I

von Wilkie Collins

I turn the page and move my story forward by a week.

What happened during that time remains a mystery. Just thinking about it makes my heart sink and my mind swirl with confusion. I can’t let this happen if I’m to guide you, the reader, through this tale. I need to keep the thread of the story untangled from start to finish.

A life transformed—its purpose reshaped, its hopes and fears, struggles, interests, and sacrifices all suddenly redirected—this is the reality I now face, like the breathtaking view from a mountain peak. I left my story in the quiet shadow of Limmeridge church, and now I pick it up again, one week later, in the chaos of a London street.

This street is in a bustling, impoverished neighborhood. The ground floor of one of the buildings houses a small newsstand, while the first and second floors are rented out as modest furnished lodgings.

I’ve taken those two floors under a false name. I live on the upper floor, with a room for work and a room for sleep. On the lower floor, under the same assumed name, two women live who are said to be my sisters. I earn my living by drawing and engraving on wood for cheap magazines. My sisters are believed to assist me by doing a bit of needlework. Our shabby home, our humble jobs, our fabricated relationship, and our fake name all serve to keep us hidden in the vastness of London. We are no longer counted among those whose lives are open and known. I am a nameless, unnoticed man, without any patron or friend to support me. Marian Halcombe is now just my eldest sister, working tirelessly to provide for us. In the eyes of others, we are both the victims and the accomplices of a bold deception. We are thought to be in league with mad Anne Catherick, who claims the identity, status, and living presence of the deceased Lady Glyde.

That is our reality. That is how we three must appear in this narrative for many pages to come.

In the eyes of reason and law, in the judgment of relatives and friends, according to every accepted norm of society, “Laura, Lady Glyde,” lies buried with her mother in Limmeridge churchyard. Though she was removed from the living during her lifetime, the daughter of Philip Fairlie and the wife of Percival Glyde may still exist for her sister and for me, but to the rest of the world, she is dead. Dead to her uncle, who has disowned her; dead to the household staff, who failed to recognize her; dead to the authorities, who transferred her fortune to her husband and aunt; dead to my mother and sister, who believe I am the victim of a con artist and a fraud; socially, morally, legally—dead.

And yet alive! Alive in poverty and in hiding. Alive, with the struggling drawing master fighting her battle and paving the way for her return to the world of the living.

Did I feel any suspicion, sparked by my own knowledge of Anne Catherick’s resemblance to her, when I first saw her face? Not a hint of suspicion, from the moment she lifted her veil beside the inscription that marked her death.

Before the sun set that day, before the last glimpse of the home that had shut her out faded from view, both of us recalled the farewell words I had spoken when we parted at Limmeridge House. I repeated them, and she recognized them. “If the time ever comes when my whole heart, soul, and strength can bring you even a moment of happiness or spare you a moment of sorrow, will you try to remember the poor drawing-master who taught you?”

She, who had forgotten so much of the pain and fear that followed, still remembered those words. She laid her weary head trustingly on my chest. In that moment, when she called me by my name and said, “They’ve 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, offered her my life, grateful that it was mine to give.

Yes, the time had come. From thousands of miles away—through forests and wilderness, where stronger companions had fallen by my side, through the peril of death that I had faced and escaped three times—the hand that guides us through the dark road to the future had brought me to this moment.

She was forlorn and disowned, deeply tested and sadly changed. Her beauty had faded, her mind clouded. She had lost her place in the world, her standing among the living. Now, the devotion I had promised—my whole heart, soul, and strength—could be offered without blame at her dear feet. In the wake of her calamity, in her friendlessness, she was finally mine! Mine to support, to protect, to cherish, to restore. Mine to love and honor as both father and brother. Mine to defend against all odds—against Rank and Power, against the long battle with deceit and fortified Success, against the erosion of my reputation, the loss of my friends, and the risk to my life.