatively innocent! how indirectly virtuous I appear in what I
really did!

I announced on beginning it that this narrative would be a remarkable
document. It has entirely answered my expectations. Receive these
fervid lines—my last legacy to the country I leave for ever. They are
worthy of the occasion, and worthy of
                                      FOSCO.



THE STORY CONCLUDED BY WALTER HARTRIGHT



I

When I closed the last leaf of the Count’s manuscript the half-hour
during which I had engaged to remain at Forest Road had expired.
Monsieur Rubelle looked at his watch and bowed. I rose immediately,
and left the agent in possession of the empty house. I never saw him
again—I never heard more of him or of his wife. Out of the dark byways
of villainy and deceit they had crawled across our path—into the same
byways they crawled back secretly and were lost.

In a quarter of an hour after leaving Forest Road I was at home again.

But few words sufficed to tell Laura and Marian how my desperate
venture had ended, and what the next event in our lives was likely to
be. I left all details to be described later in the day, and hastened
back to St. John’s Wood, to see the person of whom Count Fosco had
ordered the fly, when he went to meet Laura at the station.

The address in my possession led me to some “livery stables,” about a
quarter of a mile distant from Forest Road. The proprietor proved to be
a civil and respectable man. When I explained that an important family
matter obliged me to ask him to refer to his books for the purpose of
ascertaining a date with which the record of his business transactions
might supply me, he offered no objection to granting my request. The
book was produced, and there, under the date of “July 26th, 1850,” the
order was entered in these words—

“Brougham to Count Fosco, 5 Forest Road. Two o’clock. (John Owen).”

I found on inquiry that the name of “John Owen,” attached to the entry,
referred to the man who had been employed to drive the fly. He was then
at work in the stable-yard, and was sent for to see me at my request.

“Do you remember driving a gentleman, in the month of July last, from
Number Five Forest Road to the Waterloo Bridge station?” I asked.

“Well, sir,” said the man, “I can’t exactly say I do.”

“Perhaps you remember the gentleman himself? Can you call to mind
driving a foreigner last summer—a tall gentleman and remarkably fat?”

The man’s face brightened directly. “I remember him, sir! The fattest
gentleman as ever I see, and the heaviest customer as ever I drove.
Yes, yes—I call him to mind, sir! We DID go to the station, and it WAS
from Forest Road. There was a parrot, or summat like it, screeching
in the window. The gentleman was in a mortal hurry about the lady’s
luggage, and he gave me a handsome present for looking sharp and
getting the boxes.”

Getting the boxes! I recollected immediately that Laura’s own account
of herself on her arrival in London described her luggage as being
collected for her by some person whom Count Fosco brought with him to
the station. This was the man.

“Did you see the lady?” I asked. “What did she look like? Was she young
or old?”

“Well, sir, what with the hurry and the crowd of people pushing about,
I can’t rightly say what the lady looked like. I can’t call nothing to
mind about her that I know of excepting her name.”

“You remember her name?”

“Yes, sir. Her name was Lady Glyde.”

“How do you come to remember that, when you have forgotten what she
looked like?”

The man smiled, and shifted his feet in some little embarrassment.

“Why, to tell you the truth, sir,” he said, “I hadn’t been long married
at that time, and my wife’s name, before she changed it for mine,
was the same as the lady’s—meaning the name of Glyde, sir. The lady
mentioned it herself. ‘Is your name on your boxes, ma’am?’ says I.
‘Yes,’ says she, ‘my name is on my luggage—it is Lady Glyde.’ ‘Come!’ I
says to myself, ‘I’ve a bad head for gentlefolks’ names in general—but
THIS one comes like an old friend, at any rate.’ I can’t say nothing
about the time, sir, it might be nigh on a year ago, or it mightn’t.
But I can swear to the stout gentleman, and swear to the lady’s name.”

There was no need that he should remember the time—the date was
positively established by his master’s order-book. I felt at once that
the means were now in my power of striking down the whole conspiracy at
a blow with the irresistible weapon of plain fact. Without a moment’s
hesitation, I took the proprietor of the livery stables aside and told
him what the real importance was of the evidence of his order-book and
the evidence of his driver. An arrangement to compensate him for the
temporary loss of the man’s services was easily made, and a copy of the
entry in the book was taken by myself, and certified as true by the
master’s own signature. I left the livery stables, having settled that
John Owen was to hold himself at my disposal for the next three days,
or for a longer period if necessity required it.

I now had in my possession all the papers that I wanted—the district
registrar’s own copy of the certificate of death, and Sir Percival’s
dated letter to the Count, being safe in my pocket-book.

With this written evidence about me, and with the coachman’s answers
fresh in my memory, I next turned my steps, for the first time since
the beginning of all my inquiries, in the direction of Mr. Kyrle’s
office. One of my objects in paying him this second visit was,
necessarily, to tell him what I had done. The other was to warn him
of my resolution to take my wife to Limmeridge the next morning, and
to have her publicly received and recognised in her uncle’s house. I
left it to Mr. Kyrle to decide under these circumstances, and in Mr.
Gilmore’s absence, whether he was or was not bound, as the family
solicitor, to be present on that occasion in the family interests.

I will say nothing of Mr. Kyrle’s amazement, or of the terms in which
he expressed his opinion of my conduct from the first stage of the
investigation to the last. It is only necessary to mention that he at
once decided on accompanying us to Cumberland.

We started the next morning by the early train. Laura, Marian, Mr.
Kyrle, and myself in one carriage, and John Owen, with a clerk from Mr.
Kyrle’s office, occupying places in another. On reaching the Limmeridge
station we went first to the farmhouse at Todd’s Corner. It was my
firm determination that Laura should not enter her uncle’s house till
she appeared there publicly recognised as his niece. I left Marian to
settle the question of accommodation with Mrs. Todd, as soon as the
good woman had recovered from the bewilderment of hearing what our
errand was in Cumberland, and I arranged with her husband that John
Owen was to be committed to the ready hospitality of the farm-servants.
These preliminaries completed, Mr. Kyrle and I set forth together for
Limmeridge House.

I cannot write at any length of our interview with Mr. Fairlie, for I
cannot recall it to mind without feelings of impatience and contempt,
which make the scene, even in remembrance only, utterly repulsive to
me. I prefer to record simply that I carried my point. Mr. Fairlie
attempted to treat us on his customary plan. We passed without notice
his polite insolence at the outset of the interview. We heard without
sympathy the protestations with which he tried next to persuade us that
the disclosure of the conspiracy had overwhelmed him. He absolutely
whined and whimpered at last like a fretful child. “How was he to know
that his niece was alive when he was told that she was dead? He would
welcome dear Laura with pleasure, if we would only allow him time to
recover. Did we think he looked as if he wanted hurrying into his
grave? No. Then, why hurry him?” He reiterated these remonstrances at
every available opportunity, until I checked them once for all, by
placing him firmly between two inevitable alternatives. I gave him
his choice between doing his niece justice on my terms, or facing the
consequence of a public assertion of her existence in a court of law.
Mr. Kyrle, to whom he turned for help, told him plainly that he must
decide the question then and there. Characteristically choosing the
alternative which promised soonest to release him from all personal
anxiety, he announced with a sudden outburst of energy, that he was not
strong enough to bear any more bullying, and that we might do as we
pleased.

Mr. Kyrle and I at once went downstairs, and agreed upon a form of
letter which was to be sent round to the tenants who had attended the
false funeral, summoning them, in Mr. Fairlie’s name, to assemble
in Limmeridge House on the next day but one. An order referring to
the same date was also written, directing a statuary in Carlisle
to send a man to Limmeridge churchyard for the purpose of erasing
an inscription—Mr. Kyrle, who had arranged to sleep in the house,
undertaking that Mr. Fairlie should hear these letters read to him, and
should sign them with his own hand.

I occupied the interval day at the farm in writing a plain narrative
of the conspiracy, and in adding to it a statement of the practical
contradiction which facts offered to the assertion of Laura’s death.
This I submitted to Mr. Kyrle before I read it the next day to the
assembled tenants. We also arranged the form in which the evidence
should be presented at the close of the reading. After these matters
were settled, Mr. Kyrle endeavoured to turn the conversation next
to Laura’s affairs. Knowing, and desiring to know nothing of those
affairs, and doubting whether he would approve, as a man of business,
of my conduct in relation to my wife’s life-interest in the legacy left
to Madame Fosco, I begged Mr. Kyrle to excuse me if I abstained from
discussing the subject. It was connected, as I could truly tell him,
with those sorrows and troubles of the past which we never referred to
among ourselves, and which we instinctively shrank from discussing with
others.

My last labour, as the evening approached, was to obtain “The Narrative
of the Tombstone,” by taking a copy of the false inscription on the
grave before it was erased.


The day came—the day when Laura once more entered the familiar
breakfast-room at Limmeridge House. All the persons assembled rose
from their seats as Marian and I led her in. A perceptible shock of
surprise, an audible murmur of interest ran through them, at the sight
of her face. Mr. Fairlie was present (by my express stipulation),
with Mr. Kyrle by his side. His valet stood behind him with a
smelling-bottle ready in one hand, and a white handkerchief, saturated
with eau-de-Cologne, in the other.

I opened the proceedings by publicly appealing to Mr. Fairlie to say
whether I appeared there with his authority and under his express
sanction. He extended an arm, on either side, to Mr. Kyrle and to his
valet—was by them assisted to stand on his legs, and then expressed
himself in these terms: “Allow me to present Mr. Hartright. I am as
great an invalid as ever, and he is so very obliging as to speak for
me. The subject is dreadfully embarrassing. Please hear him, and don’t
make a noise!” With those words he slowly sank back again into the
chair, and took refuge in his scented pocket-handkerchief.

The disclosure of the conspiracy followed, after I had offered my
preliminary explanation, first of all, in the fewest and the plainest
words. I was there present (I informed my hearers) to declare, first,
that my wife, then sitting by me, was the daughter of the late Mr.
Philip Fairlie; secondly, to prove by positive facts, that the funeral
which they had attended in Limmeridge churchyard was the funeral of
another woman; thirdly, to give them a plain account of how it had all
happened. Without further preface, I at once read the narrative of the
conspiracy, describing it in clear outline, and dwelling only upon the
pecuniary motive for it, in order to avoid complicating my statement by
unnecessary reference to Sir Percival’s secret. This done, I reminded
my audience of the date on the inscription in the churchyard (the
25th), and confirmed its correctness by producing the certificate of
death. I then read them Sir Percival’s letter of the 25th, announcing
his wife’s intended journey from Hampshire to London on the 26th. I
next showed that she had taken that journey, by the personal testimony
of the driver of the fly, and I proved that she had performed it on
the appointed day, by the order-book at the livery stables. Marian
then added her own statement of the meeting between Laura and herself
at the mad-house, and of her sister’s escape. After which I closed the
proceedings by informing the persons present of Sir Percival’s death
and of my marriage.

Mr. Kyrle rose when I resumed my seat, and declared, as the legal
adviser of the family, that my case was proved by the plainest evidence
he had ever heard in his life. As he spoke those words, I put my arm
round Laura, and raised her so that she was plainly visible to every
one in the room. “Are you all of the same opinion?” I asked, advancing
towards them a few steps, and pointing to my wife.

The effect of the question was electrical. Far down at the lower end of
the room one of the oldest tenants on the estate started to his feet,
and led the rest with him in an instant. I see the man now, with his
honest brown face and his iron-grey hair, mounted on the window-seat,
waving his heavy riding-whip over his head, and leading the cheers.
“There she is, alive and hearty—God bless her! Gi’ it tongue, lads! Gi’
it tongue!” The shout that answered him, reiterated again and again,
was the sweetest music I ever heard. The labourers in the village and
the boys from the school, assembled on the lawn, caught up the cheering
and echoed it back on us. The farmers’ wives clustered round Laura, and
struggled which should be first to shake hands with her, and to implore
her, with the tears pouring over their own cheeks, to bear up bravely
and not to cry. She was so completely overwhelmed, that I was obliged
to take her from them, and carry her to the door. There I gave her into
Marian’s care—Marian, who had never failed us yet, whose courageous
self-control did not fail us now. Left by myself at the door, I invited
all the persons present (after thanking them in Laura’s name and mine)
to follow me to the churchyard, and see the false inscription struck
off the tombstone with their own eyes.

They all left the house, and all joined the throng of villagers
collected round the grave, where the statuary’s man was waiting for us.
In a breathless silence, the first sharp stroke of the steel sounded
on the marble. Not a voice was heard—not a soul moved, till those
three words, “Laura, Lady Glyde,” had vanished from sight. Then there
was a great heave of relief among the crowd, as if they felt that the
last fetters of the conspiracy had been struck off Laura herself, and
the assembly slowly withdrew. It was late in the day before the whole
inscription was erased. One line only was afterwards engraved in its
place: “Anne Catherick, July 25th, 1850.”

I returned to Limmeridge House early enough in the evening to take
leave of Mr. Kyrle. He and his clerk, and the driver of the fly, went
back to London by the night train. On their departure an insolent
message was delivered to me from Mr. Fairlie—who had been carried from
the room in a shattered condition, when the first outbreak of cheering
answered my appeal to the tenantry. The message conveyed to us “Mr.
Fairlie’s best congratulations,” and requested to know whether “we
contemplated stopping in the house.” I sent back word that the only
object for which we had entered his doors was accomplished—that I
contemplated stopping in no man’s house but my own—and that Mr. Fairlie
need not entertain the slightest apprehension of ever seeing us or
hearing from us again. We went back to our friends at the farm to rest
that night, and the next morning—escorted to the station, with the
heartiest enthusiasm and good will, by the whole village and by all the
farmers in the neighbourhood—we returned to London.

As our view of the Cumberland hills faded in the distance, I thought
of the first disheartening circumstances under which the long struggle
that was now past and over had been pursued. It was strange to look
back and to see, now, that the poverty which had denied us all hope of
assistance had been the indirect means of our success, by forcing me
to act for myself. If we had been rich enough to find legal help, what
would have been the result? The gain (on Mr. Kyrle’s own showing) would
have been more than doubtful—the loss, judging by the plain test of
events as they had really happened, certain. The law would never have
obtained me my interview with Mrs. Catherick. The law would never have
made Pesca the means of forcing a confession from the Count.



II


Two more events remain to be added to the chain before it reaches
fairly from the outset of the story to the close.

While our new sense of freedom from the long oppression of the past
was still strange to us, I was sent for by the friend who had given
me my first employment in wood engraving, to receive from him a fresh
testimony of his regard for my welfare. He had been commissioned by his
employers to go to Paris, and to examine for them a fresh discovery in
the practical application of his Art, the merits of which they were
anxious to ascertain. His own engagements had not allowed him leisure
time to undertake the errand, and he had most kindly suggested that it
should be transferred to me. I could have no hesitation in thankfully
accepting the offer, for if I acquitted myself of my commission as
I hoped I should, the result would be a permanent engagement on the
illustrated newspaper, to which I was now only occasionally attached.

I received my instructions and packed up for the journey the next day.
On leaving Laura once more (under what changed circumstances!) in her
sister’s care, a serious consideration recurred to me, which had more
than once crossed my wife’s mind, as well as my own, already—I mean the
consideration of Marian’s future. Had we any right to let our selfish
affection accept the devotion of all that generous life? Was it not our
duty, our best expression of gratitude, to forget ourselves, and to
think only of HER? I tried to say this when we were alone for a moment,
before I went away. She took my hand, and silenced me at the first
words.

“After all that we three have suffered together,” she said, “there can
be no parting between us till the last parting of all. My heart and my
happiness, Walter, are with Laura and you. Wait a little till there are
children’s voices at your fireside. I will teach them to speak for me
in THEIR language, and the first lesson they say to their father and
mother shall be—We can’t spare our aunt!”

My journey to Paris was not undertaken alone. At the eleventh hour
Pesca decided that he would accompany me. He had not recovered his
customary cheerfulness since the night at the Opera, and he determined
to try what a week’s holiday would do to raise his spirits.

I performed the errand entrusted to me, and drew out the necessary
report, on the fourth day from our arrival in Paris. The fifth day I
arranged to devote to sight-seeing and amusements in Pesca’s company.

Our hotel had been too full to accommodate us both on the same floor.
My room was on the second story, and Pesca’s was above me, on the
third. On the morning of the fifth day I went upstairs to see if the
Professor was ready to go out. Just before I reached the landing I saw
his door opened from the inside—a long, delicate, nervous hand (not my
friend’s hand certainly) held it ajar. At the same time I heard Pesca’s
voice saying eagerly, in low tones, and in his own language—“I remember
the name, but I don’t know the man. You saw at the Opera he was so
changed that I could not recognise him. I will forward the report—I
can do no more.” “No more need be done,” answered the second voice.
The door opened wide, and the light-haired man with the scar on his
cheek—the man I had seen following Count Fosco’s cab a week before—came
out. He bowed as I drew aside to let him pass—his face was fearfully
pale—and he held fast by the banisters as he descended the stairs.

I pushed open the door and entered Pesca’s room. He was crouched up, in
the strangest manner, in a corner of the sofa. He seemed to shrink from
me when I approached him.

“Am I disturbing you?” I asked. “I did not know you had a friend with
you till I saw him come out.”

“No friend,” said Pesca eagerly. “I see him to-day for the first time
and the last.”

“I am afraid he has brought you bad news?”

“Horrible news, Walter! Let us go back to London—I don’t want to stop
here—I am sorry I ever came. The misfortunes of my youth are very hard
upon me,” he said, turning his face to the wall, “very hard upon me in
my later time. I try to forget them—and they will not forget ME!”

“We can’t return, I am afraid, before the afternoon,” I replied. “Would
you like to come out with me in the meantime?”

“No, my friend, I will wait here. But let us go back to-day—pray let us
go back.”

I left him with the assurance that he should leave Paris that
afternoon. We had arranged the evening before to ascend the Cathedral
of Notre Dame, with Victor Hugo’s noble romance for our guide. There
was nothing in the French capital that I was more anxious to see, and I
departed by myself for the church.

Approaching Notre Dame by the river-side, I passed on my way the
terrible dead-house of Paris—the Morgue. A great crowd clamoured and
heaved round the door. There was evidently something inside which
excited the popular curiosity, and fed the popular appetite for horror.

I should have walked on to the church if the conversation of two men
and a woman on the outskirts of the crowd had not caught my ear. They
had just come out from seeing the sight in the Morgue, and the account
they were giving of the dead body to their neighbours described it as
the corpse of a man—a man of immense size, with a strange mark on his
left arm.

The moment those words reached me I stopped and took my place with the
crowd going in. Some dim foreshadowing of the truth had crossed my
mind when I heard Pesca’s voice through the open door, and when I saw
the stranger’s face as he passed me on the stairs of the hotel. Now
the truth itself was revealed to me—revealed in the chance words that
had just reached my ears. Other vengeance than mine had followed that
fated man from the theatre to his own door—from his own door to his
refuge in Paris. Other vengeance than mine had called him to the day of
reckoning, and had exacted from him the penalty of his life. The moment
when I had pointed him out to Pesca at the theatre in the hearing of
that stranger by our side, who was looking for him too—was the moment
that sealed his doom. I remembered the struggle in my own heart, when
he and I stood face to face—the struggle before I could let him escape
me—and shuddered as I recalled it.

Slowly, inch by inch, I pressed in with the crowd, moving nearer and
nearer to the great glass screen that parts the dead from the living at
the Morgue—nearer and nearer, till I was close behind the front row of
spectators, and could look in.

There he lay, unowned, unknown, exposed to the flippant curiosity of a
French mob! There was the dreadful end of that long life of degraded
ability and heartless crime! Hushed in the sublime repose of death,
the broad, firm, massive face and head fronted us so grandly that the
chattering Frenchwomen about me lifted their hands in admiration, and
cried in shrill chorus, “Ah, what a handsome man!” The wound that had
killed him had been struck with a knife or dagger exactly over his
heart. No other traces of violence appeared about the body except on
the left arm, and there, exactly in the place where I had seen the
brand on Pesca’s arm, were two deep cuts in the shape of the letter T,
which entirely obliterated the mark of the Brotherhood. His clothes,
hung above him, showed that he had been himself conscious of his
danger—they were clothes that had disguised him as a French artisan.
For a few moments, but not for longer, I forced myself to see these
things through the glass screen. I can write of them at no greater
length, for I saw no more.

The few facts in connection with his death which I subsequently
ascertained (partly from Pesca and partly from other sources), may be
stated here before the subject is dismissed from these pages.

His body was taken out of the Seine in the disguise which I have
described, nothing being found on him which revealed his name, his
rank, or his place of abode. The hand that struck him was never traced,
and the circumstances under which he was killed were never discovered.
I leave others to draw their own conclusions in reference to the secret
of the assassination as I have drawn mine. When I have intimated that
the foreigner with the scar was a member of the Brotherhood (admitted
in Italy after Pesca’s departure from his native country), and when I
have further added that the two cuts, in the form of a T, on the left
arm of the dead man, signified the Italian word “Traditore,” and showed
that justice had been done by the Brotherhood on a traitor, I have
contributed all that I know towards elucidating the mystery of Count
Fosco’s death.

The body was identified the day after I had seen it by means of an
anonymous letter addressed to his wife. He was buried by Madame Fosco
in the cemetery of Père la Chaise. Fresh funeral wreaths continue to
this day to be hung on the ornamental bronze railings round the tomb
by the Countess’s own hand. She lives in the strictest retirement at
Versailles. Not long since she published a biography of her deceased
husband. The work throws no light whatever on the name that was really
his own or on the secret history of his life—it is almost entirely
devoted to the praise of his domestic virtues, the assertion of his
rare abilities, and the enumeration of the honours conferred on him.
The circumstances attending his death are very briefly noticed, and
are summed up on the last page in this sentence—“His life was one long
assertion of the rights of the aristocracy and the sacred principles of
Order, and he died a martyr to his cause.”



III


The summer and autumn passed after my return from Paris, and brought no
changes with them which need be noticed here. We lived so simply and
quietly that the income which I was now steadily earning sufficed for
all our wants.

In the February of the new year our first child was born—a son.
My mother and sister and Mrs. Vesey were our guests at the little
christening party, and Mrs. Clements was present to assist my wife on
the same occasion. Marian was our boy’s godmother, and Pesca and Mr.
Gilmore (the latter acting by proxy) were his godfathers. I may add
here that when Mr. Gilmore returned to us a year later he assisted the
design of these pages, at my request, by writing the Narrative which
appears early in the story under his name, and which, though first
in order of precedence, was thus, in order of time, the last that I
received.

The only event in our lives which now remains to be recorded, occurred
when our little Walter was six months old.

At that time I was sent to Ireland to make sketches for certain
forthcoming illustrations in the newspaper to which I was attached.
I was away for nearly a fortnight, corresponding regularly with my
wife and Marian, except during the last three days of my absence,
when my movements were too uncertain to enable me to receive letters.
I performed the latter part of my journey back at night, and when I
reached home in the morning, to my utter astonishment there was no one
to receive me. Laura and Marian and the child had left the house on the
day before my return.

A note from my wife, which was given to me by the servant, only
increased my surprise, by informing me that they had gone to Limmeridge
House. Marian had prohibited any attempt at written explanations—I was
entreated to follow them the moment I came back—complete enlightenment
awaited me on my arrival in Cumberland—and I was forbidden to feel the
slightest anxiety in the meantime. There the note ended. It was still
early enough to catch the morning train. I reached Limmeridge House the
same afternoon.

My wife and Marian were both upstairs. They had established themselves
(by way of completing my amazement) in the little room which had been
once assigned to me for a studio, when I was employed on Mr. Fairlie’s
drawings. On the very chair which I used to occupy when I was at work
Marian was sitting now, with the child industriously sucking his
coral upon her lap—while Laura was standing by the well-remembered
drawing-table which I had so often used, with the little album that I
had filled for her in past times open under her hand.

“What in the name of heaven has brought you here?” I asked. “Does Mr.
Fairlie know——?”

Marian suspended the question on my lips by telling me that Mr. Fairlie
was dead. He had been struck by paralysis, and had never rallied after
the shock. Mr. Kyrle had informed them of his death, and had advised
them to proceed immediately to Limmeridge House.

Some dim perception of a great change dawned on my mind. Laura spoke
before I had quite realised it. She stole close to me to enjoy the
surprise which was still expressed in my face.

“My darling Walter,” she said, “must we really account for our boldness
in coming here? I am afraid, love, I can only explain it by breaking
through our rule, and referring to the past.”

“There is not the least necessity for doing anything of the kind,” said
Marian. “We can be just as explicit, and much more interesting, by
referring to the future.” She rose and held up the child kicking and
crowing in her arms. “Do you know who this is, Walter?” she asked, with
bright tears of happiness gathering in her eyes.

“Even MY bewilderment has its limits,” I replied. “I think I can still
answer for knowing my own child.”

“Child!” she exclaimed, with all her easy gaiety of old times. “Do you
talk in that familiar manner of one of the landed gentry of England?
Are you aware, when I present this illustrious baby to your notice,
in whose presence you stand? Evidently not! Let me make two eminent
personages known to one another: Mr. Walter Hartright—THE HEIR OF
LIMMERIDGE.”


So she spoke. In writing those last words, I have written all. The pen
falters in my hand. The long, happy labour of many months is over.
Marian was the good angel of our lives—let Marian end our Story.




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