IV

von Wilkie Collins

June 17th. Just as I was about to step into my room, I heard Sir Percival calling to me from downstairs.

“I need you to come down again,” he said. “This is Fosco’s doing, not mine. He’s made some ridiculous objection to his wife being one of the witnesses, and now I have to ask you to join us in the library.”

I followed Sir Percival into the room. Laura was waiting by the writing table, nervously twisting her garden hat in her hands. Madame Fosco sat nearby in an armchair, calmly admiring her husband, who stood at the far end of the library, plucking dead leaves from the flowers in the window.

As soon as I entered, the Count approached me to explain himself.

“A thousand apologies, Miss Halcombe,” he said. “You know how my countrymen are viewed by the English? We Italians are often seen as cunning and suspicious by nature, in the eyes of good old John Bull. You can consider me no better than the rest of my kind. I am indeed a cunning Italian and a suspicious one at that. You’ve thought so yourself, haven’t you? Well, it’s part of my cunning and part of my suspicion that I object to Madame Fosco being a witness to Lady Glyde’s signature while I am also a witness.”

“There’s absolutely no reason for his objection,” Sir Percival interjected. “I’ve explained to him that English law allows Madame Fosco to witness a signature just like her husband.”

“I acknowledge that,” the Count replied. “The law of England says yes, but my conscience says no.” He spread his fingers across his blouse and bowed solemnly, as if introducing his conscience to us all as a distinguished guest. “What this document is that Lady Glyde is about to sign, I neither know nor wish to know. I only say this: circumstances may arise in the future that could force Percival or his representatives to call upon the two witnesses. In that case, it’s essential that those witnesses represent two completely independent opinions. This cannot happen if my wife signs alongside me, as we share the same opinion, which is mine. I refuse to have it thrown in my face later that Madame Fosco acted under my influence and was, in reality, not a witness at all. I speak in Percival’s interest when I suggest that my name appears as the closest friend of the husband, and your name, Miss Halcombe, as the closest friend of the wife. You may think me a Jesuit, a splitter of hairs, a man of trifles and scruples—but I hope you’ll indulge me, considering my suspicious Italian character and my uneasy Italian conscience.” He bowed again, stepped back a few paces, and withdrew his conscience from our presence as politely as he had introduced it.

The Count’s concerns might have been honorable and reasonable, but the way he expressed them only deepened my reluctance to be involved in the signature. Nothing less than my concern for Laura would have compelled me to agree to be a witness at all. However, one look at her anxious face made me resolve to risk anything rather than abandon her.

“I’ll gladly stay in the room,” I said. “And if I find no reason to have any small scruples on my part, you can count on me as a witness.”

Sir Percival shot me a sharp look, as if he was about to say something. But at that moment, Madame Fosco caught his attention by rising from her chair. She had clearly received a signal from her husband and was preparing to leave.

“You don’t need to go,” Sir Percival said.

Madame Fosco looked for her instructions again, received them, and insisted she would prefer to leave us to our business. With determination, she walked out. The Count lit a cigarette, returned to the flowers in the window, and puffed little clouds of smoke at the leaves, deeply focused on not harming the insects.

Meanwhile, Sir Percival unlocked a cupboard beneath one of the bookcases and pulled out a piece of parchment, folded lengthwise several times. He placed it on the table, opened only the last fold, and kept his hand on the rest. The last fold revealed a strip of blank parchment with small wafers stuck at certain points. Every line of writing was hidden in the part he still held folded under his hand. Laura and I exchanged glances. Her face was pale, but it showed no hesitation or fear.

Sir Percival dipped a pen into the ink and handed it to his wife. “Sign your name here,” he instructed, pointing to a spot on the parchment. “You and Fosco will sign afterward, Miss Halcombe, next to those two wafers. Come here, Fosco! Witnessing a signature isn’t done by staring out the window and smoking into the flowers.”

The Count tossed aside his cigarette and joined us at the table, his hands casually tucked into the bright red belt of his blouse, his gaze fixed intently on Sir Percival’s face. Laura, sitting beside her husband with the pen in hand, looked at him as well. He stood between them, pressing the folded parchment firmly against the table. As he glanced at me, sitting across from him, his expression was a troubling mix of suspicion and embarrassment, making him seem more like a defendant in court than a gentleman in his own home.

“Sign there,” he repeated, suddenly turning to Laura and pointing again at the parchment.

“What am I signing?” she asked calmly.

“I don’t have time to explain,” he replied. “The dog-cart is waiting, and I need to leave immediately. Besides, even if I had time, you wouldn’t understand. It’s just a formal document, filled with legal jargon and all that. Come on, sign your name, and let’s get this over with.”

“I should know what I’m signing, Sir Percival, before I put my name down,” she insisted.

“Nonsense! What do women know about business? I’m telling you again, you won’t understand it.”

“At least let me try to understand. Whenever Mr. Gilmore had business for me, he always explained it first, and I always understood him.”

“I’m sure he did. He was your servant and had to explain. I’m your husband, and I’m NOT obliged to do the same. How much longer are you going to keep me here? I’m telling you again, there’s no time for reading anything—the dog-cart is waiting. Will you sign or not?”

She still held the pen but made no move to write her name.

“If my signature commits me to something,” she said, “I have a right to know what that commitment is.”

He slammed the parchment down on the table in frustration.

“Speak up!” he demanded. “You’ve always been honest. Forget about Miss Halcombe and Fosco—just say it plainly: you don’t trust me.”

The Count removed one hand from his belt and placed it on Sir Percival’s shoulder. Sir Percival shrugged it off irritably, but the Count calmly placed it back.

“Control your temper, Percival,” he said. “Lady Glyde is right.”

“Right!” Sir Percival shouted. “A wife is right to distrust her husband!”

“It’s unfair and cruel to accuse me of distrust,” Laura replied. “Ask Marian if I’m not justified in wanting to know what this document requires of me before I sign it.”

“I won’t have any appeals made to Miss Halcombe,” Sir Percival shot back. “Miss Halcombe has nothing to do with this.”

I had been silent until now, and I would have preferred to remain so. But the distress on Laura’s face when she turned to me, combined with the blatant injustice of her husband’s behavior, left me no choice but to speak up for her.

“Excuse me, Sir Percival,” I said. “As one of the witnesses to the signature, I believe I DO have a stake in this matter. Laura’s concerns are entirely reasonable, and speaking only for myself, I cannot witness her signature unless she understands what she is signing.”

“What a bold statement!” Sir Percival exclaimed. “Next time you invite yourself to a man’s house, Miss Halcombe, I suggest you don’t repay his hospitality by siding with his wife against him in a matter that doesn’t concern you.”

I shot to my feet as if he had struck me. If I had been a man, I would have knocked him down right there and left his house, never to return. But I was only a woman—and I loved his wife too deeply.

Thank God that love steadied me, and I sat back down without saying another word. SHE knew what I had endured and what I had held back. She rushed to me, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Oh, Marian!” she whispered softly. “If my mother were alive, she would have done no more for me!”

“Come back and sign!” Sir Percival yelled from across the table.

“Should I?” she asked me quietly. “I will if you tell me to.”

“No,” I replied firmly. “The right and the truth are on your side—sign nothing until you’ve read it first.”

“Come back and sign!” he shouted again, his voice rising in anger.

The Count, who had been watching Laura and me closely, intervened once more.

“Percival!” he said. “Let’s remember we’re in the presence of ladies. Please act accordingly.”

Sir Percival glared at him, speechless with anger. The Count’s firm grip tightened on his shoulder, and his calm voice cut through the tension. “Please remember that.”

They locked eyes for a moment. Sir Percival slowly shrugged off the Count’s hand, turned his gaze away, and stared down at the parchment on the table. Finally, he spoke, his tone more like a defeated animal than a man with conviction.

“I don’t want to upset anyone,” he said, “but my wife’s stubbornness would test the patience of a saint. I’ve told her this is just a formality—what more does she want? You can say whatever you like, but it’s not a woman’s place to defy her husband. Once more, Lady Glyde, and for the last time, will you sign or not?”

Laura stepped back to his side of the table and picked up the pen again.

“I’ll sign gladly,” she replied, “if you treat me like a responsible adult. I’m willing to make sacrifices if they don’t harm anyone else or lead to bad outcomes—”

“Who mentioned a sacrifice?” he interrupted, his earlier anger bubbling back to the surface.

“I only meant,” she continued, “that I wouldn’t refuse any concession I could honorably make. If I have reservations about signing something I know nothing about, why should you punish me for it? It seems unfair to treat Count Fosco’s concerns with so much more leniency than mine.”

That unfortunate, yet entirely understandable, reference to the Count’s influence over her husband reignited Sir Percival’s smoldering temper in an instant.

“Scruples!” he echoed. “YOUR scruples! It’s a bit late for you to be concerned about that. I would have thought you’d moved past such weakness when you made a virtue out of necessity by marrying me.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, Laura dropped the pen, looked at him with an expression I had never seen in her eyes before, and turned her back on him in silence.

This sudden display of contempt was so unlike her, so out of character, that it left us all speechless. There was something deeper hidden beneath her husband’s brutal words, a lingering insult that marked her face with a pain even a stranger could recognize.

The Count, who was no stranger, noticed it just as clearly as I did. As I moved to join Laura, I heard him whisper to Sir Percival, “You fool!”

Laura walked toward the door, and her husband spoke again.

“So you really refuse to give me your signature?” he asked, his tone shifting to one of a man realizing he had crossed a line.

“After what you just said,” she replied firmly, “I refuse to sign until I’ve read every word of that document from start to finish. Come on, Marian, we’ve stayed here long enough.”

“One moment!” the Count interjected before Sir Percival could respond. “Just one moment, Lady Glyde, I implore you!”

Laura would have left without acknowledging him, but I stopped her.

“Don’t make an enemy of the Count!” I whispered urgently. “Whatever you do, don’t make an enemy of the Count!”

She relented, and I closed the door again, positioning ourselves near it. Sir Percival slumped at the table, his elbow resting on the folded parchment, his head cradled in his clenched fist. The Count stood between us, in control of the tense situation, just as he was in control of everything else.

“Lady Glyde,” he said gently, his tone addressing our desperate circumstances rather than us personally, “please forgive me for making a suggestion. I speak out of deep respect and concern for the mistress of this house.” He turned sharply to Sir Percival. “Is it absolutely necessary for this document to be signed today?”

“It’s essential to my plans,” Sir Percival replied sulkily. “But as you can see, that doesn’t matter to Lady Glyde.”

“Just answer my question. Can the signature wait until tomorrow—yes or no?”

“Yes, if that’s what you want.”

“Then why are you wasting time here? Let the signature wait until tomorrow—let it wait until you return.”

Sir Percival looked up, frowning and cursing under his breath.

“You’re speaking to me in a way I don’t appreciate,” he said. “A tone I won’t tolerate from any man.”

“I’m only looking out for your best interests,” the Count said, a hint of disdain in his smile. “Give yourself some time—give Lady Glyde some time. Have you forgotten that your dog-cart is waiting outside? My tone surprises you, doesn’t it? I suppose it does—it’s the tone of a man who knows how to keep his cool. How many times have I given you good advice? More than you can count. Have I ever been wrong? I challenge you to find an example. Go! Take your drive. The matter of the signature can wait until tomorrow. Let it wait, and deal with it when you return.”

Sir Percival hesitated, glancing at his watch. The anxiety about the secret journey he was supposed to take that day, stirred by the Count’s words, was now clearly battling with his need to get Laura’s signature. He thought for a moment, then stood up from his chair.

“It’s easy to argue with me when I don’t have time to respond,” he said. “I’ll take your advice, Fosco—not because I want it or believe in it, but because I can’t stay here any longer.” He paused, casting a dark look at his wife. “If you don’t give me your signature when I come back tomorrow—!” The rest of his words were drowned out by the sound of him opening the bookcase cupboard again and locking the parchment away. He grabbed his hat and gloves from the table and headed for the door. Laura and I stepped aside to let him pass. “Remember tomorrow!” he called back to his wife as he left.

We waited a moment to let him cross the hall and drive away. The Count approached us while we lingered near the door.

“You’ve just seen Percival at his worst, Miss Halcombe,” he said. “As his old friend, I feel sorry for him and ashamed of him. I promise you, he won’t behave tomorrow in the same disgraceful way he has today.”

Laura took my arm while he spoke, squeezing it meaningfully when he finished. It would have been a difficult situation for any woman to stand by and watch her husband’s friend take on the role of apologist for his bad behavior in her own home—and it was a challenge for her. I thanked the Count politely and led her out. Yes, I thanked him; I felt an overwhelming sense of helplessness and humiliation, realizing that it was either his interest or his whim that ensured I could stay at Blackwater Park. After Sir Percival’s treatment of me, I knew that without the Count’s influence, I wouldn’t be able to remain there. His influence, the very thing I feared most, was now the only connection keeping me close to Laura in her time of need.

We heard the sound of the dog-cart crunching over the gravel as we entered the hall. Sir Percival had set off on his journey.

“Where is he going, Marian?” Laura whispered. “Every new thing he does fills me with dread about the future. Do you have any suspicions?”

After what she had endured that morning, I hesitated to share my thoughts.

“How would I know his secrets?” I replied evasively.

“I wonder if the housekeeper knows?” she pressed.

“Of course not,” I said. “She must be just as in the dark as we are.”

Laura shook her head, unconvinced.

“Didn’t you hear from the housekeeper that there was a rumor about Anne Catherick being seen in this area? Don’t you think he might have gone to look for her?”

“I’d rather not think about it at all, Laura, especially after what’s happened. You should follow my lead. Come into my room and rest for a bit.”

We settled down together by the window, letting the warm summer air wash over us.

“I’m ashamed to look at you, Marian,” she said, “after what you endured downstairs for my sake. Oh, my dear, it breaks my heart to think of it! But I promise I’ll make it up to you—I truly will!”

“Shh! Please,” I replied. “Don’t say that. What is a little blow to my pride compared to the terrible sacrifice of your happiness?”

“You heard what he said to me?” she continued, her voice rising with urgency. “You heard the words, but you don’t understand what they really meant. You don’t know why I threw down the pen and turned away from him.”

She stood up abruptly, pacing the room with a restless energy. “I’ve kept so much from you, Marian, to spare you pain and to keep our new lives from starting off on a bad note. You have no idea how he has treated me. And yet, you should know, because you witnessed how he spoke to me today. You heard him mock my attempts to be principled—you heard him say I had turned necessity into a virtue by marrying him.”

She sank back into her chair, her face flushed, her hands twisting nervously in her lap. “I can’t talk about it right now,” she said, her voice trembling. “I’ll start crying if I do—later, Marian, when I feel more composed. My poor head is pounding, darling—pounding, pounding, pounding. Where’s your smelling salts? Let’s focus on you for a moment. I wish I had just signed that document for your sake. Should I give it to him tomorrow? I’d rather put myself at risk than put you in jeopardy. After you stood up for me against him, he’ll blame you if I refuse again. What should we do? Oh, how I wish we had a friend to help us—someone we could truly trust!”

She sighed heavily, and I could see the thoughts swirling in her mind, particularly about Hartright. Her mention of a friend made me think of him too. Just six months after her marriage, we found ourselves longing for the loyal support he had offered us in his farewell. I never imagined we would need it like this.

“We have to do what we can to help ourselves,” I said. “Let’s try to talk this through calmly—let’s do everything we can to make the best decision.”

By combining what she knew about her husband’s troubles with what I had heard from the lawyer, we reached the conclusion that the document in the library was meant for borrowing money, and that Laura’s signature was crucial for Sir Percival to achieve his goal.

The next question was about the nature of the legal contract that would secure the money and what kind of personal risk Laura would take by signing it without knowing the details. This involved considerations far beyond our understanding or experience. I couldn’t shake the feeling that the hidden contents of that parchment were part of a deceitful and underhanded scheme.

I hadn’t come to this conclusion simply because Sir Percival refused to show us the document or explain it; his stubbornness and domineering nature could account for that. My distrust stemmed from the shift I had noticed in his demeanor and speech at Blackwater Park, a change that convinced me he had been playing a role the entire time he was at Limmeridge House. His exaggerated politeness, which had seemed to align so well with Mr. Gilmore’s old-fashioned views, his modesty with Laura, his honesty with me, and his restraint with Mr. Fairlie—all of it was the facade of a cunning and cruel man who had shed his mask the moment he achieved his goal.

I won’t dwell on the sorrow this realization brought me for Laura’s sake; words can’t capture it. I mention it only because it solidified my resolve to prevent her from signing that document, no matter the consequences, unless she first understood what it contained.

Given these circumstances, our best chance tomorrow would be to come up with a solid reason to refuse the signature—something grounded in commercial or legal principles that might shake Sir Percival’s confidence and make him suspect that we understood business as well as he did.

After giving it some thought, I decided to reach out to the only trustworthy person I could think of who might help us discreetly in our difficult situation. That person was Mr. Kyrle, Mr. Gilmore’s partner, who was now running the business since our old friend had to step away and leave London for health reasons. I explained to Laura that I had Mr. Gilmore’s full confidence in his partner’s integrity, discretion, and thorough understanding of her affairs. With her complete support, I sat down to write the letter.

I started by laying out our situation to Mr. Kyrle exactly as it was, then asked for his advice in clear, straightforward terms that he could easily understand, avoiding any chance of misinterpretation. I kept the letter as brief as possible, hoping it was free from unnecessary apologies and details.

Just as I was about to address the envelope, Laura pointed out a problem that had completely slipped my mind in my focus on writing.

“How will we get the reply in time?” she asked. “Your letter won’t reach London until tomorrow morning, and we won’t get the response until the day after.”

The only way to solve this issue was to send a special messenger from the lawyer’s office with the reply. I added a postscript to my letter, requesting that the messenger be sent on the eleven o’clock morning train, which would get him to our station by twenty minutes past one, allowing him to reach Blackwater Park by two at the latest. I instructed that he should ask for me, answer no questions from anyone else, and deliver the letter only to me.

“If Sir Percival comes back tomorrow before two,” I told Laura, “the best thing for you to do is to spend the morning outside with your book or your work, and not come back to the house until the messenger has arrived with the letter. I’ll wait here for him all morning to avoid any mishaps. By following this plan, I believe we can avoid any surprises. Let’s head to the drawing-room now; we might raise suspicion if we stay locked up together for too long.”

“Suspicion?” she echoed. “Whose suspicion could we raise now that Sir Percival has left the house? Are you talking about Count Fosco?”

“Maybe I am, Laura.”

“You’re starting to dislike him as much as I do, Marian.”

“No, it’s not dislike. Dislike often comes with contempt, and I can’t see anything in the Count to despise.”

“You’re not afraid of him, are you?”

“Maybe a little.”

“Afraid of him after he helped us today?”

“Yes. I’m more worried about his interference than I am about Sir Percival’s aggression. Remember what I told you in the library: whatever you do, Laura, don’t make an enemy of the Count!”

We made our way downstairs. Laura entered the drawing-room while I crossed the hall, letter in hand, to drop it into the post-bag hanging on the wall.

The front door was open, and as I passed by, I noticed Count Fosco and his wife standing on the steps, talking, their faces turned toward me.

The Countess came into the hall rather quickly and asked if I had a moment for a private conversation. Surprised by such a request from her, I put my letter in the bag and replied that I was available. She took my arm with an unexpected friendliness and led me outside to the grassy area surrounding the large fish-pond.

As we walked past the Count on the steps, he bowed and smiled before heading back inside, gently closing the door behind him.

The Countess guided me around the pond. I expected her to share some significant secret, so I was taken aback when her message was simply a polite expression of sympathy for me after what had happened in the library. Her husband had informed her of the incident and how rudely Sir Percival had spoken to me. This news had shocked and upset her on both my and Laura’s behalf, and she had decided that if anything like that occurred again, she would leave the house to show her disapproval of Sir Percival’s behavior. The Count had supported her decision, and she hoped I would agree with it too.

I found it quite strange that Madame Fosco, who was usually so reserved, was now making an effort to engage with me, especially after the sharp exchange we’d had earlier that day in the boat-house. Still, it was only right for me to respond to her friendly overture with a friendly reply. I matched her tone and, thinking we had covered everything necessary, tried to head back to the house.

But Madame Fosco seemed determined to keep me there. To my utter surprise, she began to talk. The woman who had been so quiet before now bombarded me with smooth, conventional chatter about married life, Sir Percival and Laura, her own happiness, and even the late Mr. Fairlie’s treatment of her regarding her inheritance. She kept me walking around the fish-pond for over half an hour, and I was completely worn out. Whether she noticed my fatigue or not, I couldn’t tell, but she suddenly stopped as abruptly as she had started. She glanced toward the house, returned to her icy demeanor, and let go of my arm before I could think of a way to excuse myself.

As I pushed open the door and stepped into the hall, I found myself face to face with the Count. He was just putting a letter into the post-bag.

After he dropped it in and closed the bag, he asked where I had left Madame Fosco. I told him, and he immediately went out the hall door to join his wife. His tone was unusually calm and subdued, which made me turn to watch him, wondering if he was feeling unwell or down.

For reasons I can’t quite explain, I then walked straight to the post-bag, pulled out my own letter, and looked at it again, feeling a vague sense of distrust. The second glance made me think about sealing the envelope for extra security—an impulse that felt mysterious, either too deep or too shallow for me to understand. Women often act on impulses they can’t explain, and I suppose that was what drove my strange behavior this time.

Whatever prompted me, I was glad I had listened to it when I went to seal the letter in my room. I had originally closed the envelope by moistening the adhesive and pressing it down, but when I tested it after a good three-quarters of an hour, it opened instantly, without sticking or tearing. Had I not sealed it properly? Was there a flaw in the adhesive?

Or perhaps—no! I found that thought too disturbing to entertain. I’d rather not confront it directly.

I almost dread tomorrow—so much hinges on my discretion and self-control. There are at least two things I must remember: I need to maintain a friendly facade with the Count, and I must be on high alert when the messenger arrives with the response to my letter.