II

von Wilkie Collins

It was just before ten o’clock when I finally arrived in Fulham and made my way to Gower’s Walk.

Both Laura and Marian greeted me at the door. It struck me how little we had realized the depth of the bond that connected the three of us until that evening brought us back together. We embraced as if we hadn’t seen each other for months, rather than just a few days. Marian’s face showed the signs of worry and fatigue. The moment I saw her, I understood that she had faced all the danger and dealt with all the stress during my absence. In contrast, Laura’s brighter demeanor and cheerful spirit indicated that she had been shielded from the terrible news about the death at Welmingham and the real reason for our move.

The chaos of the move seemed to have lifted her spirits. She spoke of it as if it were a delightful surprise from Marian to welcome me back, moving us from the cramped, noisy street to a lovely area filled with trees, fields, and the river. She was bubbling with ideas for the future—about the drawings she planned to finish, the buyers I had found in the countryside who would purchase them, and the coins she had saved until her purse felt so heavy that she proudly asked me to hold it. The transformation in her during my brief absence took me by surprise, and for all the joy of witnessing it, I owed it to Marian’s bravery and love.

Once Laura left us and we could speak freely, I tried to express the gratitude and admiration swelling in my heart. But Marian wouldn’t let me. That remarkable selflessness in women, which gives so much and asks so little, shifted her focus entirely from herself to me.

“I only had a moment before the post went out,” she said, “or I would have written more thoughtfully. You look worn out, Walter. I hope my letter didn’t alarm you too much?”

“Only at first,” I replied. “My worry was calmed by my trust in you. Was I right to think this sudden move was due to some threat from Count Fosco?”

“Absolutely right,” she confirmed. “I saw him yesterday, and worse than that, Walter—I spoke to him.”

“You spoke to him? Did he know where we lived? Did he come to the house?”

“He did come to the house, but not upstairs. Laura never saw him—she suspects nothing. Let me explain how it happened: I believe and hope the danger has passed. Yesterday, I was in the sitting room of our old place. Laura was sketching at the table while I was tidying up. As I walked past the window, I glanced outside and saw the Count across the street, talking to someone.”

“Did he see you at the window?”

“No—at least, I don’t think so. I was too shocked to be entirely sure.”

“Who was the other man? A stranger?”

“Not a stranger, Walter. Once I caught my breath, I recognized him. He was the owner of the Lunatic Asylum.”

“Was the Count pointing out our house to him?”

“No, they were just chatting like two people who had bumped into each other on the street. I stayed at the window, peering at them through the curtain. If I had turned around, and if Laura had caught a glimpse of my face at that moment—thank goodness she was completely engrossed in her drawing! They soon parted ways. The man from the Asylum walked off in one direction, while the Count went the other. I started to hope it was just a coincidence until I saw the Count return, stop right in front of us again, pull out his card case and a pencil, jot something down, and then cross the street to the shop below us.

I dashed past Laura before she could see me, claiming I had forgotten something upstairs. Once I was out of the room, I hurried down to the first landing and waited—I was determined to stop him if he tried to come upstairs. But he didn’t make any move in that direction. The shop girl came through the door into the hallway, holding his card—a large, gilded card with his name and a coronet above it, with these lines written in pencil: ‘Dear lady’ (yes! The scoundrel still had the audacity to address me this way)—‘dear lady, I implore you for one word on a matter serious to us both.’

When faced with serious dilemmas, thoughts race. I immediately realized it would be a grave mistake to leave both myself and you in the dark about a man like the Count. The uncertainty of what he might do in your absence would be far more distressing if I refused to see him than if I agreed to meet him. ‘Ask the gentleman to wait in the shop,’ I instructed. ‘I’ll be with him shortly.’

I rushed upstairs for my bonnet, determined not to let him speak to me inside. I knew his deep, resonant voice, and I feared Laura might hear it, even from the shop. In less than a minute, I was back in the hallway and opened the door to the street. He approached me from the shop, dressed in deep mourning, with his smooth bow and that chilling smile, while a few idle boys and women nearby stared at his imposing figure, his fine black clothes, and the large cane with a gold knob. The memories of that dreadful time at Blackwater flooded back the moment I laid eyes on him. The old revulsion crawled through me as he tipped his hat with a flourish and spoke to me as if we had parted on the friendliest terms just a day ago.

“Do you remember what he said?”

“I can’t repeat it, Walter. You’ll find out soon enough what he said about you—but I can’t bring myself to repeat what he said to me. It was worse than the polite insolence of his letter. My hands itched to strike him, as if I were a man! I only managed to keep them still by tearing his card to shreds under my shawl. Without saying a word, I walked away from the house (to avoid Laura seeing us), and he followed, softly protesting all the while.

In the first side street, I turned and asked him what he wanted. He had two things to discuss. First, if I had no objection, he wanted to express his sentiments. I declined to hear them. Second, he wanted to repeat the warning from his letter. I asked why he felt the need to repeat it. He bowed and smiled, saying he would explain. His explanation confirmed the fears I had shared with you before you left us. I told you, if you remember, that Sir Percival would be too stubborn to heed his friend’s advice regarding you, and that there was no danger from the Count until his own interests were threatened and he was provoked into action.

“I remember, Marian.”

“Well, it has turned out exactly as I predicted. The Count offered his advice, but it was dismissed. Sir Percival would only listen to his own violence, obstinacy, and hatred of you. The Count let him have his way, first privately checking where we lived in case his own interests were threatened later. Walter, you were followed on your return here after your first trip to Hampshire, by the lawyer’s men for some distance from the railway, and by the Count himself to the door of our house. He didn’t tell me how he managed to avoid being seen by you, but he discovered where we were that day.

Once he made that discovery, he didn’t act on it until he learned of Sir Percival’s death. Then, as I mentioned, he took matters into his own hands, believing you would next pursue action against the dead man’s partner in the conspiracy. He quickly arranged to meet the owner of the Asylum in London and to take him to the place where his runaway patient was hidden, thinking that the outcome, no matter how it turned out, would entangle you in endless legal disputes and difficulties, effectively tying your hands as far as he was concerned. That was his intention, as he confessed to me. The only thing that made him hesitate at the last moment—”

“Yes?”

“It’s hard to admit this, Walter, but I have to. I was the only thing that mattered. No words can express how degraded I feel when I think about it, but the one weakness in that man’s iron will is the awful admiration he has for me. I’ve tried to convince myself it isn’t true for as long as I could, but his looks and actions force me to face the shameful reality. That monster’s eyes filled with tears while he spoke to me—they really did, Walter! He said that when he pointed out the house to the doctor, he thought about my misery if I were separated from Laura, about my responsibility if I had to answer for helping her escape. He risked everything you could do to him, for my sake. All he asked was that I remember his sacrifice and keep you from acting rashly, for my own sake—sake that he might never be able to consider again. I made no such deal with him—I would have rather died. But whether you believe him or not, whether it’s true or false that he sent the doctor away with an excuse, one thing is certain: I saw the man leave without even glancing at our window or our side of the street.”

“I believe you, Marian. The best men aren’t always consistent in doing good—why should the worst men be consistent in doing evil? Still, I suspect he’s just trying to scare you by threatening things he can’t actually do. I doubt he has the power to annoy us through the owner of the Asylum now that Sir Percival is dead and Mrs. Catherick is free. But tell me more. What did the Count say about me?”

“He spoke about you last. His eyes brightened and hardened, and his demeanor shifted to what I remember from before—a mix of ruthless determination and mocking bravado that makes him so impossible to read. ‘Warn Mr. Hartright!’ he said in a grand tone. ‘He’s dealing with a man of intelligence, a man who scoffs at the laws and conventions of society when he measures himself against ME. If my dear friend had taken my advice, the inquest would have been about Mr. Hartright’s body. But my dear friend was stubborn. Look! I mourn his loss—inwardly in my soul, outwardly on my hat. This little black ribbon expresses feelings that I urge Mr. Hartright to respect. They could turn into deep enmity if he dares to disturb them. Let him be satisfied with what he has—with what I leave untouched, for your sake, to him and to you. Tell him (with my compliments), if he provokes me, he’ll have to deal with Fosco. In plain English, I inform him—Fosco stops at nothing. Dear lady, good morning.’ His cold grey eyes fixed on my face—he took off his hat solemnly, bowed, and left me.”

“Without looking back? Without saying any last words?”

“He turned at the corner of the street, waved his hand, and then struck his chest dramatically. I lost sight of him after that. He disappeared in the opposite direction from our house, and I rushed back to Laura. Before I even got inside, I was certain we had to leave. The house—especially without you—had become a place of danger instead of safety, now that the Count had found it. If I had been sure of your return, I might have risked waiting for you. But I was sure of nothing, so I acted on my instincts. You had mentioned, before you left, moving to a quieter neighborhood with cleaner air for Laura’s health. I only had to remind her of that and suggest surprising you by managing the move while you were away, to make her just as eager for the change as I was. She helped me pack your things, and she has arranged everything for you in your new workspace here.”

“What made you think of coming to this place?”

“My unfamiliarity with other areas around London. I felt the need to get as far away as possible from our old lodgings, and I knew a bit about Fulham because I had attended school there once. I sent a messenger with a note, hoping the school might still be operating. It was still there—the daughters of my old teacher were running it, and they secured this place based on my instructions. It was just around the time the post was going out when the messenger returned with the address of the house. We moved after dark—arrived here completely unnoticed. Have I done the right thing, Walter? Have I justified your trust in me?”

I responded warmly and gratefully, as I truly felt. But the worried look remained on her face as I spoke, and the first question she asked when I finished was about Count Fosco.

I could see that she was thinking about him differently now. There was no fresh outburst of anger directed at him, no new plea for me to hasten the day of reckoning. Instead, her belief that his loathsome admiration was genuine seemed to deepen her distrust of his unfathomable cunning. She was filled with an innate fear of his wicked energy and sharp awareness. Her voice dropped to a whisper, her demeanor became uncertain, and her eyes searched mine with a mix of eagerness and dread as she asked what I thought of his message and what my next steps would be.

“Not long ago, Marian,” I replied, “I had a conversation with Mr. Kyrle. When we parted, I told him this about Laura: ‘Her uncle’s house will welcome her, in front of everyone who followed the false funeral to the grave. The lie of her death will be publicly erased from the tombstone by the head of the family, and the two men who wronged her will answer to ME for their crime, even if the justice that sits in courts can’t pursue them.’ One of those men is beyond reach. The other is still here, and my resolve remains firm.”

Her eyes brightened, and color rushed to her cheeks. She didn’t say anything, but I could see her support gathering around me.

“I won’t pretend to you or myself that the road ahead is anything but uncertain. The risks we’ve already taken might seem trivial compared to what lies ahead, but we will take this chance, Marian. I’m not foolish enough to confront a man like the Count without being fully prepared. I’ve learned patience—I can wait. Let him think his message has had an impact—let him remain unaware of us—let’s give him the time to feel secure. His boastful nature, if I’m not mistaken, will only speed that along. That’s one reason for waiting, but there’s another, even more important. My position, Marian, regarding you and Laura needs to be stronger than it is now before I attempt our final chance.”

She leaned closer, surprise flickering across her face.

“How can it be stronger?” she asked.

“I’ll explain when the time is right. That moment hasn’t arrived yet—it might never come. I may have to remain silent with Laura forever—I must be silent now, even with YOU, until I can speak without causing harm or dishonor. Let’s set that topic aside. There’s something more pressing we need to discuss. You’ve kept Laura, mercifully, in the dark about her husband’s death—”

“Oh, Walter, surely we can wait a while longer before telling her?”

“No, Marian. It’s better for you to tell her now than for some unforeseen accident to reveal it later. Spare her the details—break it to her gently, but let her know that he is dead.”

“Do you have another reason for wanting her to know about her husband’s death, aside from what you just mentioned?”

“I do.”

“A reason connected to that subject we can’t discuss yet? One that may never be brought up with Laura at all?”

She lingered on those last words, and when I confirmed them, I felt the weight of them too.

Her face paled. For a moment, she looked at me with a sad, hesitant interest. A new tenderness flickered in her dark eyes, softening her firm lips as she glanced at the empty chair where our dear companion had once sat.

“I think I understand,” she said quietly. “I believe I owe it to her and to you, Walter, to tell her about her husband’s death.”

She sighed, held my hand tightly for a moment, then abruptly let go and left the room. The next day, Laura learned that his death had freed her, and that the mistakes and tragedies of her life were buried with him.

His name was never mentioned again. From that point on, we avoided even the slightest reference to his death, and in the same careful manner, Marian and I refrained from discussing that other topic, which we had both agreed not to bring up yet. It didn’t mean it was absent from our thoughts; in fact, it lingered there, kept alive by the restraint we had imposed on ourselves. We both watched Laura more closely than ever, sometimes filled with hope, sometimes gripped by fear, as we waited for the right moment.

Gradually, we settled back into our usual routine. I picked up the daily work that had been put on hold during my time away in Hampshire. Our new place cost more than the smaller, less convenient rooms we had left behind, and this financial strain weighed heavily on my shoulders, especially with the uncertainty of our future. Unexpected events could still arise that might drain our small savings at the bank, and ultimately, the labor of my hands might be all we could rely on for support. I knew I needed to find more stable and better-paying work than what had been offered to me so far, and I was determined to make that happen.

It would be a mistake to think that the time of rest and solitude I’m describing completely halted my pursuit of the one all-consuming goal that has driven my thoughts and actions throughout this narrative. That goal continued to demand my attention for many months to come. Even as it slowly developed, I still had precautions to take, debts of gratitude to settle, and a troubling question to answer.

The precaution I needed to take was crucial: I had to find out if the Count intended to stay in England—or, in simpler terms, if he would remain within my reach. I managed to resolve this uncertainty through straightforward means. Knowing his address in St. John’s Wood, I asked around the neighborhood. I located the agent responsible for the furnished house he occupied and inquired whether number five, Forest Road, would be available for rent anytime soon. The answer was no. I learned that the foreign gentleman living there had renewed his lease for another six months and would remain until the end of June the following year. Since we were only at the beginning of December, I left the agent feeling relieved that the Count wouldn’t be slipping away from me just yet.

The obligation I needed to fulfill brought me back to Mrs. Clements. I had promised to return and share the details about Anne Catherick’s death and burial that I had withheld during our first meeting. Given the changed circumstances, there was nothing stopping me from confiding in her about the conspiracy, sharing as much of the story as was necessary. I felt a strong sense of duty, driven by sympathy and goodwill, to fulfill my promise quickly, and I did so with care and sincerity. There’s no need to burden this narrative with the specifics of our conversation. What matters is that our meeting reminded me of the one unresolved question still lingering in my mind—the question of Anne Catherick’s parentage on her father’s side.

A series of small details connected to this topic—seemingly trivial on their own but significant when considered together—had led me to a conclusion I felt compelled to verify. I sought Marian’s permission to write to Major Donthorne at Varneck Hall, where Mrs. Catherick had worked for several years before her marriage, to ask him a few questions. I sent the inquiries in Marian’s name, framing them as related to her family’s personal history, which justified my request. When I wrote the letter, I wasn’t sure if Major Donthorne was still alive, but I sent it anyway, hoping he would be willing and able to respond.

Two days later, I received confirmation that the Major was indeed alive and ready to assist us.

The intent behind my letter and the nature of my questions were clear from his reply. His letter addressed my inquiries by providing these significant facts:

First, “the late Sir Percival Glyde, of Blackwater Park,” had never visited Varneck Hall. The deceased gentleman was a complete stranger to Major Donthorne and his family.

Second, “the late Mr. Philip Fairlie, of Limmeridge House,” had been a close friend and frequent guest of Major Donthorne in his younger days. After refreshing his memory by reviewing old letters and documents, the Major confirmed that Mr. Philip Fairlie had stayed at Varneck Hall in August 1826 and remained there for the shooting season through September and part of October. He then left, and to the best of the Major’s knowledge, he went to Scotland, returning to Varneck Hall later as a newly married man.

On its own, the statement seemed to hold little significance. But when connected to certain facts—each of which Marian and I knew to be true—it pointed to one clear conclusion that was impossible to ignore.

We now understood that Mr. Philip Fairlie had been at Varneck Hall in the autumn of 1826, and that Mrs. Catherick had been working there at the same time. This led us to three important points: first, Anne had been born in June 1827; second, she bore an uncanny resemblance to Laura; and third, Laura herself looked strikingly like her father. Mr. Philip Fairlie had been one of the most handsome men of his era. Unlike his brother Frederick, he was the beloved darling of society, especially among women—easygoing, carefree, affectionate, and generous to a fault. He was also notoriously lax in his principles and careless about moral obligations, particularly when it came to women. These were the facts we had—this was the character of the man. Surely, the conclusion that followed was obvious.

With this new perspective, even Mrs. Catherick’s letter, despite her intentions, added weight to the conclusion I had reached. She described Mrs. Fairlie as “plain-looking” and claimed she had “trapped the handsomest man in England into marrying her.” Both statements were unfounded and false. It seemed to me that her jealousy and dislike—typical of a woman like Mrs. Catherick—were the only reasons for her petty malice in mentioning Mrs. Fairlie when it wasn’t necessary.

The mention of Mrs. Fairlie naturally raised another question: Did she ever suspect whose child the little girl brought to her at Limmeridge might be?

Marian was certain about this. The letter Mrs. Fairlie had written to her husband, which I had read some time ago—the one describing Anne’s resemblance to Laura and expressing her affection for the little girl—was written with complete innocence. It even seemed doubtful whether Mr. Philip Fairlie had any more suspicion of the truth than his wife did. The deceitful circumstances surrounding Mrs. Catherick’s marriage, and the secrecy it was meant to maintain, might have kept her silent for reasons of caution, perhaps even for her own pride, assuming she had any way to communicate with the father of her unborn child in his absence.

As this thought crossed my mind, I recalled the biblical warning we all ponder with a mix of wonder and dread: “The sins of the fathers shall be visited on the children.” If not for the striking resemblance between the two daughters of one father, the tragic conspiracy in which Anne had been an innocent pawn and Laura an innocent victim could never have been devised. How directly and cruelly the chain of events linked the careless wrong done by the father to the heartless harm inflicted on the child!

These thoughts, along with others, drew my mind to the little churchyard in Cumberland where Anne Catherick was now buried. I remembered the days gone by when I had met her by Mrs. Fairlie’s grave, and that last meeting. I recalled her frail hands beating against the tombstone, her weary, longing words murmured to the remains of her protector and friend: “Oh, if I could die and be hidden and at rest with YOU!” It had been little more than a year since she had uttered that wish, and how inscrutably, how horrifyingly, it had been fulfilled! The words she had spoken to Laura by the lake—those very words—had now come true. “Oh, if I could only be buried with your mother! If I could only wake at her side when the angel’s trumpet sounds and the graves give up their dead at the resurrection!” Through what mortal crime and horror, through the darkest paths leading to death, had this lost soul wandered in God’s plan to reach the final resting place she never hoped to find while alive! In that sacred peace, I leave her—in that haunting companionship, let her remain undisturbed.

So, the ghostly figure that had haunted these pages, as it had haunted my life, fades into the impenetrable darkness. Like a shadow, she first appeared to me in the solitude of night. Like a shadow, she departs into the silence of the grave.