VI (1/2)

by Wilkie Collins

June 18th. The weight of self-reproach I felt last night after hearing Laura’s words in the boat-house returned to haunt me in the stillness of the night, keeping me awake and miserable for hours.

Eventually, I lit my candle and rifled through my old journals, searching for my part in the tragic mistake of her marriage and wondering what I could have done to prevent it. The findings offered me some comfort; they showed that, despite my blind and ignorant actions, I had acted with the best intentions. Usually, crying makes things worse for me, but last night it seemed to help. I woke this morning with a firm resolve and a sense of calm. Nothing Sir Percival says or does will ever provoke me again or make me forget that I am here, enduring humiliation, insults, and threats, for Laura’s sake.

Our discussions this morning about the figure at the lake and the footprints in the plantation were interrupted by a small mishap that has caused Laura considerable distress. She has lost the little brooch I gave her as a keepsake the day before her wedding. Since she wore it when we went out last night, we can only assume it fell from her dress either in the boat-house or on our way back. The servants have been sent to search for it but returned empty-handed. Now, Laura has gone out herself to look for it. Whether she finds it or not, the loss will help justify her absence if Sir Percival returns before I receive the letter from Mr. Gilmore’s partner.

It’s just struck one o’clock. I’m debating whether to wait here for the messenger from London or slip away quietly to watch for him outside the lodge gate.

My growing suspicion of everyone and everything in this house makes me lean toward the second option. The Count is safely in the breakfast room. I heard him through the door just a few minutes ago, training his canaries: “Come out on my little finger, my pretties! Come out and hop upstairs! One, two, three—and up! Three, two, one—and down! One, two, three—twit-twit-twit-tweet!” The birds erupted into their usual frenzy of song, and the Count chirped and whistled back at them, as if he were one of them. My door is open, and I can still hear the lively singing and whistling. If I’m going to slip out unnoticed, now is my chance.

FOUR O’CLOCK. The three hours since my last entry have shifted everything at Blackwater Park in a new direction. Whether this change is for better or worse, I can’t say.

Let me return to where I left off, or I’ll lose myself in my own thoughts.

I went out, as planned, to meet the messenger with my letter from London at the lodge gate. I saw no one on the stairs. In the hall, the Count was still busy with his birds. But as I crossed the courtyard outside, I spotted Madame Fosco, walking alone in her usual circle around the large fish-pond. I slowed my pace to avoid appearing rushed and even asked her if she planned to go out before lunch. She smiled warmly, said she preferred to stay close to the house, nodded pleasantly, and went back inside. I glanced back and saw her close the door just as I opened the gate beside the carriage entrance.

In less than fifteen minutes, I reached the lodge.

The lane outside took a sharp turn to the left, ran straight for about a hundred yards, then turned right to meet the main road. Hidden from the lodge on one side and the path to the station on the other, I waited, pacing back and forth. Tall hedges lined both sides, and for twenty minutes, I saw and heard nothing. Finally, the sound of a carriage reached my ears, and as I approached the second turn, I was met by a cab from the railway station. I signaled the driver to stop, and as he did, a respectable-looking man leaned out of the window to see what was going on.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” I said, “but are you headed to Blackwater Park?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Do you have a letter for anyone?”

“Yes, ma’am, for Miss Halcombe.”

“Please hand me the letter. I am Miss Halcombe.”

The man tipped his hat, got out of the cab, and handed me the letter.

I opened it immediately and read the lines inside. I’ll copy them here, thinking it best to destroy the original for safety’s sake.

“DEAR MADAM,—Your letter received this morning has caused me very great anxiety. I will reply to it as briefly and plainly as possible.

After carefully considering your statement and taking into account Lady Glyde’s situation as outlined in the settlement, I regret to inform you that it seems a loan of trust money to Sir Percival is being contemplated. In other words, a portion of Lady Glyde’s twenty thousand-pound fortune may be at stake. It appears she is being included in the deed to secure her approval of what would be a blatant breach of trust, and to have her signature on record in case she raises any objections later. Given her circumstances, it’s hard to understand why her signature would even be necessary.

If Lady Glyde were to sign such a document, as I fear is the case, her trustees would be free to lend money to Sir Percival from her fortune. Should that loan not be repaid, and if Lady Glyde has children, their inheritance would be reduced by whatever amount was borrowed. To put it plainly, this transaction could potentially defraud her future children without her even realizing it.

Given these serious concerns, I recommend that Lady Glyde withhold her signature, stating that she wants the deed to be reviewed by me, her family solicitor, in the absence of my partner, Mr. Gilmore. There can be no reasonable objection to this approach—if the transaction is legitimate, there should be no issue with my approval.

I assure you of my willingness to provide any further assistance or advice you may need.

Sincerely,

WILLIAM KYRLE.

I read this thoughtful letter with immense gratitude. It provided Laura with a solid reason to refuse her signature—one that we both understood completely. The messenger stood by, waiting for my instructions once I finished reading.

“Please let him know that I understand the letter and that I’m very grateful,” I said. “No other response is needed for now.”

Just as I spoke those words, holding the letter in my hand, Count Fosco appeared at the end of the lane, as if he had emerged from nowhere.

His sudden arrival, in a place I least expected, took me completely off guard. The messenger wished me a good morning and climbed back into the carriage. I couldn’t say a word to him; I couldn’t even manage to return his bow. The realization that I had been discovered—by him, of all people—left me utterly frozen.

“Are you heading back to the house, Miss Halcombe?” he asked, showing no surprise and not even glancing at the carriage as it drove away.

I managed to nod in response.

“I’m going back as well,” he said. “May I have the pleasure of accompanying you? Will you take my arm? You seem surprised to see me!”

I took his arm. The first coherent thought that returned to me was the instinct to do whatever it took to avoid making an enemy of him.

“You seem surprised to see me!” he repeated, his tone persistent yet calm.

“I thought I heard you with your birds in the breakfast room,” I replied, trying to sound as composed as possible.

“Indeed. But my little feathered friends are just like any other children—they can be quite difficult at times, and this morning was one of those days. My wife came in while I was putting them back in their cage and mentioned that you were going out for a walk alone. You told her that, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Well, Miss Halcombe, I couldn’t resist the temptation to accompany you. At my age, I think it’s acceptable to admit that, don’t you? I grabbed my hat and set off to offer my escort. Even a rather rotund old man like me is better than no escort at all, wouldn’t you agree? I took the wrong path, turned back in frustration, and here I am, having arrived (may I say it?) at the pinnacle of my desires.”

He continued to speak in a flattering tone with such ease that I barely had to make an effort to keep my composure. He didn’t mention anything about what he had seen in the lane or the letter I still held in my hand. This unsettling silence convinced me that he had somehow learned the details of my secret efforts on Laura’s behalf, and now that he had confirmed the private way I had received the lawyer’s response, he had enough information to serve his own interests. It seemed he was only focused on calming the suspicions he must have raised in me. Given the situation, I was smart enough not to try to mislead him with excuses, yet I felt a womanly unease, as if my hand was stained just by resting it on his arm.

As we approached the house, we saw the dog-cart being taken around to the stables. Sir Percival had just returned and came out to meet us at the door. Whatever else his trip had accomplished, it hadn’t softened his harsh demeanor.

“Oh, look who’s back,” he said, his face dark. “What’s going on with the house being so empty? Where’s Lady Glyde?”

I explained about the lost brooch and mentioned that Laura had gone into the woods to search for it.

“Brooch or no brooch,” he grumbled, “I suggest she doesn’t forget her appointment in the library this afternoon. I expect to see her in half an hour.”

I withdrew my hand from the Count’s arm and slowly climbed the steps. He gave me a grand bow before turning cheerfully to the scowling master of the house.

“Tell me, Percival,” he said, “did you enjoy your drive? Is your lovely Brown Molly tired from the trip?”

“Forget Brown Molly—and the drive too! I want my lunch.”

“And I want five minutes of your time first, Percival,” the Count replied, completely unfazed by the rudeness. “Five minutes, my friend, right here on the grass.”

“What about?” Sir Percival asked.

“About something that concerns you greatly.”

I lingered just long enough in the doorway to catch their exchange, watching as Sir Percival shoved his hands into his pockets, clearly reluctant.

“If you’re going to bother me with more of your ridiculous scruples,” he said, “I won’t listen. I want my lunch.”

“Come out here and talk to me,” the Count insisted, still unaffected by the harsh words.

Sir Percival stepped down the steps. The Count took him by the arm and led him away gently. I was certain their conversation was about the signature issue. They were undoubtedly discussing Laura and me. A wave of anxiety washed over me, making me feel faint. It was crucial for both of us to know what they were saying, yet I couldn’t hear a single word.

I wandered through the house, moving from room to room with the lawyer’s letter tucked in my bosom, too afraid to lock it away. The weight of my suspense was driving me to distraction. There was still no sign of Laura’s return, and I considered going out to search for her. But my strength had been drained by the morning’s trials, and the heat of the day overwhelmed me. After a brief attempt to reach the door, I had to retreat to the drawing-room and lie down on the nearest sofa to recover.

Just as I was settling in, the door opened quietly, and the Count peeked in.

“My apologies, Miss Halcombe,” he said. “I only disturb you because I bring good news. Percival—who is unpredictable, as you know—has decided to change his mind at the last moment, and the matter of the signature is postponed for now. A great relief for all of us, as I can see from your face. Please extend my best regards and congratulations to Lady Glyde when you share this pleasant change of events.”

He left before I could fully process what he had said. There was no doubt that this sudden shift regarding the signature was due to his influence, and that his discovery of my inquiry to London yesterday, along with my response today, had given him the opportunity to intervene successfully.

I felt the weight of these thoughts, but my mind seemed as exhausted as my body, and I wasn’t in a state to reflect on them meaningfully. I tried once more to go out and find Laura, but my head spun, and my knees felt weak. Reluctantly, I had to abandon the idea and return to the sofa, against my better judgment.

The quiet of the house, combined with the soft hum of summer insects drifting through the open window, wrapped around me like a comforting blanket. My eyelids grew heavy, and I slipped into a strange state that felt neither fully awake nor completely asleep. I was aware of my own stillness, yet my mind wandered freely, breaking away from my tired body. In this trance, or daydream—whatever it was—I saw Walter Hartright.

I hadn’t thought of him since I got out of bed that morning. Laura hadn’t mentioned him at all, either directly or indirectly. Yet there he was, as vivid as if time had rewound, and we were back together at Limmeridge House.

He stood among a crowd of men, their faces blurred and indistinct. They were sprawled on the steps of a massive, crumbling temple. Towering tropical trees, their trunks entwined with thick vines, surrounded the temple, blocking out the sky and casting a gloomy shadow over the forlorn group. Strange stone idols peeked out from behind the foliage, their grinning faces adding to the eerie atmosphere. Wisps of white mist curled up from the ground, creeping towards the men like smoke, touching them, and one by one, they fell lifeless where they lay.

A surge of fear and pity for Walter broke my silence, and I urged him to escape. “Come back, come back!” I pleaded. “Remember your promise to her and to me. Come back to us before the plague reaches you and claims you like the others!”

He looked at me with an otherworldly calm. “Wait,” he said. “I will come back. The night I met the lost woman on the road was the night my life was set apart for a purpose that remains hidden. Whether I am lost in this wilderness or welcomed back in my homeland, I am still walking the dark path that leads us all—me, you, and the sister of your love—to an unknown reckoning and an inevitable end. Just wait and watch. The plague that claims the others will not touch me.”

I saw him again. He was still in the forest, but the number of his lost companions had dwindled to just a few. The temple and the idols had vanished, replaced by shadowy figures of small, sinister men lurking among the trees, bows in hand, arrows ready to fly. Once more, I felt a wave of dread for Walter and shouted a warning. Again, he turned to me, that same imperturbable calm on his face.

“Another step,” he said, “on the dark path. Wait and watch. The arrows that strike the others will spare me.”

For the third time, I saw him, this time on a wrecked ship stranded on a wild, sandy shore. Overloaded boats were pulling away from him toward the land, leaving him alone to face the sinking ship. I cried out for him to call to the last boat, to make one final effort to save himself. He looked back at me, his face unchanged, his voice steady. “Another step on the journey. Wait and watch. The sea that drowns the others will spare me.”

I saw him one last time, kneeling by a white marble tomb. The shadow of a veiled woman rose from the grave beneath and stood by his side. The calmness of his face had shifted to a profound sorrow, but the certainty of his words remained unaltered. “Darker and darker,” he said; “farther and farther still. Death takes the good, the beautiful, and the young—and spares me. The plague that ravages, the arrow that strikes, the sea that drowns, the grave that closes over love and hope, are all steps on my journey, bringing me closer to the end.”

A deep dread settled in my heart, a grief that felt too heavy for words. The darkness enveloped the pilgrim at the marble tomb, surrounded the veiled woman from the grave, and closed in on the dreamer who watched them. I could see and hear nothing more.

I was jolted awake by a hand resting on my shoulder. It was Laura.

She had dropped to her knees beside the sofa, her face flushed and anxious, her eyes wide with confusion. I jumped at the sight of her.

“What happened?” I asked. “What frightened you?”

She glanced at the half-open door, leaned in close to my ear, and whispered, “Marian! The figure at the lake—the footsteps from last night—I just saw her! I just spoke to her!”

“Who, for heaven’s sake?”

“Anne Catherick.”

The shock of her agitated expression and the weight of my dream’s lingering impressions left me unprepared for the revelation that followed that name. I stood frozen, breathless, staring at her in stunned silence.

She was so caught up in what had happened that she didn’t notice how her words affected me. “I’ve seen Anne Catherick! I’ve spoken to Anne Catherick!” she repeated, as if I hadn’t heard her the first time. “Oh, Marian, I have so much to tell you! Come on—we might get interrupted here—let’s go to my room right now.”

With that eager invitation, she grabbed my hand and led me through the library to the small room at the end of the ground floor, which had been set up just for her. No one but her maid would have any reason to walk in on us here. She pushed me inside, locked the door behind us, and drew the chintz curtains that hung over the window.

The strange, dazed feeling that had taken hold of me was still there. But now, a growing realization began to settle in—that the complications that had long been looming over both of us had suddenly closed in. I couldn’t put it into words; I could barely grasp it in my own mind. “Anne Catherick!” I whispered to myself, repeating the name helplessly—“Anne Catherick!”

Laura pulled me to the nearest seat, an ottoman in the center of the room. “Look!” she said, pointing to the front of her dress.

For the first time, I saw that the lost brooch was pinned back in place. There was something grounding about seeing it, something real in touching it afterward, that helped steady the whirlwind of confusion in my thoughts and allowed me to collect myself.

“Where did you find your brooch?” The first words I managed to say were those trivial yet pressing questions.

“She found it, Marian.”

“Where?”

“On the floor of the boat-house. Oh, how do I even start—how do I tell you everything! She spoke to me so strangely—she looked so terribly ill—she left me so abruptly!”

Her voice rose as the flood of memories overwhelmed her. The constant anxiety that weighed on my spirit in this house instantly urged me to caution her—just as the sight of the brooch had prompted my earlier question.

“Speak quietly,” I said. “The window is open, and the garden path runs right beneath it. Start from the beginning, Laura. Tell me exactly what happened between you and that woman.”

“Should I close the window?”

“No, just speak softly—remember that Anne Catherick is a dangerous topic under your husband’s roof. Where did you first see her?”

“At the boat-house, Marian. I went out, as you know, to look for my brooch, and I walked along the path through the trees, carefully scanning the ground with each step. After a long while, I finally reached the boat-house, and as soon as I was inside, I knelt down to search the floor. I was still looking, with my back to the doorway, when I heard a soft, strange voice behind me say, ‘Miss Fairlie.’”

“Miss Fairlie!”

“Yes, my old name—the sweet, familiar name I thought I had left behind forever. I jumped up—not scared, because the voice was too kind and gentle to frighten anyone—but very surprised. There, looking at me from the doorway, stood a woman whose face I didn’t recognize at all—”

“How was she dressed?”

She wore a neat, pretty white dress, but over it draped a thin, worn dark shawl. Her bonnet was made of brown straw, just as shabby and faded as the shawl. The contrast between her lovely gown and the rest of her outfit struck me, and she noticed my gaze.

“Don’t look at my bonnet and shawl,” she said quickly, her voice breathless and urgent. “If I can’t wear white, I don’t care what I wear. Look at my gown all you want—I’m not ashamed of that.”

It was a strange reaction, wasn’t it? Before I could find the right words to reassure her, she extended one hand toward me, revealing my brooch. I felt a surge of gratitude and happiness, prompting me to step closer and express my feelings.

“Are you thankful enough to do me one little kindness?” she asked.

“Yes, of course,” I replied. “I’d be glad to help you in any way I can.”

“Then let me pin your brooch on for you, now that I’ve found it.” Her request caught me off guard, and her eagerness made me take a step back, unsure of how to respond.

“Ah!” she exclaimed. “Your mother would have let me pin it on.”

There was something in her tone and her expression, along with her mention of my mother in that reproachful way, that made me feel ashamed of my hesitation. I took her hand, the one holding the brooch, and gently placed it against my dress.

“You knew my mother?” I asked. “Was it a long time ago? Have I seen you before?”

As she worked to fasten the brooch, she paused and pressed her hands against my chest. “You don’t remember a beautiful spring day at Limmeridge?” she said. “Your mother was walking down the path to the school, with a little girl on each side of her. I’ve thought about nothing else since then, and I remember it clearly. You were one of those little girls, and I was the other. Pretty, clever Miss Fairlie and poor confused Anne Catherick were closer then than they are now!”

“Did you remember her, Laura, when she told you her name?”

“Yes, I remembered you asking about Anne Catherick at Limmeridge, and how you said she had once been thought to resemble me.”

“What reminded you of that, Laura?”

“She reminded me. While I was looking at her, so close to me, it suddenly struck me that we looked alike! Her face was pale, thin, and weary, but seeing it startled me, like catching a glimpse of my own reflection after a long illness. The realization hit me so hard that I was momentarily speechless.”

“Did she seem hurt by your silence?”

“I think she was. ‘You don’t have your mother’s face,’ she said. ‘Or her heart. Your mother’s face was dark, and Miss Fairlie, your mother’s heart was that of an angel.’

“I’m sure I feel kindly toward you,” I replied, “even if I can’t express it as I should. Why do you call me Miss Fairlie?”

“Because I love the name Fairlie and hate the name Glyde,” she burst out, her voice filled with intensity. I had never seen such madness in her before, but I thought I saw it in her eyes now.

“I only thought you might not know I was married,” I said, recalling the frantic letter she had sent me at Limmeridge, trying to calm her.

She sighed bitterly and turned away. “Not know you were married?” she echoed. “I’m here because you are married. I’m here to make amends to you before I meet your mother in the afterlife.”

She moved farther away from me until she was outside the boat house, then she paused to watch and listen for a moment. When she spoke again, she didn’t come back; instead, she stood at the entrance, hands on either side.

“Did you see me at the lake last night?” she asked. “Did you hear me following you in the woods? I’ve been waiting for days to speak to you alone. I left the only friend I have in the world, anxious and scared for me. I’ve risked being locked up in the asylum again—all for your sake, Miss Fairlie, all for your sake.”

Her words frightened me, Marian, yet there was something in her tone that made me feel deep sympathy for her. I knew my pity was genuine, for it gave me the courage to invite her in, to sit beside me in the boat house.

“Did she accept?”

“No.” She shook her head and told me she needed to stay where she was, to watch and listen, ensuring that no one else would catch us. From the beginning to the end, she stood at the entrance, hands resting on either side of it. Sometimes she leaned in to speak to me, and other times she pulled back suddenly to scan the surroundings.

“I was here yesterday,” she said. “Before it got dark, I heard you and the lady with you talking. I heard you tell her about your husband. I heard you say you had no power to make him believe you, and no power to keep him quiet. I understood what those words meant—my conscience made sure of that while I listened. Why did I ever let you marry him? Oh, my fear—my crazy, miserable, wicked fear!”

She buried her face in her worn shawl, moaning and murmuring to herself behind it. I started to worry that she might spiral into a despair neither of us could control.

“Try to calm down,” I urged. “Tell me how you could have stopped my marriage.”

She pulled the shawl away from her face and looked at me with vacant eyes. “I should have had the courage to stay at Limmeridge,” she replied. “I should never have let the news of his arrival scare me away. I should have warned you and saved you before it was too late. Why did I only have the courage to write you that letter? Why did I only cause harm when I wanted to do good? Oh, my fear—my crazy, miserable, wicked fear!”

She repeated those words, hiding her face once more in the end of her worn shawl. It was heartbreaking to see her like this, and even more painful to hear her.