V

von Wilkie Collins

June 17th. — When dinner brought us together again, Count Fosco was in his usual high spirits. He made a real effort to engage and entertain us, as if he wanted to erase any memory of what had happened in the library that afternoon. He shared lively stories about his travels, amusing anecdotes about remarkable people he had met abroad, and quirky comparisons of social customs from various countries, illustrated with examples from men and women all over Europe. He even made humorous confessions about the innocent follies of his youth, when he set the trends in a small Italian town and wrote ridiculous romances for a local newspaper. His words flowed easily and cheerfully, addressing our different curiosities and interests so directly and delicately that both Laura and I listened with as much attention—and, oddly enough, admiration—as Madame Fosco herself. Women can resist a man’s love, fame, looks, and wealth, but they can’t resist a man who knows how to talk to them.

After dinner, while the favorable impression he had made on us was still fresh, the Count modestly excused himself to read in the library.

Laura suggested we take a stroll in the grounds to enjoy the end of the long evening. It was only polite to invite Madame Fosco to join us, but this time she seemed to have received her orders in advance and declined with a request for us to excuse her. “The Count will probably want a fresh supply of cigarettes,” she said, as if that were a sufficient reason. Her cold blue eyes almost sparkled as she spoke—she looked genuinely proud to be the one who prepared his tobacco.

So, Laura and I went out together, just the two of us.

The evening was misty and heavy. There was a sense of gloom in the air; the flowers drooped in the garden, and the ground felt parched and dry. The western sky, visible over the quiet trees, was a pale yellow, and the sun was setting faintly behind a haze. Rain seemed imminent—it would likely arrive with the night.

“Which way should we go?” I asked.

“Towards the lake, Marian, if you don’t mind,” she replied.

“You seem oddly fond of that dreary lake,” I noted.

“It’s not the lake itself, but the scenery around it. The sand, the heath, and the fir trees are the only reminders of Limmeridge I can find in this vast place. But if you’d prefer, we can walk in another direction.”

“I don’t have a favorite walk at Blackwater Park, my dear. They all feel the same to me. Let’s go to the lake—we might find it cooler in the open space than here.”

We walked through the shadowy plantation in silence. The heaviness in the evening air weighed on us both, and when we reached the boathouse, we were relieved to sit down and rest inside.

A thick fog hung low over the lake. The dense line of trees on the opposite bank appeared to float above the mist, like a small forest suspended in the sky. The sandy ground sloped down from where we sat, disappearing mysteriously into the fog. The silence was unsettling. There was no rustling of leaves, no birdsong in the woods, no cries of waterfowl from the hidden lake. Even the frogs had fallen silent tonight.

“It’s very desolate and gloomy,” Laura said. “But we can be more alone here than anywhere else.”

She spoke softly, her steady gaze fixed on the wilderness of sand and mist. I could see that her mind was too occupied to be affected by the dreary atmosphere that had already settled over me.

“I promised, Marian, to tell you the truth about my married life, instead of leaving you to guess,” she began. “This secret is the first I’ve ever kept from you, love, and I’m determined it will be the last. I was silent, as you know, for your sake—and perhaps a little for my own. It’s very hard for a woman to admit that the man she has devoted her entire life to is the one who cares the least about that gift. If you were married yourself, Marian—and especially if you were happily married—you would understand my feelings in a way that no single woman can, no matter how kind and true she may be.”

What could I say? I could only take her hand and look at her with all the love I could express through my eyes.

“How often,” she continued, “have I heard you laugh about what you called your ‘poverty’? How many times have you made mock speeches congratulating me on my wealth? Oh, Marian, please don’t laugh again. Thank God for your poverty—it has made you your own mistress and saved you from the fate that has befallen me.”

It was a somber start for a young wife, marked by a quiet, painful honesty. The few days we had spent together at Blackwater Park had been enough for me—and anyone else—to see why her husband had chosen her.

“You don’t need to worry,” she said, “about hearing how quickly my disappointments and struggles began—or even what they were. It’s enough for me to carry them in my memory. If I tell you how he reacted to the first and last time I tried to speak up, you’ll understand how he has always treated me, just as well as if I had spelled it out.

One day in Rome, we had ridden out to the tomb of Cecilia Metella. The sky was clear and beautiful, and the ancient ruin looked stunning. The thought that a husband’s love had built it in memory of his wife made me feel more tender and anxious toward my husband than I ever had before. ‘Would you build a tomb for ME, Percival?’ I asked him. ‘You said you loved me dearly before we got married, and yet, since then—’ I couldn’t finish. Marian! He wasn’t even looking at me! I lowered my veil, hoping he wouldn’t see the tears in my eyes. I thought he hadn’t paid any attention to me, but he had. He said, ‘Come away,’ laughing to himself as he helped me onto my horse. He mounted his own and laughed again as we rode off. ‘If I do build you a tomb,’ he said, ‘it will be with your own money. I wonder if Cecilia Metella had a fortune and paid for hers.’ I didn’t respond—how could I, when I was crying behind my veil? ‘Ah, you light-haired women are all sulky,’ he said. ‘What do you want? Compliments and sweet talk? Well! I’m in a good mood this morning. Consider the compliments given and the sweet talk done.’ Men have no idea how much we remember their harsh words and how deeply they wound us. It would have been better for me to keep crying, but his contempt dried my tears and hardened my heart. From that moment, Marian, I never held back my thoughts of Walter Hartright again. I let the memory of those happy days, when we loved each other in secret, come back to comfort me. What else could I look to for solace? If you had been with me, you would have helped me find better things. I know it was wrong, darling, but tell me if I was wrong without any excuses.”

I had to turn my face away from her. “Don’t ask me!” I said. “Have I suffered as you have? What right do I have to judge?”

“I used to think of him,” she continued, lowering her voice and moving closer, “when Percival left me alone at night to mingle with the Opera crowd. I imagined what my life might have been if God had chosen to bless me with poverty and if I had been his wife. I pictured myself in a simple, neat dress, waiting at home for him while he worked to support us—waiting and working for him, loving him even more because I had to work for him—seeing him come home tired, taking off his hat and coat, and, Marian, delighting him with little meals I had learned to make just for him. Oh! I hope he is never lonely or sad enough to think of me and see me as I have thought of HIM!”

As she spoke those sorrowful words, all the lost tenderness returned to her voice, and the beauty that had faded came back to her face. Her eyes rested lovingly on the bleak, lonely landscape before us, as if they were seeing the welcoming hills of Cumberland in the dark, threatening sky.

“Please don’t mention Walter again,” I said, as soon as I could gather myself. “Oh, Laura, let’s avoid the misery of talking about him now!”

She shook herself out of her reverie and looked at me with warmth.

“I would rather never speak of him again,” she replied, “than cause you even a moment of pain.”

“It’s for your own good,” I insisted; “it’s for your sake that I say this. If your husband heard you—”

“He wouldn’t be surprised if he did.”

Her calm, weary response startled me, almost as much as the words themselves.

“Not surprised?” I echoed. “Laura! Please remember what you’re saying—you’re scaring me!”

“It’s true,” she said. “It’s what I wanted to tell you today when we were talking in your room. My only secret when I opened my heart to him at Limmeridge was a harmless one—you said so yourself. The name was all I kept from him, and he has found out.”

I heard her, but I couldn’t speak. Her last words crushed the flicker of hope that still lingered within me.

“It happened in Rome,” she continued, her voice steady but cold. “We were at a small gathering hosted by some friends of Sir Percival’s—Mr. and Mrs. Markland. Mrs. Markland was known for her beautiful sketches, and the guests persuaded her to share some of her work. We all admired her drawings, but something I said caught her attention. ‘Surely you draw yourself?’ she asked. ‘I used to draw a little once,’ I replied, ‘but I’ve given it up.’ ‘If you’ve drawn before,’ she said, ‘you might take it up again someday. If you do, I’d love to recommend a teacher.’ I didn’t say anything—you know why, Marian—and tried to steer the conversation elsewhere. But Mrs. Markland was persistent. ‘I’ve had all sorts of teachers,’ she continued, ‘but the best one was a Mr. Hartright. If you ever decide to draw again, you should definitely try him. He’s a young man—modest and gentlemanly—I’m sure you’ll like him.’

Imagine those words being said to me in front of strangers—strangers who were there to celebrate the newlyweds! I did my best to keep my composure—I said nothing and focused intently on the drawings. When I finally looked up again, my eyes met my husband’s, and I could tell from his expression that my face had given me away. ‘We’ll look into Mr. Hartright,’ he said, keeping his gaze on me, ‘when we get back to England. I agree with you, Mrs. Markland—I think Lady Glyde will surely like him.’ The way he emphasized those last words made my cheeks flush and my heart race as if it might burst.

No more was said. We left early. He was quiet in the carriage on the way back to the hotel. He helped me out and followed me upstairs as usual. But the moment we entered the drawing room, he locked the door, pushed me into a chair, and stood over me, his hands on my shoulders. ‘Ever since that morning you made that bold confession to me at Limmeridge,’ he said, ‘I’ve wanted to find out who the man was, and I saw him in your face tonight. Your drawing teacher was the man, and his name is Hartright. You will regret this, and he will regret it, for the rest of your lives. Now go to bed and dream of him if you want, with the marks of my horsewhip on his back.’

Whenever he’s angry with me now, he brings up what I confessed in front of you with a sneer or a threat. I can’t stop him from twisting my trust into something horrible. I have no power to make him believe me or to silence him. You looked surprised today when you heard him say that I made a virtue out of necessity by marrying him. You won’t be surprised again when he says it the next time he’s in a bad mood—Oh, Marian! Please don’t! You’re hurting me!”

I caught her in my arms, and the weight of my guilt tightened around her like a vice. Yes, my guilt. The haunting image of Walter’s face, when my cruel words pierced him in the summer-house at Limmeridge, loomed before me, silently accusing. My hand had pointed the way that led the man my sister loved, step by step, far from his home and friends. I had stood between those two young hearts, tearing them apart forever, and now their lives lay wasted before me as a testament to my actions. I had done this, and I had done it for Sir Percival Glyde.

For Sir Percival Glyde.

I heard her speaking, and I recognized the soothing tone of her voice, comforting me—I, who deserved nothing but her silence! I couldn’t tell how long it took me to wrestle with the consuming misery of my own thoughts. I first became aware that she was kissing me, and then my eyes suddenly focused on the view of the lake before me.

“It’s 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.”

“Just give me a minute longer,” I said—“a minute to gather myself.”

I was afraid to look at her just yet, so I kept my gaze fixed on the scenery.

It was indeed late. The dense line of trees against the sky had faded into a faint outline, resembling a long trail of smoke. The mist over the lake had slowly thickened and crept toward us. The silence was as heavy as ever, but the dread had lifted, leaving only the solemn mystery of its stillness.

“We’re far from the house,” she whispered. “Let’s go back.”

She stopped suddenly, turning her face away from me toward the entrance of the boat-house.

“Marian!” she said, trembling. “Do you see anything? Look!”

“Where?”

“Down there, below us.”

She pointed. My eyes followed her gesture, and then I saw it too.

A figure moved across the barren heath in the distance. It drifted into view from the boathouse, a dark silhouette against the mist. It paused for a moment, then continued on, slowly gliding through the fog that swirled around it, until it slipped past the edge of the boathouse and vanished from sight.

Both Laura and I were on edge after what had happened between us that evening. Several minutes passed before Laura dared to step into the plantation, and I struggled to find the courage to lead her back to the house.

“Was it a man or a woman?” she whispered as we finally ventured into the damp darkness outside.

“I’m not sure,” I replied.

“What do you think it was?”

“It looked like a woman.”

“I was worried it was a man in a long cloak.”

“It could be a man. It’s hard to tell in this dim light.”

“Wait, Marian! I’m scared—I can’t see the path. What if the figure follows us?”

“That’s unlikely, Laura. There’s really nothing to be afraid of. The shores of the lake are close to the village, and anyone can walk there day or night. It’s strange we haven’t seen anyone before.”

We stepped into the plantation, where the darkness thickened around us, making it difficult to stay on the path. I offered Laura my arm, and we hurried back as quickly as we could.

Before we were halfway through, she stopped and pulled me to a halt. She was listening intently.

“Hush,” she whispered. “I hear something behind us.”

“Just dead leaves,” I said, trying to reassure her, “or maybe a twig falling from the trees.”

“It’s summer, Marian, and there’s not a breath of wind. Listen!”

I heard it too—a faint sound, like a light footstep trailing behind us.

“It doesn’t matter who or what it is,” I said. “Let’s keep walking. If there’s anything to worry about, we’ll be close enough to the house to call for help.”

We picked up our pace, so quickly that Laura was breathless by the time we neared the end of the plantation and could see the lighted windows of the house.

I paused for a moment to let her catch her breath. Just as we were about to move again, she stopped me once more and gestured for me to listen again. We both distinctly heard a long, heavy sigh coming from the dark depths of the trees behind us.

“Who’s there?” I called out.

Silence.

“Who’s there?” I repeated, my voice echoing in the stillness.

After a moment, we heard the footsteps again, lighter this time, fading away into the darkness—sinking, sinking, until they disappeared completely.

We hurried out of the trees and onto the open lawn, crossing it quickly. Without exchanging another word, we reached the house.

In the glow of the hall lamp, Laura looked at me, her cheeks pale and her eyes wide with fear.

“I feel half dead from fright,” she said. “Who could it have been?”

“We’ll figure it out tomorrow,” I replied. “For now, let’s keep this to ourselves.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s safer to stay quiet, and we need safety in this house.”

I sent Laura upstairs immediately, took a moment to smooth my hair and remove my hat, and then headed straight to the library under the pretense of looking for a book.

There sat Count Fosco, comfortably settled in the largest armchair, smoking and reading, his feet propped up on an ottoman, his cravat draped across his knees, and his shirt collar wide open. Madame Fosco was beside him, sitting on a stool and rolling cigarettes like a quiet child. There was no way they could have been out late that evening and returned in a hurry. The moment I saw them, I knew my purpose for visiting the library had been fulfilled.

Count Fosco rose with a polite smile and adjusted his cravat when I entered.

“Please don’t let me interrupt,” I said. “I just came to grab a book.”

“All unfortunate men of my size suffer from the heat,” he said, fanning himself with a large green fan. “I wish I could trade places with my excellent wife. She is as cool as a fish in the pond outside.”

The Countess smiled at her husband’s amusing comparison. “I’m never warm, Miss Halcombe,” she said, with the modesty of someone admitting to a personal virtue.

“Have you and Lady Glyde been out this evening?” the Count asked while I pretended to browse the shelves.

“Yes, we went out for some fresh air.”

“May I ask where?”

“To the lake, as far as the boathouse.”

“Aha? To the boathouse?”

Under different circumstances, I might have found his curiosity intrusive. But tonight, I welcomed it as further evidence that neither he nor his wife had anything to do with the mysterious figure at the lake.

“No more adventures tonight, I suppose?” he continued. “No more discoveries, like your discovery of the wounded dog?”

He fixed his deep grey eyes on me, that cold, piercing gaze that always draws me in but makes me feel uneasy at the same time. In moments like this, I can’t shake the feeling that he’s probing into my thoughts, and that sensation washed over me now.

“No,” I replied curtly. “No adventures—no discoveries.”

I tried to look away and leave the room, but oddly enough, I doubt I would have succeeded if Madame Fosco hadn’t intervened by prompting him to move and look away first.

“Count, you’re keeping Miss Halcombe standing,” she said.

As soon as he turned to fetch me a chair, I seized the moment—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 the chance to comment on how warm the night was, hoping to find out how the servants had spent their time.

“Have you been feeling the heat downstairs?” I asked.

“No, miss,” the girl replied. “We haven’t noticed it much.”

“So you’ve been outside in the woods, I take it?”

“Some of us thought about it, miss. But the cook decided to take her chair into the cool courtyard outside the kitchen door, and after that, the rest of us joined her there.”

Now, I just needed to check on the housekeeper.

“Is Mrs. Michelson in bed yet?” I asked.

“I don’t think so, miss,” she said with a smile. “Mrs. Michelson is more likely to be getting up right now than going to bed.”

“Why? What do you mean? Has she been napping during the day?”

“Not exactly, miss, but close enough. She’s been asleep all evening on the sofa in her own room.”

Putting together what I had seen in the library and what I just learned from Laura’s maid, one conclusion seemed unavoidable. The figure we spotted at the lake wasn’t Madame Fosco, her husband, or any of the servants. The footsteps we heard behind us didn’t belong to anyone from the house.

Who could it have been?

It feels pointless to ask. I can’t even determine whether the figure was male or female. All I can say is that I believe it was a woman.