I

by Wilkie Collins

BLACKWATER PARK, HAMPSHIRE

June 11, 1850. — It’s been six long, lonely months since Laura and I last saw each other.

How many more days do I have to wait? Just one! Tomorrow, the twelfth, the travelers return to England. I can hardly believe my own happiness; it feels surreal that in less than twenty-four hours, the separation between Laura and me will finally end.

She and her husband have spent the winter in Italy and then traveled to the Tyrol. They’re coming back with Count Fosco and his wife, who plan to settle somewhere near London. They’ve decided to stay at Blackwater Park for the summer before choosing a permanent home. As long as Laura is back, I don’t care who else comes with her. Sir Percival can fill the house with guests if he wants, as long as Laura and I share it together.

For now, I’m settled at Blackwater Park, “the ancient and interesting seat” (as the county history charmingly puts it) of Sir Percival Glyde, Bart., and, as I can now add, the future home of plain Marian Halcombe, spinster. I’m cozy in a little sitting room, with a cup of tea beside me and all my belongings neatly packed in three boxes and a bag.

I left Limmeridge yesterday after receiving Laura’s delightful letter from Paris the day before. I had been unsure whether I would meet them in London or Hampshire, but this last letter informed me that Sir Percival plans to land at Southampton and head straight to his country house. He has spent so much money abroad that he can’t afford to stay in London for the rest of the season, so he’s decided to spend the summer and autumn quietly at Blackwater. Laura has had enough excitement and is happy about the prospect of a peaceful country life that her husband’s decision offers her. As for me, I’m ready to be happy anywhere as long as I’m with her. So we’re all content in our own ways to start with.

Last night, I stayed in London and was delayed by various errands today, so I didn’t arrive at Blackwater until after dark.

From what I’ve seen so far, it’s the complete opposite of Limmeridge.

The house is set on a flat expanse and feels almost suffocated by trees, at least by my northern standards. I’ve only seen the manservant who opened the door and the housekeeper, a very polite woman who showed me to my room and brought me tea. I have a lovely little sitting room and bedroom at the end of a long hallway on the first floor. The servants and some spare rooms are on the second floor, while all the living areas are on the ground floor. I haven’t seen any of them yet, and I know little about the house except that one wing is said to be five hundred years old, it once had a moat, and it gets its name from a lake in the park.

The clock has just struck eleven, its chime echoing solemnly from a turret I noticed when I arrived. A large dog, apparently disturbed by the sound, is howling and yawning somewhere around the corner. I hear footsteps echoing in the hallways below and the sound of bolts and bars being secured at the front door. The servants are clearly getting ready for bed. Should I do the same?

No, I’m not nearly sleepy enough. Sleepy? I feel like I’ll never close my eyes again. The mere thought of seeing that dear face and hearing that familiar voice tomorrow keeps me in a constant state of excitement. If I had the freedom of a man, I would order Sir Percival’s best horse and gallop into the night, racing eastward to meet the rising sun—a long, hard ride like the famous highwayman’s journey to York. But being just a woman, bound by patience, propriety, and petticoats, I must heed the housekeeper’s advice and find a way to calm myself.

Reading is out of the question; I can’t focus on any books. Perhaps if I write, I can tire myself out. My journal has been neglected lately. What can I recall, standing on the brink of a new life, about the people and events, the chances and changes of the past six months—the long, empty stretch since Laura’s wedding day?

Walter Hartright is the first person who comes to mind when I think of my absent friends. I received a brief note from him after the expedition landed in Honduras, and it was more cheerful and hopeful than any he had sent before. A month or so later, I came across an article in an American newspaper detailing the adventurers' departure on their journey inland. They were last seen entering a wild, untamed forest, each man carrying a rifle and his belongings. Since then, civilization has lost all trace of them. I haven’t heard from Walter since, and not a single update about the expedition has appeared in any public news.

The same heavy uncertainty surrounds Anne Catherick and her companion, Mrs. Clements. No one has heard anything about them. Whether they are in the country or abroad, whether they are alive or dead, remains a mystery. Even Sir Percival’s lawyer has given up hope and has instructed that the search for the two women be abandoned.

Our dear friend Mr. Gilmore has faced a troubling setback in his professional life. Earlier this spring, we were alarmed to hear that he had been found unconscious at his desk, suffering from what was diagnosed as a stroke. He had been complaining for some time about pressure in his head, and his doctor had warned him that if he continued to work long hours as if he were still young, he would face serious consequences. Now, he has been ordered to stay away from the office for at least a year and to find peace and relief by completely changing his lifestyle. His partner is now managing the business, while Mr. Gilmore is currently in Germany visiting relatives who are involved in trade. Thus, we have lost another true friend and reliable advisor—though I sincerely hope it’s only for a while.

Poor Mrs. Vesey traveled with me as far as London. I couldn’t leave her alone at Limmeridge after both Laura and I had departed, so we arranged for her to live with her younger sister, who runs a school in Clapham. She plans to visit here this autumn to see her pupil—almost like her adopted child. I made sure she reached her destination safely and left her in the care of her relative, feeling quietly happy at the thought of her seeing Laura again in a few months.

As for Mr. Fairlie, I believe it’s fair to say he feels utterly relieved to have the house free of us women. The idea that he would miss his niece is laughable—he often let months go by without seeing her. In my case, and with Mrs. Vesey, I can’t help but think that his claim of being half heartbroken over our departure was really just a way of admitting he was secretly glad to see us go. His latest obsession has him keeping two photographers busy capturing images of all his treasures and curiosities. One complete set of these photographs will be donated to the Mechanics’ Institution in Carlisle, mounted on fancy cardstock with grand red-letter labels underneath, such as “Madonna and Child by Raphael. In the possession of Frederick Fairlie, Esquire.” “Copper coin from the era of Tiglath Pileser. In the possession of Frederick Fairlie, Esquire.” “Unique Rembrandt etching, known throughout Europe as THE SMUDGE, due to a printer’s blot in the corner that isn’t found in any other copy. Valued at three hundred guineas. In the possession of Frederick Fairlie, Esquire.” Dozens of these photographs were completed before I left Cumberland, with hundreds more still to be done. With this new project to occupy him, Mr. Fairlie will be quite content for many months, and the two unfortunate photographers will share the social burden he has previously placed solely on his valet.

That covers the people and events that stand out in my memory. But what about the one person who occupies my heart? Laura has been on my mind the entire time I’ve been writing this. What can I remember about her over the past six months before I close my journal for the night?

I only have her letters to guide me, and on the most crucial questions our correspondence can address, every one of those letters leaves me in the dark.

Does he treat her well? Is she happier now than she was when I last saw her on her wedding day? These two questions have filled every letter I’ve sent, phrased in various ways, but they’ve gone unanswered or have been brushed aside as if I only inquired about her health. She keeps assuring me that she’s perfectly fine, that traveling suits her, and that for the first time in her life, she’s getting through winter without catching a cold. Yet, there’s not a single word that tells me she has come to terms with her marriage or that she can look back on December 22 without regret.

She mentions her husband’s name only as one might mention a friend traveling with them, someone who’s taken charge of the arrangements. “Sir Percival” has decided we leave on such a day—“Sir Percival” has chosen this route. Occasionally, she writes “Percival,” but that’s rare; most of the time, she refers to him by his title.

From what I can tell, his habits and opinions haven’t influenced hers in any way. The usual transformation that often happens to a young, sensitive woman after marriage seems to have bypassed Laura entirely. She writes about her thoughts and experiences, amidst all the wonders she’s seen, as if she were still corresponding with me while traveling, rather than with her husband. There’s no hint of any connection between them. Even when she strays from discussing her travels and considers her future in England, her thoughts revolve around her life as my sister, neglecting her role as Sir Percival’s wife.

There’s no underlying complaint in her letters to suggest she’s truly unhappy in her marriage. Thank goodness, my correspondence doesn’t lead me to that distressing conclusion. Instead, I sense a sad indifference, a stagnant apathy when I shift my perspective from seeing her as my sister to viewing her as a wife. In essence, it’s always been Laura Fairlie writing to me over the past six months, never Lady Glyde.

Her strange silence regarding her husband’s character is matched by her cautious references to Count Fosco, his close friend.

For reasons I can’t fathom, the Count and his wife seem to have abruptly changed their plans last autumn, heading to Vienna instead of Rome, where Sir Percival had expected to find them. They only left Vienna in the spring, traveling to the Tyrol to meet the newlyweds on their way home. Laura writes enthusiastically about meeting Madame Fosco, saying she’s changed for the better—much quieter and more sensible as a wife than she was as a single woman. I’ll hardly recognize her when I see her again. But when it comes to Count Fosco, who intrigues me far more than his wife, Laura is frustratingly reserved. She only mentions that he puzzles her and insists she won’t share her impression of him until I’ve met him and formed my own opinion.

To me, this doesn’t bode well for the Count. Laura has retained, more than most people do, that childlike instinct for sensing a friend. If I’m right in assuming her first impression of Count Fosco isn’t favorable, I might find myself doubting and distrusting that illustrious foreigner before I even lay eyes on him. But, patience—this uncertainty, along with many others, can’t last much longer. Tomorrow, I’ll finally have the chance to clear up my doubts.

The clock just struck twelve, and I’ve returned to finish these pages after looking out my open window.

It’s a still, sultry night without a moon. The stars are dim and sparse. The trees surrounding me appear as a dark, solid wall in the distance. I can hear the distant croaking of frogs, and the echoes of the clock linger in the air long after the last chime. I wonder how Blackwater Park will look in the daylight? I’m not entirely fond of it at night.

12th.—A day filled with investigations and discoveries—a more intriguing day than I had expected.

I began my exploration, of course, with the house.

The main part of the building dates back to the time of the highly overrated Queen Elizabeth. On the ground floor, there are two long galleries with low ceilings that run parallel to each other, made even darker by the ugly family portraits that hang on the walls—each one of which I would gladly set ablaze. The rooms above the galleries are in decent shape but rarely used. The friendly housekeeper, who was my guide, offered to show me around, but kindly warned me that they might be a bit messy. My respect for my own clean clothes far outweighs any interest I have in Elizabethan bedrooms, so I politely declined the invitation to explore the upper floors, fearing I would ruin my nice outfit. The housekeeper nodded in agreement, clearly impressed by my sensible decision.

That was enough about the main building. Two wings extend from either end. The half-ruined wing on the left, as you approach the house, was once a standalone residence built in the fourteenth century. One of Sir Percival’s ancestors—though I can’t recall which, nor do I care—added it to the main building at a right angle during Queen Elizabeth’s reign. The housekeeper mentioned that the architecture of “the old wing,” both inside and out, was considered quite impressive by those with discerning taste. However, I quickly realized that anyone trying to appreciate Sir Percival’s ancient addition would have to ignore the dampness, darkness, and rats. Given those conditions, I readily admitted I was no judge at all and suggested we treat “the old wing” just as we had the Elizabethan bedrooms. Once again, the housekeeper agreed with me, looking at me with admiration for my remarkable common sense.

Next, we moved to the wing on the right, which was built during the time of George the Second to complete the architectural mishmash at Blackwater Park.

This is the livable part of the house, which has been updated and redecorated for Laura’s sake. My two rooms, along with the other nice bedrooms, are on the first floor, while the basement contains a drawing room, a dining room, a morning room, a library, and a charming little boudoir for Laura—all tastefully decorated in a bright, modern style and elegantly furnished with contemporary comforts. None of the rooms are as large or airy as those at Limmeridge, but they all look inviting. I had been worried, based on what I’d heard about Blackwater Park, that I would find uncomfortable antique chairs, gloomy stained glass, musty drapes, and all the outdated clutter that people accumulate without considering their guests' comfort. It was a huge relief to discover that the nineteenth century had made its way into this peculiar future home of mine, clearing away the dusty “good old times” from our everyday lives.

I spent the morning leisurely—part of the time in the downstairs rooms and part outside in the large square formed by three sides of the house and the tall iron railings and gates at the front. In the center of the square was a large circular fish pond with stone edges and a leaden creature in the middle. The pond was filled with gold and silver fish and surrounded by a broad expanse of the softest grass I had ever walked on. I lingered there in the shade until lunchtime, and afterward, I grabbed my wide straw hat and ventured out alone into the warm, lovely sunlight to explore the grounds.

The daylight confirmed my initial impression from the night before: there were too many trees at Blackwater. The house felt suffocated by them. Most of the trees were young and planted far too closely together. I suspected there had been a significant amount of timber cut down across the estate before Sir Percival’s time, and the next owner had hurriedly filled in the gaps. After surveying the area in front of the house, I noticed a flower garden to my left and decided to head in that direction to see what I could find.

Upon closer inspection, the garden turned out to be small, poorly maintained, and uninviting. I moved on, opened a little gate in a surrounding fence, and found myself in a grove of fir trees.

A pretty winding path, carefully crafted, led me through the trees, and my experience from the north quickly told me I was nearing sandy, heath-covered ground. After walking for what felt like more than half a mile among the firs, the path took a sharp turn. Suddenly, the trees vanished, and I found myself standing at the edge of a vast open space, looking down at Blackwater Lake, the namesake of the house.

The ground sloped away beneath me, covered in sand, with a few small, heathy hillocks breaking the monotony in certain spots. The lake, once expansive, had shrunk to less than a third of its original size. I could see its still, stagnant waters a quarter of a mile away, now divided into pools and ponds by twisting reeds and rushes, along with little mounds of earth. On the opposite bank, trees grew thickly again, blocking the view and casting dark shadows over the sluggish, shallow water.

As I made my way down to the lake, I noticed that the ground on the far side was damp and marshy, overrun with tall grass and gloomy willows. The water, clear and bright where the sun shone on the sandy side, appeared dark and toxic on the other, where it lay deeper in the shade of the spongy banks and tangled thickets. Frogs croaked, and rats slipped in and out of the murky water like shadows as I approached the marshy edge. There, half submerged, lay the decaying remains of an old overturned boat, a sickly patch of sunlight glimmering through a gap in the trees onto its dry surface, where a snake basked, coiled and deceptively still.

The view around me echoed the same dreary feelings of solitude and decay, and the brilliant summer sky above only seemed to intensify the gloom and barrenness of the wilderness below. I turned back, retracing my steps to the higher, heathy ground, veering slightly from my original path toward a shabby old wooden shed that had previously escaped my notice amidst the wild expanse of the lake.

As I approached the shed, I realized it had once been a boathouse, and someone had tried to convert it into a makeshift arbor, placing a firwood seat, a few stools, and a table inside. I stepped in and sat down for a moment to catch my breath.

I had barely settled in when I noticed that the sound of my own quick breathing was strangely echoed by something beneath me. I listened closely and heard a low, thick sobbing breath that seemed to come from the ground under the seat. Normally, I wouldn’t be easily rattled, but this time I jumped to my feet in fright, called out, and received no answer. Summoning my courage, I looked under the seat.

Crouched in the far corner was the source of my fear—a poor little dog, a black and white spaniel. The creature moaned weakly when I called to it but didn’t move. I shifted the seat aside for a better look. The poor dog’s eyes were glazing over, and there were spots of blood on its glossy white side. The sight of a weak, helpless creature in pain is one of the saddest things in the world. I gently lifted the little dog into my arms, fashioning a makeshift hammock with the front of my dress to carry him as gently and quickly as I could back to the house.

Finding no one in the hall, I hurried up to my sitting room, made a bed for the dog with one of my old shawls, and rang the bell. The largest and most oblivious housemaid answered, her cheerful stupidity almost infuriating. Her round, shapeless face broke into a broad grin at the sight of the injured creature on the floor.

“What’s so funny?” I snapped, more angrily than I intended. “Do you know whose dog this is?”

“No, miss, I don’t.” She bent down to examine the spaniel’s wound, her face lighting up with a new idea. Pointing at the injury with a chuckle, she said, “That’s Baxter’s doing, that is.”

I was so exasperated I could have boxed her ears. “Baxter? Who is this brute you call Baxter?”

The girl beamed at me, her smile brighter than ever. “Bless you, miss! Baxter’s the gamekeeper, and when he sees strange dogs roaming around, he takes care of them—by shooting them. It’s his duty, miss. I think that dog is going to die. This is where he’s been shot, right? That’s Baxter’s doing, for sure. Baxter’s doing, miss, and Baxter’s duty.”

For a moment, I felt a wicked urge to wish that Baxter had shot the housemaid instead of the dog. Realizing that it was pointless to expect this thick-headed girl to help relieve the suffering creature at our feet, I instructed her to fetch the housekeeper, with my compliments. She left the room just as she had entered, grinning from ear to ear. As the door closed behind her, I heard her mumble to herself, “It’s Baxter’s doing and Baxter’s duty—that’s what it is.”

The housekeeper, a woman of some education and intelligence, thoughtfully brought up some milk and warm water. The moment she spotted the dog on the floor, she gasped and turned pale.

“Oh my goodness,” she exclaimed, “that must be Mrs. Catherick’s dog!”

“Whose?” I asked, utterly shocked.

“Mrs. Catherick’s. You know Mrs. Catherick, don’t you, Miss Halcombe?”

“Not personally, but I’ve heard of her. Does she live around here? Has she heard anything about her daughter?”

“No, Miss Halcombe, she came here to ask for news.”

“When?”

“Just yesterday. She mentioned that someone had reported seeing a stranger who matched her daughter’s description in our area. But no such report has reached us here, and no one in the village knew anything about it when I made inquiries on Mrs. Catherick’s behalf. She definitely brought this poor little dog with her when she arrived, and I saw it follow her out when she left. I suppose the poor creature wandered into the woods and got shot. Where did you find it, Miss Halcombe?”

“In the old shed that overlooks the lake.”

“Ah, yes, that’s the plantation side. The poor thing must have dragged itself there, seeking shelter to die, as dogs often do. If you can moisten its lips with the milk, Miss Halcombe, I’ll clean the matted fur from the wound. I’m afraid it might be too late to help it. But we can at least try.”

Mrs. Catherick! The name echoed in my mind, as if the housekeeper had just spoken it. While we tended to the dog, Walter Hartright’s warning replayed in my thoughts: “If ever Anne Catherick crosses your path, make better use of the opportunity, Miss Halcombe, than I did.” Finding the injured spaniel had already led me to discover Mrs. Catherick’s visit to Blackwater Park, and that revelation could lead to something more. I resolved to make the most of this opportunity and gather as much information as I could.

“Did you say that Mrs. Catherick lived nearby?” I asked.

“Oh no,” the housekeeper replied. “She lives in Welmingham, which is quite far away—at least twenty-five miles from here.”

“I assume you’ve known Mrs. Catherick for some time?”

“Actually, Miss Halcombe, I had never seen her before she came here yesterday. I had heard of her, of course, because of Sir Percival’s kindness in arranging medical care for her daughter. Mrs. Catherick is a bit peculiar in her manners, but she looks very respectable. She seemed quite upset when she found out there was no truth to the report of her daughter being seen in this area.”

“I’m quite interested in Mrs. Catherick,” I continued, trying to keep the conversation going. “I wish I had arrived in time to see her yesterday. Did she stay long?”

“Yes,” the housekeeper said. “She stayed for a while, and I think she would have stayed longer if I hadn’t been called away to speak to a strange gentleman—someone who came to ask when Sir Percival was expected back. Mrs. Catherick got up and left immediately when she heard the maid tell me about the visitor. She told me, before she left, that there was no need to inform Sir Percival of her visit. I found that remark rather odd, especially given my position.”

I thought it was odd too. Sir Percival had certainly led me to believe, back at Limmeridge, that he and Mrs. Catherick shared complete trust. If that were true, why would she want to keep her visit to Blackwater Park a secret from him?

“Perhaps,” I suggested, noticing the housekeeper expected my thoughts on Mrs. Catherick’s parting words, “she thought that mentioning her visit might upset Sir Percival unnecessarily, by reminding him that her daughter is still missing. Did she say much about that?”

“Not much,” the housekeeper replied. “She mainly talked about Sir Percival, asking a lot of questions about his travels and what his new wife is like. She seemed more frustrated than truly upset about not finding any sign of her daughter around here. The last thing I remember her saying was, ‘I give her up, ma’am, for lost.’ Then she immediately shifted back to asking about Lady Glyde, wanting to know if she was beautiful, kind, healthy, and young—Ah, dear! I knew how this would end. Look, Miss Halcombe, the poor thing is finally free from its suffering!”

The dog was dead. It had let out a faint, sobbing whimper and had a brief convulsion, just as the housekeeper finished her words about Lady Glyde. The change was so sudden; one moment the creature was there, and the next, it lay lifeless in our hands.

It was eight o’clock. I had just come back from dining alone downstairs. The sunset painted the trees outside my window in fiery reds, and I found myself once again lost in my journal, trying to ease my anxiety over the travelers’ return. By my calculations, they should have arrived by now. The house felt so quiet and lonely in the sleepy evening stillness. How many more minutes until I hear the carriage wheels and rush downstairs to find myself in Laura’s arms?

That poor little dog! I wish my first day at Blackwater Park hadn’t been marked by death, even if it was just the death of a stray animal.

Welmingham—I see now, as I flip back through these private pages, that Welmingham is where Mrs. Catherick lives. I still have her note, the one she sent in response to the letter about her troubled daughter that Sir Percival insisted I write. One of these days, when I find a safe moment, I’ll take the note with me as an introduction and see what I can learn from Mrs. Catherick in person. I don’t understand why she wants to keep her visit here a secret from Sir Percival, and I’m not as convinced as the housekeeper seems to be that her daughter Anne isn’t nearby after all. What would Walter Hartright have said in this situation? Poor, dear Hartright! I’m already starting to miss his honest advice and willing help.

Surely I heard something. Was that footsteps below? Yes! I hear the horses’ hooves—I hear the carriage wheels—