VIII

von Wilkie Collins

When I got home after my meeting with Mrs. Clements, I noticed something had changed in Laura.

The gentle patience that long hardship had tested so severely seemed to have suddenly slipped away from her. She was unresponsive to Marian’s attempts to comfort and entertain her. Instead, she sat with her drawing materials pushed aside, her eyes fixed on the floor, her fingers twisting and untwisting in her lap. Marian stood up when I entered, her face filled with silent concern. She waited a moment to see if Laura would look up, then leaned in and whispered, “Try to bring her back,” before leaving the room.

I took a seat in the empty chair beside her, gently uncoupling her restless fingers and holding both of her hands in mine.

“What’s on your mind, Laura? Please, tell me what you’re feeling.”

She fought against herself, finally lifting her gaze to meet mine. “I can’t feel happy,” she admitted. “I can’t stop thinking—” She paused, leaned forward slightly, and rested her head on my shoulder, a silent plea that pierced my heart.

“Please, try to share with me,” I urged softly. “Tell me why you’re feeling this way.”

“I feel so useless—I’m such a burden to both of you,” she replied with a weary sigh. “You work hard to earn money, Walter, and Marian helps you. What can I possibly do? You’re going to end up liking Marian more than me—you will, because I’m so helpless! Oh, please don’t treat me like a child!”

I lifted her chin, brushing the tangled hair from her face, and kissed her—my poor, faded flower, my lost, suffering sister. “You will help us, Laura,” I said firmly. “You will start today, my dear.”

Her eyes lit up with a spark of hope, a breathless interest that made me anxious about the new life I had just ignited with those few words.

I stood up and organized her drawing materials, placing them back in front of her.

“You know I earn money by drawing,” I said. “Now that you’ve improved so much, it’s time for you to start working too. Try to finish this little sketch as beautifully as you can. When you’re done, I’ll take it with me, and the same person who buys my work will buy yours. You can keep your earnings in your own purse, and Marian will come to you for help just as often as she comes to me. Think about how useful you’ll be to both of us, and soon you’ll feel as happy as the day is long.”

Her expression shifted, brightening into a smile. For that brief moment, as she picked up the pencils she had set aside, she almost resembled the Laura of our happier days.

I had correctly interpreted the first signs of a new strength blossoming within her, reflected in her growing interest in the activities that filled Marian’s and my lives. When I shared what had happened with Marian, she recognized, as I did, that Laura longed to find her own small place of significance, to elevate her self-worth in our eyes and her own. From that day on, we lovingly nurtured this new ambition, which promised a hopeful and happier future that might be just around the corner.

As Laura completed her drawings, or attempted to, I took them from her. Marian would carefully hide them away, and I set aside a small weekly amount from my earnings to give to her as payment for the faint, delicate sketches that I was the only buyer of. Sometimes it was difficult to maintain our innocent ruse when she proudly pulled out her purse to contribute to our expenses, genuinely curious about whether I or she had earned more that week. I still have all those hidden drawings—they are my priceless treasures, cherished memories I hold dear, reminders of the friends I made during tough times, bonds my heart will never sever, and my affection will never forget.

Am I being trivial here, focusing on the necessities of my task? Am I looking ahead to a happier time that my story hasn’t reached yet? Yes. But let’s go back—back to the days filled with doubt and fear, when my spirit fought hard for survival in the cold stillness of endless uncertainty. I’ve paused for a moment on my journey forward. Perhaps it’s not wasted time if the friends reading these pages have paused and reflected as well.

I took the first chance I got to speak with Marian privately, sharing the results of my inquiries from that morning. She seemed to echo the concerns about my planned trip to Welmingham that Mrs. Clements had already expressed to me.

“Walter,” she said, “you can’t seriously think you’re ready to earn Mrs. Catherick’s trust yet, can you? Is it really wise to take such drastic steps before you’ve explored all the safer and simpler options to achieve your goal? When you mentioned that Sir Percival and the Count were the only two people who knew the exact date of Laura’s journey, we both overlooked a crucial detail—there’s a third person who must know it too: Mrs. Rubelle. Wouldn’t it be much easier, and far less risky, to get a confession from her instead of trying to pry it out of Sir Percival?”

“It might be easier,” I replied, “but we don’t fully understand how involved Mrs. Rubelle is in this conspiracy. We can’t be sure that the date is as firmly lodged in her mind as it is in Sir Percival’s and the Count’s. It’s too late to waste time on Mrs. Rubelle when every moment counts in uncovering the one vulnerable point in Sir Percival’s life. Are you perhaps worrying too much about the risks I might face returning to Hampshire? Do you doubt that Sir Percival Glyde could ultimately outsmart me?”

“He won’t outsmart you,” she said firmly, “because he won’t have the Count’s impenetrable wickedness to back him up.”

“What makes you so sure?” I asked, surprised.

“My understanding of Sir Percival’s stubbornness and his irritation with the Count’s control,” she replied. “I believe he’ll want to confront you alone—just as he insisted on acting independently at Blackwater Park. The moment he feels the Count’s interference will be when you have him cornered. His own interests will be at stake, and he’ll act with ruthless determination to defend himself.”

“We can disarm him before that happens,” I said. “Some of the details I’ve learned from Mrs. Clements could be used against him, and there may be other ways to strengthen our case. There are parts of Mrs. Michelson’s account that suggest the Count had to communicate with Mr. Fairlie, and there might be details that could compromise him in that interaction. While I’m away, Marian, write to Mr. Fairlie and ask him for a detailed account of what transpired between him and the Count, along with any other information he might have about his niece. Make it clear that you’ll insist on this statement sooner or later if he hesitates to provide it willingly.”

“I’ll write the letter, Walter. But are you really set on going to Welmingham?”

“Absolutely. I’ll spend the next two days gathering what we need for the week ahead, and on the third day, I’ll head to Hampshire.”

When the third day arrived, I was prepared for my journey.

Knowing I might be away for a while, I arranged with Marian to correspond daily, using assumed names for safety. As long as I received her letters regularly, I’d assume everything was fine. But if a morning came without a letter, I’d return to London on the first train. I managed to convince Laura that I was going to the countryside to find new buyers for her drawings and mine, leaving her content and busy. Marian walked me to the street door.

“Remember the anxious hearts you’re leaving behind,” she whispered as we stood in the passage. “Think of all the hopes resting on your safe return. If anything strange happens on this journey—if you run into Sir Percival—”

“What makes you think we’ll meet?” I asked.

“I don’t know—I just have these fears and feelings I can’t explain. You can laugh at them if you want, but for God’s sake, keep your cool if you come across that man!”

“Don’t worry, Marian! I promise I’ll keep my temper.”

With those words, we parted.

I walked briskly to the station, filled with a sense of hope. I felt increasingly convinced that this journey wouldn’t be in vain. It was a bright, clear, cold morning. My nerves were steady, and I felt the strength of my resolve surging through me from head to toe.

As I stepped onto the train platform and scanned the crowd for familiar faces, a thought crossed my mind: maybe I should have worn a disguise before heading to Hampshire. But the idea felt so distasteful, so beneath me, like something a spy or informant would do, that I quickly pushed it aside. Even if it were practical, it seemed risky. If I tried to disguise myself at home, the landlord would eventually recognize me and become suspicious. If I did it away from home, I might run into someone I knew, and that would only draw unwanted attention to myself. I had acted as myself up to this point, and I was determined to continue that way.

The train dropped me off at Welmingham early in the afternoon.

Is there any barren stretch of sand in the deserts of Arabia, any sense of desolation among the ruins of Palestine, that could compare to the bleakness of an English country town in its early days, struggling to find its footing? I pondered this as I walked through the sterile emptiness, the awkward charm, and the stiff stillness of Welmingham’s streets. The shopkeepers stared at me from their lonely storefronts, the trees hung limply in their unfinished squares, and the vacant houses stood waiting for the spark of life that never came. Every person I saw, every object I passed, seemed to echo the sentiment: The deserts of Arabia are untouched by our civilized despair—the ruins of Palestine cannot match our modern gloom.

I asked for directions to the part of town where Mrs. Catherick lived, and when I arrived, I found myself in a small square filled with one-story houses. In the center was a patch of grass surrounded by a flimsy wire fence. An older nanny and two children stood in one corner, watching a scrawny goat tied to the grass. Two pedestrians chatted on one side of the sidewalk, while a bored little boy led a sleepy dog on a leash on the other. In the distance, I could hear the dull notes of a piano, mixed with the sporadic sound of a hammer nearby. These were the only signs of life I encountered as I entered the square.

I walked straight to the door of Number Thirteen—Mrs. Catherick’s house—and knocked, not pausing to think about how I would present myself once inside. My priority was to see Mrs. Catherick first; then I could decide how best to approach the reason for my visit.

A somber middle-aged maid answered the door. I handed her my card and asked to see Mrs. Catherick. She took the card into the front parlor and returned with a message asking me to state my business.

“Please tell her it’s about her daughter,” I replied, the best excuse I could come up with on the spot.

The maid disappeared again, then came back, looking both surprised and solemn, and invited me in.

I stepped into a small room decorated with loud wallpaper featuring a large pattern. The furniture—chairs, tables, a sideboard, and a sofa—shone with the glossy finish of cheap upholstery. In the center of the largest table sat a fancy Bible, perfectly placed on a red and yellow wool mat. Next to the window, an elderly woman sat with a knitting basket in her lap and a wheezing, bleary-eyed spaniel curled up at her feet. She wore a black net cap and a black silk dress, and her hands were covered with slate-colored mittens. Her iron-grey hair framed her face in heavy bands, and her dark eyes held a hard, defiant gaze. She had full, square cheeks, a long, firm chin, and thick, colorless lips. Sturdy and robust, she exuded an air of aggressive self-assurance. This was Mrs. Catherick.

“You’ve come to talk to me about my daughter,” she said before I could say anything. “Please, go ahead and tell me what you have to say.”

Her voice was sharp, defiant, and unyielding, matching the steely gaze in her eyes. She gestured toward a chair and scrutinized me from head to toe as I settled into it. I realized that my best chance with this woman was to mirror her tone and meet her on her own terms right from the start.

“You know your daughter is missing?” I began.

“I know that perfectly well.”

“Have you feared that her disappearance might lead to something worse—like her death?”

“Yes. Are you here to tell me she’s dead?”

“I am.”

“Why?”

She asked that question with an expression so flat and emotionless that it was as if I had just informed her about the death of a goat outside.

“Why?” I echoed. “You want to know why I’m here to tell you about your daughter’s death?”

“Yes. What do you have to do with me or her? How do you know anything about my daughter?”

“I know because I met her the night she escaped from the Asylum, and I helped her get to safety.”

“You did a terrible thing.”

“I’m sorry to hear you say that.”

“Her mother says so. How do you know she’s dead?”

“I can’t disclose how I know, but I do know.”

“Can you at least tell me how you found my address?”

“Of course. I got it from Mrs. Clements.”

“Mrs. Clements is a foolish woman. Did she send you here?”

“No, she didn’t.”

“Then I ask you again, why did you come?”

Determined to get her answer, I responded as clearly as I could.

“I came,” I said, “because I thought Anne Catherick’s mother might want to know if she was alive or dead.”

“Exactly,” Mrs. Catherick replied, regaining her composure. “Did you have no other reason?”

I hesitated. The right answer wasn’t easy to conjure up on the spot.

“If you have no other reason,” she continued, deliberately removing her slate-colored mittens and rolling them up, “then I have only to thank you for your visit and say that I won’t keep you here any longer. Your information would be more convincing if you were willing to explain how you obtained it. Still, I suppose it gives me justification to go into mourning. There’s not much I need to change about my outfit, as you can see. Once I switch my mittens, I’ll be dressed in black.”

She rummaged through her dress pocket, pulled out a pair of black lace mittens, and put them on with a calmness that was almost eerie. Then she folded her hands neatly in her lap.

“I wish you good morning,” she said.

Her cool disdain irritated me, prompting me to admit that my visit hadn’t yet fulfilled its purpose.

“I DO have another reason for coming here,” I said.

“Ah! I thought so,” Mrs. Catherick remarked.

“Your daughter’s death—”

“What did she die from?”

“From heart disease.”

“Yes. Go on.”

“Your daughter’s death has been used as a pretext to inflict serious harm on someone very dear to me. I know for certain that two men are involved in this wrongdoing. One of them is Sir Percival Glyde.”

“Really?”

I watched closely to see if she reacted to the mention of that name. Not a single muscle in her face moved; her hard, defiant gaze remained steady.

“You might be wondering,” I continued, “how your daughter’s death could lead to harm for someone else.”

“No,” Mrs. Catherick replied. “I’m not wondering at all. This is your issue. You’re interested in my affairs, but I’m not interested in yours.”

“You might then ask,” I pressed on, “why I’m bringing this up in front of you.”

“Yes, I DO ask that.”

“I mention it because I’m determined to hold Sir Percival Glyde accountable for the wrong he has done.”

“What does that have to do with me?”

“You’ll find out. There are certain events from Sir Percival’s past that I need to know about to achieve my goal. YOU know those events—and that’s why I’m here.”

“What events?”

“Events that took place at Old Welmingham when your husband was the parish clerk, before your daughter was born.”

At last, I had penetrated the wall of impenetrable reserve she had built around herself. I could see her temper simmering in her eyes, just as I noticed her hands growing restless, then unclasping to smooth her dress over her knees.

“What do you know about those events?” she asked.

“All that Mrs. Clements could tell me,” I replied.

A brief flush crossed her strong, square face, and for a moment, her restless hands stilled, hinting at an impending outburst of anger that could easily catch her off guard. But no—she quickly reined in her rising irritation, leaned back in her chair, crossed her arms over her broad chest, and with a smile that dripped with grim sarcasm, fixed her steady gaze on me.

“Ah! Now I see it all clearly,” she said, her controlled anger seeping through the elaborate mockery in her tone and demeanor. “You have your own grudge against Sir Percival Glyde, and I’m supposed to help you settle it. You want me to spill the beans about Sir Percival and me, don’t you? Yes, indeed? You’ve been snooping around in my private life. You think you’ve found a lost woman here, living on borrowed time, who’ll do anything you ask out of fear of what the townspeople might think. I see right through your little game—I really do! And it’s quite amusing. Ha! Ha!”

She paused, her arms tightening across her chest as she let out a harsh, bitter laugh.

“You have no idea how I’ve lived in this town or what I’ve done here, Mr. What’s-your-name,” she continued. “Before I send you on your way, let me tell you. I came here as a wronged woman—stripped of my reputation and determined to reclaim it. I’ve spent years doing just that—and I HAVE reclaimed it. I’ve faced the respectable folks head-on, on their own turf. If they say anything against me now, they have to do it in whispers—they can’t say it openly, they daren’t. I’ve risen high enough in this town to be out of your reach. THE CLERGYMAN BOWS TO ME. Aha! You didn’t expect that when you came here. Go to the church and ask about me—you’ll find Mrs. Catherick sitting among the rest, paying her rent on time. Go to the town hall. There’s a petition there—a petition from the respectable citizens against allowing a circus to come and corrupt our morals—yes! OUR morals. I signed that petition this morning. Go to the bookstore. The clergyman’s Wednesday evening lectures on Justification by Faith are being published there by subscription—I’m on the list. The doctor’s wife only dropped a shilling in the plate at our last charity sermon—I put in half a crown. Mr. Churchwarden Soward held the plate and bowed to me. Ten years ago, he told Pigrum the chemist that I should be driven out of town. Is your mother alive? Does she have a better Bible on her table than I do on mine? Does she have better standing with her tradespeople than I do with mine? Has she always lived within her means? I have always lived within mine. Ah! Look, there’s the clergyman coming down the square. Look, Mr. What’s-your-name—look, if you please!”

She sprang up with the energy of a young woman, rushed to the window, and waited until the clergyman passed, bowing to him solemnly. He raised his hat in a formal gesture and continued on his way. Mrs. Catherick returned to her chair, her expression more sardonic than ever.

“There! What do you think of that for a woman with a lost reputation? How does your little theory look now?”

The unusual way she chose to assert herself, along with her striking defense of her position in the town, left me momentarily speechless. I was still determined to provoke her into revealing something more. If I could just get her fierce temper to flare up, she might say something that would give me the clue I needed.

“How does your little theory look now?” she repeated.

“Exactly the same as it did when I first walked in,” I replied. “I don’t doubt your standing in this town, and I have no intention of undermining it. I came here because Sir Percival Glyde is, without a doubt, your enemy as well as mine. If I have a grudge against him, you do too. You can deny it all you want, you can distrust me as much as you like, and you can be as angry as you wish—but of all the women in England, you are the one who should want to help me take that man down.”

“Take him down for yourself,” she shot back. “Then come back here and see what I have to say.”

Her words were quick, fierce, and filled with a vindictive edge. I had stirred up years of buried hatred, but only for a moment. Like a coiled serpent, it sprang at me as she leaned forward eagerly, then vanished as she settled back into her chair.

“You won’t trust me?” I asked.

“No.”

“You’re afraid?”

“Do I look afraid?”

“You’re afraid of Sir Percival Glyde?”

“Am I?”

Her cheeks flushed as she busied herself smoothing her dress. I pressed on, determined to keep the conversation going without giving her a moment’s pause.

“Sir Percival holds a prominent position in society,” I said. “It wouldn’t be surprising if you felt intimidated by him. He’s a powerful man, a baronet, owner of a vast estate, and comes from a distinguished family—”

To my astonishment, she suddenly burst into laughter.

“Yes,” she said, her voice dripping with bitter contempt. “A baronet, owner of a fine estate, descended from a great family. Yes, indeed! A great family—especially on the mother’s side.”

I didn’t have time to ponder her words; I only knew they were significant enough to consider later, once I left the house.

“I’m not here to argue about family matters,” I replied. “I know nothing about Sir Percival’s mother—”

“And you know just as little about Sir Percival himself,” she interrupted sharply.

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” I countered. “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 shot to her feet, stepping closer to me, fury etched on her face.

“How dare you talk to me about Anne’s father! How dare you claim to know who her father is or isn’t!” Her voice trembled with rage, her face quivering.

“The secret between you and Sir Percival isn’t THAT secret,” I pressed on. “The mystery surrounding Sir Percival’s life didn’t start with your daughter’s birth, and it hasn’t ended with her death.”

She took a step back. “Go!” she commanded, pointing firmly toward the door.

“There was no thought of the child in your heart or in his,” I continued, determined to push her to her limits. “There was no bond of guilty love between you two when you met in secret, when your husband caught you whispering together under the church’s vestry.”

As I spoke, her hand dropped to her side, and the flush of anger faded from her face. I noticed the change in her; the strong, fearless woman I had been confronting now seemed to falter under a fear that even her resolve couldn’t withstand when I mentioned “the vestry of the church.”

For a moment, we stood in silence, locked in a tense stare. I broke the quiet first.

“Do you still refuse to trust me?” I asked.

She couldn’t summon the color back to her face, but she steadied her voice, regaining her defiance as she replied.

“I do refuse.”

“Are you still telling me to leave?”

“Yes. Go—and don’t come back.”

I walked to the door, hesitated before opening it, and turned to look at her once more.

“I might have news about Sir Percival that you don’t expect,” I said. “If that’s the case, I will return.”

“There’s no news about Sir Percival that I don’t expect, except—”

She paused, her pale face darkening as she stealthily returned to her chair.

“Except the news of his death,” she said, sitting down again, a mocking smile barely touching her lips, while a flicker of hatred glinted in her steady gaze.

As I opened the door to leave, she glanced back at me quickly. The cruel smile widened on her lips, and she studied me with a strange, predatory interest, as if she were contemplating the extent of my youth and strength, the depth of my sense of betrayal, and how far those feelings might push me if I ever crossed paths with Sir Percival. The mere thought of it unsettled me, and I turned away from her, silencing even the usual farewells that lingered on my lips. Without another word from either of us, I left the room.

As I stepped outside, I noticed the same clergyman who had passed by earlier, now approaching again on his way back through the square. I waited on the doorstep for him to pass, glancing back at the parlor window as I did.

Mrs. Catherick heard his footsteps approaching in the stillness of that isolated place, and she quickly got to her feet at the window, waiting for him. Despite all the intense emotions I had stirred within her, she clung desperately to the one piece of social respectability that years of relentless effort had finally brought within her reach.

There she was again, barely a minute after I had left her, strategically positioned so that it would be only polite for the clergyman to acknowledge her with a bow once more. He tipped his hat again. I watched as her hard, ghastly face softened, lighting up with a sense of pride. I saw her head, crowned with that grim black cap, bend in a formal return. The clergyman had bowed to her, and in my presence, twice in one day!