II (3/3)

von Wilkie Collins

“Good morning, Mrs. Cook,” he said cheerfully. “Lady Glyde is doing better. I feel much more at ease now, and I’m off for a nice long walk in the sunshine. Do you need anything from the market? What are you baking? A lovely tart for dinner? Make sure there’s plenty of crust—crispy and crumbly, just the way I like it.” That was just his way. He was over sixty and had a real passion for pastries. Can you believe that?

The doctor came back in the morning and confirmed that Lady Glyde had woken up feeling better. He instructed us not to speak to her or let her speak to us, just in case she felt inclined to chat. He insisted that she needed to be kept calm above all else and encouraged to sleep as much as possible. Whenever I saw her, she didn’t seem to want to talk, except for last night when I couldn’t quite understand her words—she seemed too exhausted. Mr. Goodricke didn’t share the same optimism as our master. He came downstairs without saying much, only that he would return at five o’clock.

Around that time, before our master returned, the bell rang loudly from the bedroom. My mistress rushed into the hallway and called for me to fetch Mr. Goodricke, saying that the lady had fainted. I quickly put on my bonnet and shawl, and just then, fortune smiled upon us as the doctor arrived for his scheduled visit.

I let him in and went upstairs with him. “Lady Glyde was just as she usually is,” my mistress explained at the door. “She was awake, looking around in a strange, lost way when I heard her let out a sort of half cry, and then she fainted.” The doctor approached the bed and leaned over the sick lady. His expression turned serious as he examined her and placed his hand on her heart.

My mistress stared intently at Mr. Goodricke. “Not dead!” she whispered, trembling from head to toe.

“Yes,” the doctor replied quietly and solemnly. “Dead. I feared it might happen suddenly after my examination of her heart yesterday.” My mistress stepped back from the bedside as he spoke, shaking uncontrollably. “Dead!” she whispered to herself. “Dead so suddenly! Dead so soon! What will the Count say?” Mr. Goodricke urged her to go downstairs and calm herself. “You’ve been up all night,” he said. “Your nerves are shot. This person,” he gestured to me, “will stay in the room until I can send for the necessary help.” My mistress complied. “I must prepare the Count,” she said. “I must prepare him carefully.” And with that, she left us, still trembling, and stepped out.

“Your master is a foreigner,” Mr. Goodricke said once my mistress was gone. “Does he know about registering a death?” “I can’t say for sure, sir,” I replied, “but I doubt it.” The doctor thought for a moment and then said, “I don’t usually handle such matters, but it might save the family some trouble if I register the death myself. I’ll be passing the district office in half an hour, so I can stop in. Please let them know I’ll take care of it.” “Yes, sir,” I said, grateful for his kindness. “I’ll stay with the poor lady until you send someone.” “You don’t mind waiting here?” he asked. “Not at all, sir,” I replied. “I’ll stay with her. I suppose nothing more could have been done?” “No,” he said. “Nothing. She must have suffered greatly before I was called in—the situation was hopeless.” “Ah, dear me! We all come to it eventually, don’t we, sir?” I remarked. He didn’t respond, seeming uninterested in conversation. He simply said, “Good day,” and left.

I remained by the bedside until Mr. Goodricke sent the person he promised. Her name was Jane Gould, and I thought she looked respectable enough. She didn’t say much, just that she understood what was needed and that she had dealt with many such situations in her time.

How my master took the news when he first heard it is something I can’t describe, as I wasn’t there. But when I finally saw him, he looked completely overwhelmed. He sat quietly in a corner, his heavy hands resting on his thick knees, his head bowed, and his eyes staring blankly at nothing. He didn’t seem so much sad as he did frightened and dazed by what had happened.

My mistress took charge of everything related to the funeral. It must have cost a fortune—the coffin, especially, was stunning. The dead lady’s husband was away, as we heard, somewhere abroad. But my mistress, being her aunt, arranged with her friends in the countryside (Cumberland, I believe) for her to be buried there, alongside her mother. Everything was handled with great care for the funeral, and my master went down to the countryside himself to attend the burial. He looked impressive in his deep mourning attire, with his solemn face, slow gait, and broad hatband.

In conclusion, I must respond to the questions posed to me:

1. Neither I nor my fellow servant ever saw my master give Lady Glyde any medicine himself.

2. To my knowledge, he was never left alone in the room with Lady Glyde.

3. I cannot explain the sudden fright that my mistress mentioned had seized the lady upon her arrival at the house. The cause was never clarified to me or my fellow servant.

The above statement has been read to me, and I have nothing to add or take away from it. I swear, as a Christian woman, that this is the truth.

(Signed) HESTER PINHORN, Her + Mark.

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To the Registrar of the Sub-District where the following death occurred: I hereby certify that I attended Lady Glyde, who was twenty-one on her last birthday. I last saw her on Thursday, July 25, 1850, and she died that same day at No. 5 Forest Road, St. John’s Wood. The cause of her death was aneurism. The duration of the disease is unknown.

(Signed) Alfred Goodricke.

Prof. Title. M.R.C.S. Eng., L.S.A. Address: 12 Croydon Gardens, St. John's Wood.

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I was the person sent by Mr. Goodricke to take care of the remains of the lady who passed away at the house mentioned in the certificate above. I found the body under the care of the servant, Hester Pinhorn. I stayed with it and prepared it for burial at the appropriate time. I was present when it was placed in the coffin, and I later saw the coffin secured before it was taken away. Once that was done, and not before, I received my payment and left the house. Anyone wishing to check my character can refer to Mr. Goodricke, who will confirm that I can be trusted to tell the truth.

(Signed) JANE GOULD

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In 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 27, 1829; married December 22, 1849; died July 25, 1850.

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In early summer of 1850, I and my remaining companions left the wilds and forests of Central America to return home. Once we reached the coast, we boarded a ship bound for England. Unfortunately, the vessel was wrecked in the Gulf of Mexico, and I was one of the few who survived. This was my third brush with death—first from disease, then from the hands of the Indians, and now from drowning. All three had come close, yet all three had passed me by.

The survivors of the wreck were rescued by an American ship headed for Liverpool. We arrived at port on October 13, 1850. We landed late in the afternoon, and I reached London that same night.

These pages do not recount my adventures and dangers abroad. The reasons that led me away from my country and loved ones into a world of peril are known. I returned from my self-imposed exile, as I had hoped and prayed I would—a changed man. In the waters of a new life, I had reshaped my character. In the harsh school of extremity and danger, my will had grown strong, my heart resolute, and my mind learned to rely on itself. I had left to escape my future, but I returned ready to confront it, as a man should.

I faced it with the inevitable suppression of myself that I knew it would demand. I had let go of the worst bitterness of my past, but I still carried the memories of sorrow and tenderness from that unforgettable time. I had not forgotten the one irreparable disappointment of my life; I had simply learned to endure it. Laura Fairlie filled my thoughts as the ship took me away, and she was still in my mind when it brought me back, with the morning light revealing the welcoming shore.

My pen glides over the familiar letters, and my heart drifts back to an old love. I still think of her as Laura Fairlie. It’s hard to think of her, hard to speak her name alongside her husband’s.

There’s no need for me to explain my presence here again. If I have the strength and courage to continue, then this story can unfold.

When morning came, my first thoughts were of my mother and sister. I felt the need to prepare them for the joy and surprise of my return after months of silence. Early that morning, I sent a letter to the cottage in Hampstead and followed it an hour later.

Once we were reunited and the calm of our previous days began to settle back in, I noticed something in my mother’s expression that hinted at a heavy secret weighing on her heart. Her eyes, filled with love, also held sorrow. The gentle hand that clasped mine trembled slightly, and I could sense the pity behind her touch. We had no secrets from each other. She knew how my hopes had been shattered and why I had left her. I wanted to ask, as calmly as I could, if any letter had arrived for me from Miss Halcombe, if there was any news about her sister. But when I looked into my mother’s eyes, I lost the courage to even pose the question. Instead, I hesitated and said,

“You have something to tell me.”

My sister, who had been sitting across from us, suddenly stood up and left the room without a word.

My mother moved closer, wrapping her arms around my neck. Her embrace trembled, and tears streamed down her loving face.

“Walter!” she whispered, “my dear boy! My heart aches for you. Oh, my son! Please remember that I’m still here!”

I rested my head against her shoulder. In those words, she had said everything.

* * * * * * * * * *

It was the morning of the third day since my return—the sixteenth of October.

I had stayed with them at the cottage, trying hard not to let my own pain taint the happiness of my return. I had done everything I could to rise above the shock and accept my life with resignation, to allow my deep sorrow to enter my heart gently, rather than in despair. But it was futile. No tears eased my aching eyes, and no comfort came from my sister’s sympathy or my mother’s love.

On that third morning, I finally opened my heart to them. At last, the words I had longed to speak since the day my mother told me of Laura’s death came tumbling out.

“Let me go away alone for a little while,” I said. “I’ll be able to bear it better after I’ve seen the place where I first met her—after I’ve knelt and prayed by the grave where they laid her to rest.”

And so, I set off on my journey—the journey to Laura Fairlie’s grave.

It was a quiet autumn afternoon when I arrived at the lonely station and began my walk along the familiar road. The fading sun shone softly through thin white clouds, the air warm and still. The peacefulness of the countryside was tinged with the melancholy of the season.

I reached the moor and stood once more on the hilltop. I gazed down the path, spotting the familiar garden trees in the distance, the sweeping semicircle of the drive, and the high white walls of Limmeridge House. All the chances, changes, and dangers of the months that had passed shrank to nothing in my mind. It felt like just yesterday that my feet had last touched the fragrant heather. I imagined her coming to greet me, her straw hat shading her face, her simple dress fluttering in the breeze, and her sketchbook ready in hand.

Oh, death, you have your sting! Oh, grave, you have your victory!

I turned away, and there below me in the valley was the lonely grey church, the porch where I had waited for the woman in white, the hills surrounding the quiet burial ground, and the brook bubbling cold over its stony bed. There stood the marble cross, fair and white, marking the tomb that now held both mother and daughter.

I approached the grave, crossing the low stone stile and removing my hat as I touched the sacred ground. Sacred to gentleness and goodness, sacred to reverence and grief.

I paused in front of the pedestal where the cross stood tall. On the side closest to me, the freshly carved inscription caught my eye—the stark, unforgiving black letters that told the tale of her life and death. I tried to read it. I managed to get as far as the name. “Sacred to the Memory of Laura——”

The image of her kind blue eyes, now clouded with tears, flashed in my mind—the fair head that had drooped so wearily—the innocent farewell that urged me to leave her. Oh, how I wished for a happier memory of her than this; the memory I took with me, the memory I carried back to her grave!

I attempted to read the inscription again. I saw the date of her death at the bottom, and above it—

Above it, there were lines etched into the marble—one name among them that disturbed my thoughts of her. I moved to the other side of the grave, where there was nothing to read, nothing of earthly ugliness to intrude between her spirit and mine.

I knelt by the tomb, resting my hands and my head on the broad white stone, closing my weary eyes to the world around me, to the light above. I let her return to me. Oh, my love! my love! My heart can speak to you now! It feels as if it was just yesterday when we parted—yesterday, when your dear hand lay in mine—yesterday, when my eyes last beheld you. My love! my love!

* * * * * * * * * *

Time flowed on, and silence enveloped everything like a thick night.

The first sound that broke the heavenly peace rustled softly, like a gentle breeze over the grass of the burial ground. I heard it approaching slowly, transforming in my ears—sounding like footsteps moving closer—then it stopped.

I looked up.

The sunset was near. The clouds had parted, and the slanting light bathed the hills in a warm glow. The last moments of the day were cold, clear, and still in the quiet valley of the dead.

In the burial ground, I spotted two women standing together in the fading light, looking towards the tomb, looking towards me.

Two.

They moved a little closer, then halted again. Their veils obscured their faces. When they stopped, one of them lifted her veil. In the dim evening light, I recognized Marian Halcombe.

She looked changed, as if years had passed over her! Her eyes were wide and wild, filled with a strange terror. Her face was worn and gaunt, etched with pain, fear, and grief.

I took a step toward her from the grave. She remained motionless, silent. The veiled woman beside her called out softly. I hesitated. A wave of unutterable dread washed over me, chilling me to the bone.

The veiled woman stepped away from her companion and approached me slowly. Left alone, Marian Halcombe spoke. It was the voice I remembered—unchanged, unlike her frightened eyes and haggard face.

“My dream! my dream!” she whispered in the heavy silence. She sank to her knees, raising her clasped hands to the heavens. “Father! Strengthen him. Father! Help him in his hour of need.”

The woman continued toward me, slowly and silently. From that moment, my gaze was fixed on her—on no one else.

The voice praying for me faltered, then rose suddenly, calling out in fear, pleading for me to come away.

But the veiled woman had a hold on me, body and soul. She stopped beside the grave. We stood face to face, the tombstone between us. She was close to the inscription on the pedestal, her gown brushing against the black letters.

The voice grew louder, more passionate. “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, stood by the inscription, looking at me across the grave.

[The Second Epoch of the Story closes here.]

THE THIRD EPOCH

THE STORY CONTINUED BY WALTER HARTRIGHT.