The Woman in White ..........................................................................................................................................1

This is the story of what a Woman's patience can endure, and what a Man's resolution can achieve.

If the machinery of the Law could be depended on to fathom every case of suspicion, and to conduct every

process of inquiry, with moderate assistance only from the lubricating influences of oil of gold, the events

which fill these pages might have claimed their share of the public attention in a Court of Justice.

But the Law is still, in certain inevitable cases, the preengaged servant of the long purse; and the story is left

to be told, for the first time, in this place. As the Judge might once have heard it, so the Reader shall hear it

now. No circumstance of importance, from the beginning to the end of the disclosure, shall be related on

hearsay evidence. When the writer of these introductory lines (Walter Hartright by name) happens to be more

closely connected than others with the incidents to be recorded, he will describe them in his own person.

When his experience fails, he will retire from the position of narrator; and his task will be continued, from the

point at which he has left it off, by other persons who can speak to the circumstances under notice from their

Thus, the story here presented will be told by more than one pen, as the story of an offence against the laws is

told in Court by more than one witnesswith the same object, in both cases, to present the truth always in its

most direct and most intelligible aspect; and to trace the course of one complete series of events, by making

the persons who have been most closely connected with them, at each successive stage, relate their own

Let Walter Hartright, teacher of drawing, aged twentyeight years, be heard first.

It was the last day of July. The long hot summer was drawing to a close; and we, the weary pilgrims of the

London pavement, were beginning to think of the cloudshadows on the cornfields, and the autumn breezes

For my own poor part, the fading summer left me out of health, out of spirits, and, if the truth must be told,

out of money as well. During the past year I had not managed my professional resources as carefully as usual;

and my extravagance now limited me to the prospect of spending the autumn economically between my

The evening, I remember, was still and cloudy; the London air was at its heaviest; the distant hum of the

streettraffic was at its faintest; the small pulse of the life within me, and the great heart of the city around

me, seemed to be sinking in unison, languidly and more languidly, with the sinking sun. I roused myself from

the book which I was dreaming over rather than reading, and left my chambers to meet the cool night air in

the suburbs. It was one of the two evenings in every week which I was accustomed to spend with my mother

Events which I have yet to relate make it necessary to mention in this place that my father had been dead

some years at the period of which I am now writing; and that my sister Sarah and I were the sole survivors of

a family of five children. My father was a drawingmaster before me. His exertions had made him highly

successful in his profession; and his affectionate anxiety to provide for the future of those who were

dependent on his labours had impelled him, from the time of his marriage, to devote to the insuring of his life

a much larger portion of his income than most men consider it necessary to set aside for that purpose. Thanks

to his admirable prudence and selfdenial my mother and sister were left, after his death, as independent of

the world as they had been during his lifetime. I succeeded to his connection, and had every reason to feel

The quiet twilight was still trembling on the topmost ridges of the heath; and the view of London below me

had sunk into a black gulf in the shadow of the cloudy night, when I stood before the gate of my mother's

cottage. I had hardly rung the bell before the house door was opened violently; my worthy Italian friend,

Professor Pesca, appeared in the servant's place; and darted out joyously to receive me, with a shrill foreign

On his own account, and, I must be allowed to add, on mine also, the Professor merits the honour of a formal

introduction. Accident has made him the startingpoint of the strange family story which it is the purpose of

I had first become acquainted with my Italian friend by meeting him at certain great houses where he taught

his own language and I taught drawing. All I then knew of the history of his life was, that he had once held a

situation in the University of Padua; that he had left Italy for political reasons (the nature of which he

uniformly declined to mention to any one); and that he had been for many years respectably established in

Without being actually a dwarffor he was perfectly well proportioned from head to footPesca was, I

think, the smallest human being I ever saw out of a showroom. Remarkable anywhere, by his personal

appearance, he was still further distinguished among the rank and file of mankind by the harmless

eccentricity of his character. The ruling idea of his life appeared to be, that he was bound to show his

gratitude to the country which had afforded him an asylum and a means of subsistence by doing his utmost to

turn himself into an Englishman. Not content with paying the nation in general the compliment of invariably

carrying an umbrella, and invariably wearing gaiters and a white hat, the Professor further aspired to become

an Englishman in his habits and amusements, as well as in his personal appearance. Finding us distinguished,

as a nation, by our love of athletic exercises, the little man, in the innocence of his heart, devoted himself

impromptu to all our English sports and pastimes whenever he had the opportunity of joining them; firmly

persuaded that he could adopt our national amusements of the field by an effort of will precisely as he had

I had seen him risk his limbs blindly at a foxhunt and in a cricketfield; and soon afterwards I saw him risk

We had met there accidentally, and were bathing together. If we had been engaged in any exercise peculiar to

my own nation I should, of course, have looked after Pesca carefully; but as foreigners are generally quite as

well able to take care of themselves in the water as Englishmen, it never occurred to me that the art of

swimming might merely add one more to the list of manly exercises which the Professor believed that he

could learn impromptu. Soon after we had both struck out from shore, I stopped, finding my friend did not

gain on me, and turned round to look for him. To my horror and amazement, I saw nothing between me and

the beach but two little white arms which struggled for an instant above the surface of the water, and then

disappeared from view. When I dived for him, the poor little man was lying quietly coiled up at the bottom,

in a hollow of shingle, looking by many degrees smaller than I had ever seen him look before. During the few

minutes that elapsed while I was taking him in, the air revived him, and he ascended the steps of the machine

with my assistance. With the partial recovery of his animation came the return of his wonderful delusion on

the subject of swimming. As soon as his chattering teeth would let him speak, he smiled vacantly, and said he

When he had thoroughly recovered himself, and had joined me on the beach, his warm Southern nature broke

through all artificial English restraints in a moment. He overwhelmed me with the wildest expressions of

affectionexclaimed passionately, in his exaggerated Italian way, that he would hold his life henceforth at

my disposaland declared that he should never be happy again until he had found an opportunity of proving

his gratitude by rendering me some service which I might remember, on my side, to the end of my days.

I did my best to stop the torrent of his tears and protestations by persisting in treating the whole adventure as

a good subject for a joke; and succeeded at last, as I imagined, in lessening Pesca's overwhelming sense of

obligation to me. Little did I think thenlittle did I think afterwards when our pleasant holiday had drawn to

an endthat the opportunity of serving me for which my grateful companion so ardently longed was soon to

come; that he was eagerly to seize it on the instant; and that by so doing he was to turn the whole current of

my existence into a new channel, and to alter me to myself almost past recognition.

Yet so it was. If I had not dived for Professor Pesca when he lay under water on his shingle bed, I should in

all human probability never have been connected with the story which these pages will relateI should

never, perhaps, have heard even the name of the woman who has lived in all my thoughts, who has possessed

herself of all my energies, who has become the one guiding influence that now directs the purpose of my life.

Pesca's face and manner, on the evening when we confronted each other at my mother's gate, were more than

sufficient to inform me that something extraordinary had happened. It was quite useless, however, to ask him

for an immediate explanation. I could only conjecture, while he was dragging me in by both hands, that

(knowing my habits) he had come to the cottage to make sure of meeting me that night, and that he had some

We both bounced into the parlour in a highly abrupt and undignified manner. My mother sat by the open

window laughing and fanning herself. Pesca was one of her especial favourites and his wildest eccentricities

were always pardonable in her eyes. Poor dear soul! from the first moment when she found out that the little

Professor was deeply and gratefully attached to her son, she opened her heart to him unreservedly, and took

all his puzzling foreign peculiarities for granted, without so much as attempting to understand any one of

My sister Sarah, with all the advantages of youth, was, strangely enough, less pliable. She did full justice to

Pesca's excellent qualities of heart; but she could not accept him implicitly, as my mother accepted him, for

my sake. Her insular notions of propriety rose in perpetual revolt against Pesca's constitutional contempt for

appearances; and she was always more or less undisguisedly astonished at her mother's familiarity with the

eccentric little foreigner. I have observed, not only in my sister's case, but in the instances of others, that we

of the young generation are nothing like so hearty and so impulsive as some of our elders. I constantly see old

people flushed and excited by the prospect of some anticipated pleasure which altogether fails to ruffle the

tranquillity of their serene grandchildren. Are we, I wonder, quite such genuine boys and girls now as our

seniors were in their time? Has the great advance in education taken rather too long a stride; and are we in

Without attempting to answer those questions decisively, I may at least record that I never saw my mother

and my sister together in Pesca's society, without finding my mother much the younger woman of the two.

On this occasion, for example, while the old lady was laughing heartily over the boyish manner in which we

tumbled into the parlour, Sarah was perturbedly picking up the broken pieces of a teacup, which the Professor

"I don't know what would have happened, Walter," said my mother, "if you had delayed much longer. Pesca

has been half mad with impatience, and I have been half mad with curiosity. The Professor has brought some

wonderful news with him, in which he says you are concerned; and he has cruelly refused to give us the

"Very provoking: it spoils the Set," murmured Sarah to herself, mournfully absorbed over the ruins of the

While these words were being spoken, Pesca, happily and fussily unconscious of the irreparable wrong which

the crockery had suffered at his hands, was dragging a large armchair to the opposite end of the room, so as

to command us all three, in the character of a public speaker addressing an audience. Having turned the chair

with its back towards us, he jumped into it on his knees, and excitedly addressed his small congregation of

"Now, my good dears," began Pesca (who always said "good dears" when he meant "worthy friends"), "listen

"The next thing he will break, mamma," whispered Sarah, "will be the back of the best armchair."

"I go back into my life, and I address myself to the noblest of created beings," continued Pesca, vehemently

apostrophising my unworthy self over the top rail of the chair. "Who found me dead at the bottom of the sea

(through Cramp); and who pulled me up to the top; and what did I say when I got into my own life and my

"Much more than was at all necessary," I answered as doggedly as possible; for the least encouragement in

connection with this subject invariably let loose the Professor's emotions in a flood of tears.

"I said," persisted Pesca, "that my life belonged to my dear friend, Walter, for the rest of my daysand so it

does. I said that I should never be happy again till I had found the opportunity of doing a good Something for

Walterand I have never been contented with myself till this most blessed day. Now," cried the enthusiastic

little man at the top of his voice, "the overflowing happiness bursts out of me at every pore of my skin, like a

perspiration; for on my faith, and soul, and honour, the something is done at last, and the only word to say

It may be necessary to explain here that Pesca prided himself on being a perfect Englishman in his language,

as well as in his dress, manners, and amusements. Having picked up a few of our most familiar colloquial

expressions, he scattered them about over his conversation whenever they happened to occur to him, turning

them, in his high relish for their sound and his general ignorance of their sense, into compound words and

repetitions of his own, and always running them into each other, as if they consisted of one long syllable.

"Among the fine London Houses where I teach the language of my native country," said the Professor,

rushing into his long deferred explanation without another word of preface, "there is one, mighty fine, in the

big place called Portland. You all know where that is? Yes, yescourseofcourse. The fine house, my

good dears, has got inside it a fine family. A Mamma, fair and fat; three young Misses, fair and fat; two

young Misters, fair and fat; and a Papa, the fairest and the fattest of all, who is a mighty merchant, up to his

eyes in golda fine man once, but seeing that he has got a naked head and two chins, fine no longer at the

ah!mysoulblessmysoul!it is not in human language to say how the sublime Dante puzzles the

pretty heads of all three! No matterall in good timeand the more lessons the better for me. Now mind!

Imagine to yourselves that I am teaching the young Misses today, as usual. We are all four of us down

together in the Hell of Dante. At the Seventh Circlebut no matter for that: all the Circles are alike to the

three young Misses, fair and fat,at the Seventh Circle, nevertheless, my pupils are sticking fast; and I, to

set them going again, recite, explain, and blow myself up redhot with useless enthusiasm, when a creak

of boots in the passage outside, and in comes the golden Papa, the mighty merchant with the naked head and

the two chins. Ha! my good dears, I am closer than you think for to the business, now. Have you been

patient so far? or have you said to yourselves, 'Deucewhatthedeuce! Pesca is longwinded tonight?'"

"In his hand, the golden Papa has a letter; and after he has made his excuse for disturbing us in our Infernal

Region with the common mortal Business of the house, he addresses himself to the three young Misses, and

begins, as you English begin everything in this blessed world that you have to say, with a great O. 'O, my

dears,' says the mighty merchant, 'I have got here a letter from my friend, Mr.'(the name has slipped out

of my mind; but no matter; we shall come back to that; yes, yesrightallright). So the Papa says, 'I have

got a letter from my friend, the Mister; and he wants a recommend from me, of a drawingmaster, to go

down to his house in the country.' Mysoulblessmysoul! when I heard the golden Papa say those words,

if I had been big enough to reach up to him, I should have put my arms round his neck, and pressed him to

my bosom in a long and grateful hug! As it was, I only bounced upon my chair. My seat was on thorns, and

my soul was on fire to speak but I held my tongue, and let Papa go on. 'Perhaps you know,' says this good

man of money, twiddling his friend's letter this way and that, in his golden fingers and thumbs, 'perhaps you

know, my dears, of a drawingmaster that I can recommend?' The three young Misses all look at each other,

and then say (with the indispensable great O to begin) "O, dear no, Papa! But here is Mr. Pesca' At the

mention of myself I can hold no longerthe thought of you, my good dears, mounts like blood to my

headI start from my seat, as if a spike had grown up from the ground through the bottom of my chairI

address myself to the mighty merchant, and I say (English phrase) 'Dear sir, I have the man! The first and

foremost drawingmaster of the world! Recommend him by the post tonight, and send him off, bag and

baggage (English phrase againha!), send him off, bag and baggage, by the train tomorrow!' 'Stop, stop,'

says Papa; 'is he a foreigner, or an Englishman?' 'English to the bone of his back,' I answer. 'Respectable?'

says Papa. 'Sir,' I say (for this last question of his outrages me, and I have done being familiar with

him'Sir! the immortal fire of genius burns in this Englishman's bosom, and, what is more, his father had it

before him!' 'Never mind,' says the golden barbarian of a Papa, 'never mind about his genius, Mr. Pesca. We

don't want genius in this country, unless it is accompanied by respectabilityand then we are very glad to

have it, very glad indeed. Can your friend produce testimonials letters that speak to his character?' I wave

my hand negligently. 'Letters?' I say. 'Ha! mysoulblessmysoul! I should think so, indeed! Volumes of

letters and portfolios of testimonials, if you like!' 'One or two will do,' says this man of phlegm and money.

'Let him send them to me, with his name and address. Andstop, stop, Mr. Pescabefore you go to your

friend, you had better take a note.' 'Banknote!' I say, indignantly. 'No banknote, if you please, till my brave

Englishman has earned it first.' 'Bank note!' says Papa, in a great surprise, 'who talked of banknote? I mean

a note of the termsa memorandum of what he is expected to do. Go on with your lesson, Mr. Pesca, and I

will give you the necessary extract from my friend's letter.' Down sits the man of merchandise and money to

his pen, ink, and paper; and down I go once again into the Hell of Dante, with my three young Misses after

me. In ten minutes' time the note is written, and the boots of Papa are creaking themselves away in the

passage outside. From that moment, on my faith, and soul, and honour, I know nothing more! The glorious

thought that I have caught my opportunity at last, and that my grateful service for my dearest friend in the

world is as good as done already, flies up into my head and makes me drunk. How I pull my young Misses

and myself out of our Infernal Region again, how my other business is done afterwards, how my little bit of

dinner slides itself down my throat, I know no more than a man in the moon. Enough for me, that here I am,

with the mighty merchant's note in my hand, as large as life, as hot as fire, and as happy as a king! Ha! ha!

ha! rightright rightallright!" Here the Professor waved the memorandum of terms over his head, and

ended his long and voluble narrative with his shrill Italian parody on an English cheer.

My mother rose the moment he had done, with flushed cheeks and brightened eyes. She caught the little man

"My dear, good Pesca," she said, "I never doubted your true affection for Walterbut I am more than ever

"I am sure we are very much obliged to Professor Pesca, for Walter's sake," added Sarah. She half rose, while

she spoke, as if to approach the armchair, in her turn; but, observing that Pesca was rapturously kissing my,

mother's hands, looked serious, and resumed her seat. "If the familiar little man treats my mother in that way,

how will he treat ME?" Faces sometimes tell truth; and that was unquestionably the thought in Sarah's mind,

Although I myself was gratefully sensible of the kindness of Pesca's motives, my spirits were hardly so much

elevated as they ought to have been by the prospect of future employment now placed before me. When the

Professor had quite done with my mother's hand, and when I had warmly thanked him for his interference on

my behalf, I asked to be allowed to look at the note of terms which his respectable patron had drawn up for

"Read!" said the little man majestically. "I promise you my friend, the writing of the golden Papa speaks with

The note of terms was plain, straightforward, and comprehensive, at any rate. It informed me,

First, That Frederick Fairlie, Esquire, of Limmeridge House. Cumberland, wanted to engage the services of a

Secondly, That the duties which the master was expected to perform would be of a twofold kind. He was to

superintend the instruction of two young ladies in the art of painting in watercolours; and he was to devote

his leisure time, afterwards, to the business of repairing and mounting a valuable collection of drawings,

Thirdly, That the terms offered to the person who should undertake and properly perform these duties were

four guineas a week; that he was to reside at Limmeridge House; and that he was to be treated there on the

Fourthly, and lastly, That no person need think of applying for this situation unless he could furnish the most

unexceptionable references to character and abilities. The references were to be sent to Mr. Fairlie's friend in

London, who was empowered to conclude all necessary arrangements. These instructions were followed by

the name and address of Pesca's employer in Portland Placeand there the note, or memorandum, ended.

The prospect which this offer of an engagement held out was certainly an attractive one. The employment

was likely to be both easy and agreeable; it was proposed to me at the autumn time of the year when I was

least occupied; and the terms, judging by my personal experience in my profession, were surprisingly liberal.

I knew this; I knew that I ought to consider myself very fortunate if I succeeded in securing the offered

employmentand yet, no sooner had I read the memorandum than I felt an inexplicable unwillingness

within me to stir in the matter. I had never in the whole of my previous experience found my duty and my

"Oh, Walter, your father never had such a chance as this!" said my mother, when she had read the note of

"Such distinguished people to know," remarked Sarah, straightening herself in the chair; "and on such

"Yes, yes; the terms, in every sense, are tempting enough," I replied impatiently. "But before I send in my

"Consider!" echoed my sister. "What a very extraordinary thing to say, under the circumstances!"

"Consider!" chimed in the Professor. "What is there to consider about? Answer me this! Have you not been

complaining of your health, and have you not been longing for what you call a smack of the country breeze?

Well! there in your hand is the paper that offers you perpetual choking mouthfuls of country breeze for four

months' time. Is it not so? Ha! Againyou want money. Well! Is four golden guineas a week nothing?

Mysoulblessmysoul! only give it to meand my boots shall creak like the golden Papa's, with a sense

of the overpowering richness of the man who walks in them! Four guineas a week, and, more than that, the

charming society of two young misses! and, more than that, your bed, your breakfast, your dinner, your

gorging English teas and lunches and drinks of foaming beer, all for nothingwhy, Walter, my dear good

frienddeucewhatthedeuce!for the first time in my life I have not eyes enough in my head to look,

Neither my mother's evident astonishment at my behaviour, nor Pesca's fervid enumeration of the advantages

offered to me by the new employment, had any effect in shaking my unreasonable disinclination to go to

Limmeridge House. After starting all the petty objections that I could think of to going to Cumberland, and

after hearing them answered, one after another, to my own complete discomfiture, I tried to set up a last

obstacle by asking what was to become of my pupils in London while I was teaching Mr. Fairlie's young

ladies to sketch from nature. The obvious answer to this was, that the greater part of them would be away on

their autumn travels, and that the few who remained at home might be confided to the care of one of my

brother drawingmasters, whose pupils I had once taken off his hands under similar circumstances. My sister

reminded me that this gentleman had expressly placed his services at my disposal, during the present season,

in case I wished to leave town; my mother seriously appealed to me not to let an idle caprice stand in the way

of my own interests and my own health; and Pesca piteously entreated that I would not wound him to the

heart by rejecting the first grateful offer of service that he had been able to make to the friend who had saved

The evident sincerity and affection which inspired these remonstrances would have influenced any man with

an atom of good feeling in his composition. Though I could not conquer my own unaccountable perversity, I

had at least virtue enough to be heartily ashamed of it, and to end the discussion pleasantly by giving way,

The rest of the evening passed merrily enough in humorous anticipations of my coming life with the two

young ladies in Cumberland. Pesca, inspired by our national grog, which appeared to get into his head, in the

most marvellous manner, five minutes after it had gone down his throat, asserted his claims to be considered

a complete Englishman by making a series of speeches in rapid succession, proposing my mother's health, my

sister's health, my health, and the healths, in mass, of Mr. Fairlie and the two young Misses, pathetically

returning thanks himself, immediately afterwards, for the whole party. "A secret, Walter," said my little

friend confidentially, as we walked home together. "I am flushed by the recollection of my own eloquence.

My soul bursts itself with ambition. One of these days I go into your noble Parliament. It is the dream of my

The next morning I sent my testimonials to the Professor's employer in Portland Place. Three days passed,

and I concluded, with secret satisfaction, that my papers had not been found sufficiently explicit. On the

fourth day, however, an answer came. It announced that Mr. Fairlie accepted my services, and requested me

to start for Cumberland immediately. All the necessary instructions for my journey were carefully and clearly

I made my arrangements, unwillingly enough, for leaving London early the next day. Towards evening Pesca

"I shall dry my tears in your absence," said the Professor gaily, "with this glorious thought. It is my

auspicious hand that has given the first push to your fortune in the world. Go, my friend! When your sun

shines in Cumberland (English proverb), in the name of heaven make your hay. Marry one of the two young

Misses; become Honourable Hartright, M.P.; and when you are on the top of the ladder remember that Pesca,

I tried to laugh with my little friend over his parting jest, but my spirits were not to be commanded.

Something jarred in me almost painfully while he was speaking his light farewell words.

When I was left alone again nothing remained to be done but to walk to the Hampstead cottage and bid my

The heat had been painfully oppressive all day, and it was now a close and sultry night.

My mother and sister had spoken so many last words, and had begged me to wait another five minutes so

many times, that it was nearly midnight when the servant locked the gardengate behind me. I walked

forward a few paces on the shortest way back to London, then stopped and hesitated.

The moon was full and broad in the dark blue starless sky, and the broken ground of the heath looked wild

enough in the mysterious light to be hundreds of miles away from the great city that lay beneath it. The idea

of descending any sooner than I could help into the heat and gloom of London repelled me. The prospect of

going to bed in my airless chambers, and the prospect of gradual suffocation, seemed, in my present restless

frame of mind and body, to be one and the same thing. I determined to stroll home in the purer air by the

most roundabout way I could take; to follow the white winding paths across the lonely heath; and to approach

London through its most open suburb by striking into the Finchley Road, and so getting back, in the cool of

I wound my way down slowly over the heath, enjoying the divine stillness of the scene, and admiring the soft

alternations of light and shade as they followed each other over the broken ground on every side of me. So

long as I was proceeding through this first and prettiest part of my night walk my mind remained passively

open to the impressions produced by the view; and I thought but little on any subjectindeed, so far as my

But when I had left the heath and had turned into the byroad, where there was less to see, the ideas naturally

engendered by the approaching change in my habits and occupations gradually drew more and more of my

attention exclusively to themselves. By the time I had arrived at the end of the road I had become completely

absorbed in my own fanciful visions of Limmeridge House, of Mr. Fairlie, and of the two ladies whose

I had now arrived at that particular point of my walk where four roads metthe road to Hampstead, along

which I had returned, the road to Finchley, the road to West End, and the road back to London. I had

mechanically turned in this latter direction, and was strolling along the lonely highroadidly wondering, I

remember, what the Cumberland young ladies would look likewhen, in one moment, every drop of blood

in my body was brought to a stop by the touch of a hand laid lightly and suddenly on my shoulder from

I turned on the instant, with my fingers tightening round the handle of my stick.

There, in the middle of the broad bright highroadthere, as if it had that moment sprung out of the earth or

dropped from the heavenstood the figure of a solitary Woman, dressed from head to foot in white

garments, her face bent in grave inquiry on mine, her hand pointing to the dark cloud over London, as I faced

I was far too seriously startled by the suddenness with which this extraordinary apparition stood before me, in

the dead of night and in that lonely place, to ask what she wanted. The strange woman spoke first.

I looked attentively at her, as she put that singular question to me. It was then nearly one o'clock. All I could

discern distinctly by the moonlight was a colourless, youthful face, meagre and sharp to look at about the

cheeks and chin; large, grave, wistfully attentive eyes; nervous, uncertain lips; and light hair of a pale,

brownishyellow hue. There was nothing wild, nothing immodest in her manner: it was quiet and self

controlled, a little melancholy and a little touched by suspicion; not exactly the manner of a lady, and, at the

same time, not the manner of a woman in the humblest rank of life. The voice, little as I had yet heard of it,

had something curiously still and mechanical in its tones, and the utterance was remarkably rapid. She held a

small bag in her hand: and her dressbonnet, shawl, and gown all of whitewas, so far as I could guess,

certainly not composed of very delicate or very expensive materials. Her figure was slight, and rather above

the average heighther gait and actions free from the slightest approach to extravagance. This was all that I

could observe of her in the dim light and under the perplexingly strange circumstances of our meeting. What

sort of a woman she was, and how she came to be out alone in the highroad, an hour after midnight, I

altogether failed to guess. The one thing of which I felt certain was, that the grossest of mankind could not

have misconstrued her motive in speaking, even at that suspiciously late hour and in that suspiciously lonely

"Did you hear me?" she said, still quietly and rapidly, and without the least fretfulness or impatience. "I asked

"Yes," I replied, "that is the way: it leads to St. John's Wood and the Regent's Park. You must excuse my not

answering you before. I was rather startled by your sudden appearance in the road; and I am, even now, quite

"You don't suspect me of doing anything wrong, do you? have done nothing wrong. I have met with an

accidentI am very unfortunate in being here alone so late. Why do you suspect me of doing wrong?"

She spoke with unnecessary earnestness and agitation, and shrank back from me several paces. I did my best

"Pray don't suppose that I have any idea of suspecting you," I said, "or any other wish than to be of assistance

to you, if I can. I only wondered at your appearance in the road, because it seemed to me to be empty the

She turned, and pointed back to a place at the junction of the road to London and the road to Hampstead,

"I heard you coming," she said, "and hid there to see what sort of man you were, before I risked speaking. I

doubted and feared about it till you passed; and then I was obliged to steal after you, and touch you."

Steal after me and touch me? Why not call to me? Strange, to say the least of it.

"May I trust you?" she asked. "You don't think the worse of me because I have met with an accident?" She

stopped in confusion; shifted her bag from one hand to the other; and sighed bitterly.

The loneliness and helplessness of the woman touched me. The natural impulse to assist her and to spare her

got the better of the judgment, the caution, the worldly tact, which an older, wiser, and colder man might

"You may trust me for any harmless purpose," I said. "If it troubles you to explain your strange situation to

me, don't think of returning to the subject again. I have no right to ask you for any explanations. Tell me how

"You are very kind, and I am very, very thankful to have met you." The first touch of womanly tenderness

that I had heard from her trembled in her voice as she said the words; but no tears glistened in those large,

wistfully attentive eyes of hers, which were still fixed on me. "I have only been in London once before," she

went on, more and more rapidly, "and I know nothing about that side of it, yonder. Can I get a fly, or a

carriage of any kind? Is it too late? I don't know. If you could show me where to get a flyand if you will

only promise not to interfere with me, and to let me leave you, when and how I pleaseI have a friend in

She looked anxiously up and down the road; shifted her bag again from one hand to the other; repeated the

words, "Will you promise?" and looked hard in my face, with a pleading fear and confusion that it troubled

What could I do? Here was a stranger utterly and helplessly at my mercyand that stranger a forlorn

woman. No house was near; no one was passing whom I could consult; and no earthly right existed on my

part to give me a power of control over her, even if I had known how to exercise it. I trace these lines, self

distrustfully, with the shadows of afterevents darkening the very paper I write on; and still I say, what could

What I did do, was to try and gain time by questioning her. "Are you sure that your friend in London will

"Quite sure. Only say you will let me leave you when and how I pleaseonly say you won't interfere with

As she repeated the words for the third time, she came close to me and laid her hand, with a sudden gentle

stealthiness, on my bosom a thin hand; a cold hand (when I removed it with mine) even on that sultry

night. Remember that I was young; remember that the hand which touched me was a woman's.

One word! The little familiar word that is on everybody's lips, every hour in the day. Oh me! and I tremble,

We set our faces towards London, and walked on together in the first still hour of the new dayI, and this

woman, whose name, whose character, whose story, whose objects in life, whose very presence by my side,

at that moment, were fathomless mysteries to me. It was like a dream. Was I Walter Hartright? Was this the

wellknown, uneventful road, where holiday people strolled on Sundays? Had I really left, little more than an

hour since, the quiet, decent, conventionally domestic atmosphere of my mother's cottage? I was too

bewilderedtoo conscious also of a vague sense of something like selfreproachto speak to my strange

companion for some minutes. It was her voice again that first broke the silence between us.

"I want to ask you something," she said suddenly. "Do you know many people in London?"

"Many men of rank and title?" There was an unmistakable tone of suspicion in the strange question. I

"Many"she came to a full stop, and looked me searchingly in the face"many men of the rank of

"I can'tI daren'tI forget myself when I mention it." She spoke loudly and almost fiercely, raised her

clenched hand in the air, and shook it passionately; then, on a sudden, controlled herself again, and added, in

I could hardly refuse to humour her in such a trifle, and I mentioned three names. Two, the names of fathers

of families whose daughters I taught; one, the name of a bachelor who had once taken me a cruise in his

"Ah! you DON'T know him," she said, with a sigh of relief. "Are you a man of rank and title yourself?"

As the reply passed my lipsa little bitterly, perhapsshe took my arm with the abruptness which

"Not a man of rank and title," she repeated to herself. "Thank God! I may trust HIM."

I had hitherto contrived to master my curiosity out of consideration for my companion; but it got the better of

"I am afraid you have serious reason to complain of some man of rank and title?" I said. "I am afraid the

baronet, whose name you are unwilling to mention to me, has done you some grievous wrong? Is he the cause

"Don't ask me: don't make me talk of it," she answered. "I'm not fit now. I have been cruelly used and cruelly

wronged. You will be kinder than ever, if you will walk on fast, and not speak to me. I sadly want to quiet

We moved forward again at a quick pace; and for half an hour, at least, not a word passed on either side.

From time to time, being forbidden to make any more inquiries, I stole a look at her face. It was always the

same; the lips close shut, the brow frowning, the eyes looking straight forward, eagerly and yet absently. We

had reached the first houses, and were close on the new Wesleyan college, before her set features relaxed and

"Yes." As I answered, it struck me that she might have formed some intention of appealing to me for

assistance or advice, and that I ought to spare her a possible disappointment by warning her of my

approaching absence from home. So I added, "But tomorrow I shall be away from London for some time. I

"Cumberland!" she repeated the word tenderly. "Ah! wish I was going there too. I was once happy in

"No," she answered. "I was born in Hampshire; but I once went to school for a little while in Cumberland.

Lakes? I don't remember any lakes. It's Limmeridge village, and Limmeridge House, I should like to see

It was my turn now to stop suddenly. In the excited state of my curiosity, at that moment, the chance

reference to Mr. Fairlie's place of residence, on the lips of my strange companion, staggered me with

"Did you hear anybody calling after us?" she asked, looking up and down the road affrightedly, the instant I

"No, no. I was only struck by the name of Limmeridge House. I heard it mentioned by some Cumberland

"Ah! not my people. Mrs. Fairlie is dead; and her husband is dead; and their little girl may be married and

gone away by this time. I can't say who lives at Limmeridge now. If any more are left there of that name, I

She seemed about to say more; but while she was speaking, we came within view of the turnpike, at the top

of the Avenue Road. Her hand tightened round my arm, and she looked anxiously at the gate before us.

He was not looking out; no one else was near the place when we passed through the gate. The sight of the

"This is London," she said. "Do you see any carriage I can get? I am tired and frightened. I want to shut

I explained to her that we must walk a little further to get to a cabstand, unless we were fortunate enough to

meet with an empty vehicle; and then tried to resume the subject of Cumberland. It was useless. That idea of

shutting herself in, and being driven away, had now got full possession of her mind. She could think and talk

We had hardly proceeded a third of the way down the Avenue Road when I saw a cab draw up at a house a

few doors below us, on the opposite side of the way. A gentleman got out and let himself in at the garden

door. I hailed the cab, as the driver mounted the box again. When we crossed the road, my companion's

"I can't take you, sir, if you're not going towards Tottenham Court Road," said the driver civilly, when I

opened the cab door. "My horse is dead beat, and I can't get him no further than the stable."

"Yes, yes. That will do for me. I'm going that wayI'm going that way." She spoke with breathless

I had assured myself that the man was sober as well as civil before I let her enter the vehicle. And now, when

she was seated inside, I entreated her to let me see her set down safely at her destination.

"No, no, no," she said vehemently. "I'm quite safe, and quite happy now. If you are a gentleman, remember

your promise. Let him drive on till I stop him. Thank youoh! thank you, thank you!"

My hand was on the cab door. She caught it in hers, kissed it, and pushed it away. The cab drove off at the

same momentI started into the road, with some vague idea of stopping it again, I hardly knew

whyhesitated from dread of frightening and distressing hercalled, at last, but not loudly enough to

attract the driver's attention. The sound of the wheels grew fainter in the distancethe cab melted into the

Ten minutes or more had passed. I was still on the same side of the way; now mechanically walking forward

a few paces; now stopping again absently. At one moment I found myself doubting the reality of my own

adventure; at another I was perplexed and distressed by an uneasy sense of having done wrong, which yet left

me confusedly ignorant of how I could have done right. I hardly knew where I was going, or what I meant to

do next; I was conscious of nothing but the confusion of my own thoughts, when I was abruptly recalled to

myselfawakened, I might almost sayby the sound of rapidly approaching wheels close behind me.

I was on the dark side of the road, in the thick shadow of some garden trees, when I stopped to look round.

On the opposite and lighter side of the way, a short distance below me, a policeman was strolling along in the

The horse was instantly pulled up, a few yards beyond the dark place where I stood.

"No, no," interposed the second man. "The clothes we gave her were found on her bed. She must have gone

away in the clothes she wore when she came to us. In white, policeman. A woman in white."

"If you or any of your men meet with the woman, stop her, and send her in careful keeping to that address. I'll

"Done! She has escaped from my Asylum. Don't forget; a woman in white. Drive on."

I cannot say with truth that the terrible inference which those words suggested flashed upon me like a new

revelation. Some of the strange questions put to me by the woman in white, after my illconsidered promise

to leave her free to act as she pleased, had suggested the conclusion either that she was naturally flighty and

unsettled, or that some recent shock of terror had disturbed the balance of her faculties. But the idea of

absolute insanity which we all associate with the very name of an Asylum, had, I can honestly declare, never

occurred to me, in connection with her. I had seen nothing, in her language or her actions, to justify it at the

time; and even with the new light thrown on her by the words which the stranger had addressed to the

What had I done? Assisted the victim of the most horrible of all false imprisonments to escape; or cast loose

on the wide world of London an unfortunate creature, whose actions it was my duty, and every man's duty,

mercifully to control? I turned sick at heart when the question occurred to me, and when I felt self

In the disturbed state of my mind, it was useless to think of going to bed, when I at last got back to my

chambers in Clement's Inn. Before many hours elapsed it would be necessary to start on my journey to

Cumberland. I sat down and tried, first to sketch, then to readbut the woman in white got between me and

my pencil, between me and my book. Had the forlorn creature come to any harm? That was my first thought,

though I shrank selfishly from confronting it. Other thoughts followed, on which it was less harrowing to

dwell. Where had she stopped the cab? What had become of her now? Had she been traced and captured by

the men in the chaise? Or was she still capable of controlling her own actions; and were we two following our

widely parted roads towards one point in the mysterious future, at which we were to meet once more?

It was a relief when the hour came to lock my door, to bid farewell to London pursuits, London pupils, and

London friends, and to be in movement again towards new interests and a new life. Even the bustle and

confusion at the railway terminus, so wearisome and bewildering at other times, roused me and did me good.

My travelling instructions directed me to go to Carlisle, and then to diverge by a branch railway which ran in

the direction of the coast. As a misfortune to begin with, our engine broke down between Lancaster and

Carlisle. The delay occasioned by this accident caused me to be too late for the branch train, by which I was

to have gone on immediately. I had to wait some hours; and when a later train finally deposited me at the

nearest station to Limmeridge House, it was past ten, and the night was so dark that I could hardly see my

The driver was evidently discomposed by the lateness of my arrival. He was in that state of highly respectful

sulkiness which is peculiar to English servants. We drove away slowly through the darkness in perfect

silence. The roads were bad, and the dense obscurity of the night increased the difficulty of getting over the

ground quickly. It was, by my watch, nearly an hour and a half from the time of our leaving the station before

I heard the sound of the sea in the distance, and the crunch of our wheels on a smooth gravel drive. We had

passed one gate before entering the drive, and we passed another before we drew up at the house. I was

received by a solemn manservant out of livery, was informed that the family had retired for the night, and

was then led into a large and lofty room where my supper was awaiting me, in a forlorn manner, at one

I was too tired and out of spirits to eat or drink much, especially with the solemn servant waiting on me as

elaborately as if a small dinner party had arrived at the house instead of a solitary man. In a quarter of an hour

I was ready to be taken up to my bedchamber. The solemn servant conducted me into a prettily furnished

roomsaid, "Breakfast at nine o'clock, sir"looked all round him to see that everything was in its proper

"What shall I see in my dreams tonight?" I thought to myself, as I put out the candle; "the woman in white?

or the unknown inhabitants of this Cumberland mansion?" It was a strange sensation to be sleeping in the

house, like a friend of the family, and yet not to know one of the inmates, even by sight!

When I rose the next morning and drew up my blind, the sea opened before me joyously under the broad

August sunlight, and the distant coast of Scotland fringed the horizon with its lines of melting blue.

The view was such a surprise, and such a change to me, after my weary London experience of brick and

mortar landscape, that I seemed to burst into a new life and a new set of thoughts the moment I looked at it. A

confused sensation of having suddenly lost my familiarity with the past, without acquiring any additional

clearness of idea in reference to the present or the future, took possession of my mind. Circumstances that

were but a few days old faded back in my memory, as if they had happened months and months since. Pesca's

quaint announcement of the means by which he had procured me my present employment; the farewell

evening I had passed with my mother and sister; even my mysterious adventure on the way home from

Hampsteadhad all become like events which might have occurred at some former epoch of my existence.

Although the woman in white was still in my mind, the image of her seemed to have grown dull and faint

A little before nine o'clock, I descended to the groundfloor of the house. The solemn manservant of the

night before met me wandering among the passages, and compassionately showed me the way to the

My first glance round me, as the man opened the door, disclosed a wellfurnished breakfasttable, standing

in the middle of a long room, with many windows in it. I looked from the table to the window farthest from

me, and saw a lady standing at it, with her back turned towards me. The instant my eyes rested on her, I was

struck by the rare beauty of her form, and by the unaffected grace of her attitude. Her figure was tall, yet not

too tall; comely and welldeveloped, yet not fat; her head set on her shoulders with an easy, pliant firmness;

her waist, perfection in the eyes of a man, for it occupied its natural place, it filled out its natural circle, it was

visibly and delightfully undeformed by stays. She had not heard my entrance into the room; and I allowed

myself the luxury of admiring her for a few moments, before I moved one of the chairs near me, as the least

embarrassing means of attracting her attention. She turned towards me immediately. The easy elegance of

every movement of her limbs and body as soon as she began to advance from the far end of the room, set me

in a flutter of expectation to see her face clearly. She left the windowand I said to myself, The lady is dark.

She moved forward a few stepsand I said to myself, The lady is young. She approached nearerand I said

to myself (with a sense of surprise which words fail me to express), The lady is ugly!

Never was the old conventional maxim, that Nature cannot err, more flatly contradictednever was the fair

promise of a lovely figure more strangely and startlingly belied by the face and head that crowned it. The

lady's complexion was almost swarthy, and the dark down on her upper lip was almost a moustache. She had

a large, firm, masculine mouth and jaw; prominent, piercing, resolute brown eyes; and thick, coalblack hair,

growing unusually low down on her forehead. Her expressionbright, frank, and intelligentappeared,

while she was silent, to be altogether wanting in those feminine attractions of gentleness and pliability,

without which the beauty of the handsomest woman alive is beauty incomplete. To see such a face as this set

on shoulders that a sculptor would have longed to modelto be charmed by the modest graces of action

through which the symmetrical limbs betrayed their beauty when they moved, and then to be almost repelled

by the masculine form and masculine look of the features in which the perfectly shaped figure endedwas to

feel a sensation oddly akin to the helpless discomfort familiar to us all in sleep, when we recognise yet cannot

"Mr. Hartright?" said the lady interrogatively, her dark face lighting up with a smile, and softening and

growing womanly the moment she began to speak. "We resigned all hope of you last night, and went to bed

as usual. Accept my apologies for our apparent want of attention; and allow me to introduce myself as one of

your pupils. Shall we shake hands? I suppose we must come to it sooner or laterand why not sooner?"

These odd words of welcome were spoken in a clear, ringing, pleasant voice. The offered handrather large,

but beautifully formedwas given to me with the easy, unaffected selfreliance of a highlybred woman.

We sat down together at the breakfasttable in as cordial and customary a manner as if we had known each

other for years, and had met at Limmeridge House to talk over old times by previous appointment.

"I hope you come here goodhumouredly determined to make the best of your position," continued the lady.

"You will have to begin this morning by putting up with no other company at breakfast than mine. My sister

is in her own room, nursing that essentially feminine malady, a slight headache; and her old governness, Mrs.

Vesey, is charitably attending on her with restorative tea. My uncle, Mr. Fairlie, never joins us at any of our

meals: he is an invalid, and keeps bachelor state in his own apartments. There is nobody else in the house but

me. Two young ladies have been staying here, but they went away yesterday, in despair; and no wonder. All

through their visit (in consequence of Mr. Fairlie's invalid condition) we produced no such convenience in the

house as a flirtable, danceable, smalltalkable creature of the male sex; and the consequence was, we did

nothing but quarrel, especially at dinnertime. How can you expect four women to dine together alone every

day, and not quarrel? We are such fools, we can't entertain each other at table. You see I don't think much of

my own sex, Mr. Hartrightwhich will you have, tea or coffee?no woman does think much of her own

sex, although few of them confess it as freely as I do. Dear me, you look puzzled. Why? Are you wondering

what you will have for breakfast? or are you surprised at my careless way of talking? In the first case, I

advise you, as a friend, to have nothing to do with that cold ham at your elbow, and to wait till the omelette

comes in. In the second case, I will give you some tea to compose your spirits, and do all a woman can

She handed me my cup of tea, laughing gaily. Her light flow of talk, and her lively familiarity of manner with

a total stranger, were accompanied by an unaffected naturalness and an easy inborn confidence in herself and

her position, which would have secured her the respect of the most audacious man breathing. While it was

impossible to be formal and reserved in her company, it was more than impossible to take the faintest vestige

of a liberty with her, even in thought. I felt this instinctively, even while I caught the infection of her own

bright gaiety of spiritseven while I did my best to answer her in her own frank, lively way.

"Yes, yes," she said, when I had suggested the only explanation I could offer, to account for my perplexed

looks, "I understand. You are such a perfect stranger in the house, that you are puzzled by my familiar

references to the worthy inhabitants. Natural enough: I ought to have thought of it before. At any rate, I can

set it right now. Suppose I begin with myself, so as to get done with that part of the subject as soon as

possible? My name is Marian Halcombe; and I am as inaccurate as women usually are, in calling Mr. Fairlie

my uncle, and Miss Fairlie my sister. My mother was twice married: the first time to Mr. Halcombe, my

father; the second time to Mr. Fairlie, my halfsister's father. Except that we are both orphans, we are in

every respect as unlike each other as possible. My father was a poor man, and Miss Fairlie's father was a rich

man. I have got nothing, and she has a fortune. I am dark and ugly, and she is fair and pretty. Everybody

thinks me crabbed and odd (with perfect justice); and everybody thinks her sweettempered and charming

(with more justice still). In short, she is an angel; and I am Try some of that marmalade, Mr. Hartright,

and finish the sentence, in the name of female propriety, for yourself. What am I to tell you about Mr. Fairlie?

Upon my honour, I hardly know. He is sure to send for you after breakfast, and you can study him for

yourself. In the meantime, I may inform you, first, that he is the late Mr. Fairlie's younger brother; secondly,

that he is a single man; and thirdly, that he is Miss Fairlie's guardian. I won't live without her, and she can't

live without me; and that is how I come to be at Limmeridge House. My sister and I are honestly fond of each

other; which, you will say, is perfectly unaccountable, under the circumstances, and I quite agree with

youbut so it is. You must please both of us, Mr. Hartright, or please neither of us: and, what is still more

trying, you will be thrown entirely upon our society. Mrs. Vesey is an excellent person, who possesses all the

cardinal virtues, and counts for nothing; and Mr. Fairlie is too great an invalid to be a companion for

anybody. I don't know what is the matter with him, and the doctors don't know what is the matter with him,

and he doesn't know himself what is the matter with him. We all say it's on the nerves, and we none of us

know what we mean when we say it. However, I advise you to humour his little peculiarities, when you see

him today. Admire his collection of coins, prints, and watercolour drawings, and you will win his heart.

Upon my word, if you can be contented with a quiet country life, I don't see why you should not get on very

well here. From breakfast to lunch, Mr. Fairlie's drawings will occupy you. After lunch, Miss Fairlie and I

shoulder our sketch books, and go out to misrepresent Nature, under your directions. Drawing is her

favourite whim, mind, not mine. Women can't draw their minds are too flighty, and their eyes are too

inattentive. No mattermy sister likes it; so I waste paint and spoil paper, for her sake, as composedly as any

woman in England. As for the evenings, I think we can help you through them. Miss Fairlie plays

delightfully. For my own poor part, I don't know one note of music from the other; but I can match you at

chess, backgammon, ecarte, and (with the inevitable female drawbacks) even at billiards as well. What do

you think of the programme? Can you reconcile yourself to our quiet, regular life? or do you mean to be

restless, and secretly thirst for change and adventure, in the humdrum atmosphere of Limmeridge House?"

She had run on thus far, in her gracefully bantering way, with no other interruptions on my part than the

unimportant replies which politeness required of me. The turn of the expression, however, in her last

question, or rather the one chance word, "adventure," lightly as it fell from her lips, recalled my thoughts to

my meeting with the woman in white, and urged me to discover the connection which the stranger's own

reference to Mrs. Fairlie informed me must once have existed between the nameless fugitive from the

"Even if I were the most restless of mankind," I said, "I should be in no danger of thirsting after adventures

for some time to come. The very night before I arrived at this house, I met with an adventure; and the wonder

and excitement of it, I can assure you, Miss Halcombe, will last me for the whole term of my stay in

"You have a claim to hear it. The chief person in the adventure was a total stranger to me, and may perhaps

be a total stranger to you; but she certainly mentioned the name of the late Mrs. Fairlie in terms of the

I at once related the circumstances under which I had met the woman in white, exactly as they had occurred;

and I repeated what she had said to me about Mrs. Fairlie and Limmeridge House, word for word.

Miss Halcombe's bright resolute eyes looked eagerly into mine, from the beginning of the narrative to the

end. Her face expressed vivid interest and astonishment, but nothing more. She was evidently as far from

"Quite sure," I replied. "Whoever she may be, the woman was once at school in the village of Limmeridge,

was treated with especial kindness by Mrs. Fairlie, and, in grateful remembrance of that kindness, feels an

affectionate interest in all surviving members of the family. She knew that Mrs. Fairlie and her husband were

both dead; and she spoke of Miss Fairlie as if they had known each other when they were children."

"Very strange. I think you were quite justified, Mr. Hartright, in giving the poor creature her liberty, for she

seems to have done nothing in your presence to show herself unfit to enjoy it. But I wish you had been a little

more resolute about finding out her name. We must really clear up this mystery, in some way. You had better

not speak of it yet to Mr. Fairlie, or to my sister. They are both of them, I am certain, quite as ignorant of who

the woman is, and of what her past history in connection with us can be, as I am myself. But they are also, in

widely different ways, rather nervous and sensitive; and you would only fidget one and alarm the other to no

purpose. As for myself, I am all aflame with curiosity, and I devote my whole energies to the business of

discovery from this moment. When my mother came here, after her second marriage, she certainly

established the village school just as it exists at the present time. But the old teachers are all dead, or gone

elsewhere; and no enlightenment is to be hoped for from that quarter. The only other alternative I can think

At this point we were interrupted by the entrance of the servant, with a message from Mr. Fairlie, intimating

"Wait in the hall," said Miss Halcombe, answering the servant for me, in her quick, ready way. "Mr. Hartright

will come out directly. I was about to say," she went on, addressing me again, "that my sister and I have a

large collection of my mother's letters, addressed to my father and to hers. In the absence of any other means

of getting information, I will pass the morning in looking over my mother's correspondence with Mr. Fairlie.

He was fond of London, and was constantly away from his country home; and she was accustomed, at such

times, to write and report to him how things went on at Limmeridge. Her letters are full of references to the

school in which she took so strong an interest; and I think it more than likely that I may have discovered

something when we meet again. The luncheon hour is two, Mr. Hartright. I shall have the pleasure of

introducing you to my sister by that time, and we will occupy the afternoon in driving round the

neighbourhood and showing you all our pet points of view. Till two o'clock, then, farewell."

She nodded to me with the lively grace, the delightful refinement of familiarity, which characterised all that

she did and all that she said; and disappeared by a door at the lower end of the room. As soon as she had left

me, I turned my steps towards the hall, and followed the servant, on my way, for the first time, to the

My conductor led me upstairs into a passage which took us back to the bedchamber in which I had slept

"I have my master's orders to show you your own sittingroom, sir," said the man, "and to inquire if you

I must have been hard to please, indeed, if I had not approved of the room, and of everything about it. The

bowwindow looked out on the same lovely view which I had admired, in the morning, from my bedroom.

The furniture was the perfection of luxury and beauty; the table in the centre was bright with gaily bound

books, elegant conveniences for writing, and beautiful flowers; the second table, near the window, was

covered with all the necessary materials for mounting watercolour drawings, and had a little easel attached

to it, which I could expand or fold up at will; the walls were hung with gaily tinted chintz; and the floor was

spread with Indian matting in maizecolour and red. It was the prettiest and most luxurious little

The solemn servant was far too highly trained to betray the slightest satisfaction. He bowed with icy

deference when my terms of eulogy were all exhausted, and silently opened the door for me to go out into the

We turned a corner, and entered a long second passage, ascended a short flight of stairs at the end, crossed a

small circular upper hall, and stopped in front of a door covered with dark baize. The servant opened this

door, and led me on a few yards to a second; opened that also, and disclosed two curtains of pale seagreen

silk hanging before us; raised one of them noiselessly; softly uttered the words, "Mr. Hartright," and left me.

I found myself in a large, lofty room, with a magnificent carved ceiling, and with a carpet over the floor, so

thick and soft that it felt like piles of velvet under my feet. One side of the room was occupied by a long

bookcase of some rare inlaid wood that was quite new to me. It was not more than six feet high, and the top

was adorned with statuettes in marble, ranged at regular distances one from the other. On the opposite side

stood two antique cabinets; and between them, and above them, hung a picture of the Virgin and Child,

protected by glass, and bearing Raphael's name on the gilt tablet at the bottom of the frame. On my right hand

and on my left, as I stood inside the door, were chiffoniers and little stands in buhl and marquetterie, loaded

with figures in Dresden china, with rare vases, ivory ornaments, and toys and curiosities that sparkled at all

points with gold, silver, and precious stones. At the lower end of the room, opposite to me, the windows were

concealed and the sunlight was tempered by large blinds of the same pale seagreen colour as the curtains

over the door. The light thus produced was deliciously soft, mysterious, and subdued; it fell equally upon all

the objects in the room; it helped to intensify the deep silence, and the air of profound seclusion that

possessed the place; and it surrounded, with an appropriate halo of repose, the solitary figure of the master of

the house, leaning back, listlessly composed, in a large easy chair, with a readingeasel fastened on one of

If a man's personal appearance, when he is out of his dressing room, and when he has passed forty, can be

accepted as a safe guide to his time of lifewhich is more than doubtfulMr. Fairlie's age, when I saw him,

might have been reasonably computed at over fifty and under sixty years. His beardless face was thin, worn,

and transparently pale, but not wrinkled; his nose was high and hooked; his eyes were of a dim greyish blue,

large, prominent, and rather red round the rims of the eyelids; his hair was scanty, soft to look at, and of that

light sandy colour which is the last to disclose its own changes towards grey. He was dressed in a dark

frockcoat, of some substance much thinner than cloth, and in waistcoat and trousers of spotless white. His

feet were effeminately small, and were clad in buffcoloured silk stockings, and little womanish

bronzeleather slippers. Two rings adorned his white delicate hands, the value of which even my

inexperienced observation detected to be all but priceless. Upon the whole, he had a frail, languidlyfretful,

overrefined looksomething singularly and unpleasantly delicate in its association with a man, and, at the

same time, something which could by no possibility have looked natural and appropriate if it had been

transferred to the personal appearance of a woman. My morning's experience of Miss Halcombe had

predisposed me to be pleased with everybody in the house; but my sympathies shut themselves up resolutely

On approaching nearer to him, I discovered that he was not so entirely without occupation as I had at first

supposed. Placed amid the other rare and beautiful objects on a large round table near him, was a dwarf

cabinet in ebony and silver, containing coins of all shapes and sizes, set out in little drawers lined with dark

purple velvet. One of these drawers lay on the small table attached to his chair; and near it were some tiny

jeweller's brushes, a washleather "stump," and a little bottle of liquid, all waiting to be used in various ways

for the removal of any accidental impurities which might be discovered on the coins. His frail white fingers

were listlessly toying with something which looked, to my uninstructed eyes, like a dirty pewter medal with

ragged edges, when I advanced within a respectful distance of his chair, and stopped to make my bow.

"So glad to possess you at Limmeridge, Mr. Hartright," he said in a querulous, croaking voice, which

combined, in anything but an agreeable manner, a discordantly high tone with a drowsily languid utterance.

"Pray sit down. And don't trouble yourself to move the chair, please. In the wretched state of my nerves,

movement of any kind is exquisitely painful to me. Have you seen your studio? Will it do?"

He stopped me in the middle of the sentence, by closing his eyes, and holding up one of his white hands

imploringly. I paused in astonishment; and the croaking voice honoured me with this explanation

"Pray excuse me. But could you contrive to speak in a lower key? In the wretched state of my nerves, loud

sound of any kind is indescribable torture to me. You will pardon an invalid? I only say to you what the

lamentable state of my health obliges me to say to everybody. Yes. And you really like the room?"

"I could wish for nothing prettier and nothing more comfortable," I answered, dropping my voice, and

beginning to discover already that Mr. Fairlie's selfish affectation and Mr. Fairlie's wretched nerves meant

"So glad. You will find your position here, Mr. Hartright, properly recognised. There is none of the horrid

English barbarity of feeling about the social position of an artist in this house. So much of my early life has

been passed abroad, that I have quite cast my insular skin in that respect. I wish I could say the same of the

gentrydetestable word, but I suppose I must use itof the gentry in the neighbourhood. They are sad

Goths in Art, Mr. Hartright. People, I do assure you, who would have opened their eyes in astonishment, if

they had seen Charles the Fifth pick up Titian's brush for him. Do you mind putting this tray of coins back in

the cabinet, and giving me the next one to it? In the wretched state of my nerves, exertion of any kind is

As a practical commentary on the liberal social theory which he had just favoured me by illustrating, Mr.

Fairlie's cool request rather amused me. I put back one drawer and gave him the other, with all possible

politeness. He began trifling with the new set of coins and the little brushes immediately; languidly looking at

"A thousand thanks and a thousand excuses. Do you like coins? Yes. So glad we have another taste in

common besides our taste for Art. Now, about the pecuniary arrangements between usdo tell meare they

"So glad. Andwhat next? Ah! I remember. Yes. In reference to the consideration which you are good

enough to accept for giving me the benefit of your accomplishments in art, my steward will wait on you at the

end of the first week, to ascertain your wishes. Andwhat next? Curious, is it not? I had a great deal more to

say: and I appear to have quite forgotten it. Do you mind touching the bell? In that corner. Yes. Thank you."

I rang; and a new servant noiselessly made his appearancea foreigner, with a set smile and perfectly

"Louis," said Mr. Fairlie, dreamily dusting the tips of his fingers with one of the tiny brushes for the coins, "I

made some entries in my tablettes this morning. Find my tablettes. A thousand pardons, Mr. Hartright, I'm

As he wearily closed his eyes again, before I could answer, and as he did most assuredly bore me, I sat silent,

and looked up at the Madonna and Child by Raphael. In the meantime, the valet left the room, and returned

shortly with a little ivory book. Mr. Fairlie, after first relieving himself by a gentle sigh, let the book drop

open with one hand, and held up the tiny brush with the other, as a sign to the servant to wait for further

"Yes. Just so!" said Mr. Fairlie, consulting the tablettes. "Louis, take down that portfolio." He pointed, as he

spoke, to several portfolios placed near the window, on mahogany stands. "No. Not the one with the green

backthat contains my Rembrandt etchings, Mr. Hartright. Do you like etchings? Yes? So glad we have

another taste in common. The portfolio with the red back, Louis. Don't drop it! You have no idea of the

tortures I should suffer, Mr. Hartright, if Louis dropped that portfolio. Is it safe on the chair? Do YOU think it

safe, Mr. Hartright? Yes? So glad. Will you oblige me by looking at the drawings, if you really think they are

quite safe. Louis, go away. What an ass you are. Don't you see me holding the tablettes? Do you suppose I

want to hold them? Then why not relieve me of the tablettes without being told? A thousand pardons, Mr.

Hartright; servants are such asses, are they not? Do tell mewhat do you think of the drawings? They have

come from a sale in a shocking stateI thought they smelt of horrid dealers' and brokers' fingers when I

Although my nerves were not delicate enough to detect the odour of plebeian fingers which had offended Mr.

Fairlie's nostrils, my taste was sufficiently educated to enable me to appreciate the value of the drawings,

while I turned them over. They were, for the most part, really fine specimens of English watercolour art;

and they had deserved much better treatment at the hands of their former possessor than they appeared to

"The drawings," I answered, "require careful straining and mounting; and, in my opinion, they are well

"I beg your pardon," interposed Mr. Fairlie. "Do you mind my closing my eyes while you speak? Even this

Mr. Fairlie suddenly opened his eyes again, and rolled them with an expression of helpless alarm in the

"I entreat you to excuse me, Mr. Hartright," he said in a feeble flutter. "But surely I hear some horrid children

"Oblige meyou have been so very good in humouring my poor nervesoblige me by lifting up a corner of

the blind. Don't let the sun in on me, Mr. Hartright! Have you got the blind up? Yes? Then will you be so

I complied with this new request. The garden was carefully walled in, all round. Not a human creature, large

or small, appeared in any part of the sacred seclusion. I reported that gratifying fact to Mr. Fairlie.

"A thousand thanks. My fancy, I suppose. There are no children, thank Heaven, in the house; but the servants

(persons born without nerves) will encourage the children from the village. Such brats oh, dear me, such

brats! Shall I confess it, Mr. Hartright?I sadly want a reform in the construction of children. Nature's only

idea seems to be to make them machines for the production of incessant noise. Surely our delightful

He pointed to the picture of the Madonna, the upper part of which represented the conventional cherubs of

Italian Art, celestially provided with sitting accommodation for their chins, on balloons of buffcoloured

"Quite a model family!" said Mr. Fairlie, leering at the cherubs. "Such nice round faces, and such nice soft

wings, andnothing else. No dirty little legs to run about on, and no noisy little lungs to scream with. How

immeasurably superior to the existing construction! I will close my eyes again, if you will allow me. And you

really can manage the drawings? So glad. Is there anything else to settle? if there is, I think I have forgotten

Being, by this time, quite as anxious, on my side, as Mr. Fairlie evidently was on his, to bring the interview to

a speedy conclusion, I thought I would try to render the summoning of the servant unnecessary, by offering

"The only point, Mr. Fairlie, that remains to be discussed," I said, "refers, I think, to the instruction in

"Ah! just so," said Mr. Fairlie. "I wish I felt strong enough to go into that part of the arrangementbut I

don't. The ladies who profit by your kind services, Mr. Hartright, must settle, and decide, and so on, for

themselves. My niece is fond of your charming art. She knows just enough about it to be conscious of her

own sad defects. Please take pains with her. Yes. Is there anything else? No. We quite understand each

otherdon't we? I have no right to detain you any longer from your delightful pursuithave I? So pleasant

to have settled everythingsuch a sensible relief to have done business. Do you mind ringing for Louis to

"Will you really? Are you strong enough? How nice to be so strong! Are you sure you won't drop it? So glad

to possess you at Limmeridge, Mr. Hartright. I am such a sufferer that I hardly dare hope to enjoy much of

your society. Would you mind taking great pains not to let the doors bang, and not to drop the portfolio?

Thank you. Gently with the curtains, pleasethe slightest noise from them goes through me like a knife.

When the seagreen curtains were closed, and when the two baize doors were shut behind me, I stopped for a

moment in the little circular hall beyond, and drew a long, luxurious breath of relief. It was like coming to the

surface of the water after deep diving, to find myself once more on the outside of Mr. Fairlie's room.

As soon as I was comfortably established for the morning in my pretty little studio, the first resolution at

which I arrived was to turn my steps no more in the direction of the apartments occupied by the master of the

house, except in the very improbable event of his honouring me with a special invitation to pay him another

visit. Having settled this satisfactory plan of future conduct in reference to Mr. Fairlie, I soon recovered the

serenity of temper of which my employer's haughty familiarity and impudent politeness had, for the moment,

deprived me. The remaining hours of the morning passed away pleasantly enough, in looking over the

drawings, arranging them in sets, trimming their ragged edges, and accomplishing the other necessary

preparations in anticipation of the business of mounting them. I ought, perhaps, to have made more progress

than this; but, as the luncheontime drew near, I grew restless and unsettled, and felt unable to fix my

At two o'clock I descended again to the breakfastroom, a little anxiously. Expectations of some interest were

connected with my approaching reappearance in that part of the house. My introduction to Miss Fairlie was

now close at hand; and, if Miss Halcombe's search through her mother's letters had produced the result which

she anticipated, the time had come for clearing up the mystery of the woman in white.

When I entered the room, I found Miss Halcombe and an elderly lady seated at the luncheontable.

The elderly lady, when I was presented to her, proved to be Miss Fairlie's former governess, Mrs. Vesey, who

had been briefly described to me by my lively companion at the breakfasttable, as possessed of "all the

cardinal virtues, and counting for nothing." I can do little more than offer my humble testimony to the

truthfulness of Miss Halcombe's sketch of the old lady's character. Mrs. Vesey looked the personification of

human composure and female amiability. A calm enjoyment of a calm existence beamed in drowsy smiles on

her plump, placid face. Some of us rush through life, and some of us saunter through life. Mrs. Vesey SAT

through life. Sat in the house, early and late; sat in the garden; sat in unexpected windowseats in passages;

sat (on a campstool) when her friends tried to take her out walking; sat before she looked at anything, before

she talked of anything, before she answered Yes, or No, to the commonest questionalways with the same

serene smile on her lips, the same vacantly attentive turn of the head, the same snuglycomfortable position

of her hands and arms, under every possible change of domestic circumstances. A mild, a compliant, an

unutterably tranquil and harmless old lady, who never by any chance suggested the idea that she had been

actually alive since the hour of her birth. Nature has so much to do in this world, and is engaged in generating

such a vast variety of coexistent productions, that she must surely be now and then too flurried and confused

to distinguish between the different processes that she is carrying on at the same time. Starting from this point

of view, it will always remain my private persuasion that Nature was absorbed in making cabbages when

Mrs. Vesey was born, and that the good lady suffered the consequences of a vegetable preoccupation in the

"Now, Mrs. Vesey," said Miss Halcombe, looking brighter, sharper, and readier than ever, by contrast with

Mrs. Vesey crossed her dimpled hands on the edge of the table, smiled placidly, and said, "Yes, dear."

"What is that opposite Mr. Hartright? Boiled chicken, is it not? I thought you liked boiled chicken better than

Mrs. Vesey took her dimpled hands off the edge of the table and crossed them on her lap instead; nodded

"Well, but which will you have, today? Shall Mr. Hartright give you some chicken? or shall I give you some

Mrs. Vesey put one of her dimpled hands back again on the edge of the table; hesitated drowsily, and said,

"Mercy on me! it's a question for your taste, my good lady, not for mine. Suppose you have a little of both?

and suppose you begin with the chicken, because Mr. Hartright looks devoured by anxiety to carve for you."

Mrs. Vesey put the other dimpled hand back on the edge of the table; brightened dimly one moment; went out

Surely a mild, a compliant, an unutterably tranquil and harmless old lady! But enough, perhaps, for the

All this time, there were no signs of Miss Fairlie. We finished our luncheon; and still she never appeared.

Miss Halcombe, whose quick eye nothing escaped, noticed the looks that I cast, from time to time, in the

"I understand you, Mr. Hartright," she said; "you are wondering what has become of your other pupil. She

has been downstairs, and has got over her headache; but has not sufficiently recovered her appetite to join us

at lunch. If you will put yourself under my charge, I think I can undertake to find her somewhere in the

She took up a parasol lying on a chair near her, and led the way out, by a long window at the bottom of the

room, which opened on to the lawn. It is almost unnecessary to say that we left Mrs. Vesey still seated at the

table, with her dimpled hands still crossed on the edge of it; apparently settled in that position for the rest of

As we crossed the lawn, Miss Halcombe looked at me significantly, and shook her head.

"That mysterious adventure of yours," she said, "still remains involved in its own appropriate midnight

darkness. I have been all the morning looking over my mother's letters, and I have made no discoveries yet.

However, don't despair, Mr. Hartright. This is a matter of curiosity; and you have got a woman for your ally.

Under such conditions success is certain, sooner or later. The letters are not exhausted. I have three packets

still left, and you may confidently rely on my spending the whole evening over them."

Here, then, was one of my anticipations of the morning still unfulfilled. I began to wonder, next, whether my

introduction to Miss Fairlie would disappoint the expectations that I had been forming of her since

"And how did you get on with Mr. Fairlie?" inquired Miss Halcombe, as we left the lawn and turned into a

shrubbery. "Was he particularly nervous this morning? Never mind considering about your answer, Mr.

Hartright. The mere fact of your being obliged to consider is enough for me. I see in your face that he WAS

particularly nervous; and, as I am amiably unwilling to throw you into the same condition, I ask no more."

We turned off into a winding path while she was speaking, and approached a pretty summerhouse, built of

wood, in the form of a miniature Swiss chalet. The one room of the summerhouse, as we ascended the steps

of the door, was occupied by a young lady. She was standing near a rustic table, looking out at the inland

view of moor and hill presented by a gap in the trees, and absently turning over the leaves of a little

How can I describe her? How can I separate her from my own sensations, and from all that has happened in

the later time? How can I see her again as she looked when my eyes first rested on heras she should look,

The watercolour drawing that I made of Laura Fairlie, at an after period, in the place and attitude in which I

first saw her, lies on my desk while I write. I look at it, and there dawns upon me brightly, from the dark

greenishbrown background of the summer house, a light, youthful figure, clothed in a simple muslin dress,

the pattern of it formed by broad alternate stripes of delicate blue and white. A scarf of the same material sits

crisply and closely round her shoulders, and a little straw hat of the natural colour, plainly and sparingly

trimmed with ribbon to match the gown, covers her head, and throws its soft pearly shadow over the upper

part of her face. Her hair is of so faint and pale a brown not flaxen, and yet almost as light; not golden, and

yet almost as glossythat it nearly melts, here and there, into the shadow of the hat. It is plainly parted and

drawn back over her ears, and the line of it ripples naturally as it crosses her forehead. The eyebrows are

rather darker than the hair; and the eyes are of that soft, limpid, turquoise blue, so often sung by the poets, so

seldom seen in real life. Lovely eyes in colour, lovely eyes in formlarge and tender and quietly

thoughtfulbut beautiful above all things in the clear truthfulness of look that dwells in their inmost depths,

and shines through all their changes of expression with the light of a purer and a better world. The

charmmost gently and yet most distinctly expressedwhich they shed over the whole face, so covers and

transforms its little natural human blemishes elsewhere, that it is difficult to estimate the relative merits and

defects of the other features. It is hard to see that the lower part of the face is too delicately refined away

towards the chin to be in full and fair proportion with the upper part; that the nose, in escaping the aquiline

bend (always hard and cruel in a woman, no matter how abstractedly perfect it may be), has erred a little in

the other extreme, and has missed the ideal straightness of line; and that the sweet, sensitive lips are subject to

a slight nervous contraction, when she smiles, which draws them upward a little at one corner, towards the

cheek. It might be possible to note these blemishes in another woman's face but it is not easy to dwell on

them in hers, so subtly are they connected with all that is individual and characteristic in her expression, and

so closely does the expression depend for its full play and life, in every other feature, on the moving impulse

Does my poor portrait of her, my fond, patient labour of long and happy days, show me these things? Ah,

how few of them are in the dim mechanical drawing, and how many in the mind with which I regard it! A

fair, delicate girl, in a pretty light dress, trifling with the leaves of a sketchbook, while she looks up from it

with truthful, innocent blue eyesthat is all the drawing can say; all, perhaps, that even the deeper reach of

thought and pen can say in their language, either. The woman who first gives life, light, and form to our

shadowy conceptions of beauty, fills a void in our spiritual nature that has remained unknown to us till she

appeared. Sympathies that lie too deep for words, too deep almost for thoughts, are touched, at such times, by

other charms than those which the senses feel and which the resources of expression can realise. The mystery

which underlies the beauty of women is never raised above the reach of all expression until it has claimed

kindred with the deeper mystery in our own souls. Then, and then only, has it passed beyond the narrow

Think of her as you thought of the first woman who quickened the pulses within you that the rest of her sex

had no art to stir. Let the kind, candid blue eyes meet yours, as they met mine, with the one matchless look

which we both remember so well. Let her voice speak the music that you once loved best, attuned as sweetly

to your ear as to mine. Let her footstep, as she comes and goes, in these pages, be like that other footstep to

whose airy fall your own heart once beat time. Take her as the visionary nursling of your own fancy; and she

will grow upon you, all the more clearly, as the living woman who dwells in mine.

Among the sensations that crowded on me, when my eyes first looked upon herfamiliar sensations which

we all know, which spring to life in most of our hearts, die again in so many, and renew their bright existence

in so fewthere was one that troubled and perplexed me: one that seemed strangely inconsistent and

Mingling with the vivid impression produced by the charm of her fair face and head, her sweet expression,

and her winning simplicity of manner, was another impression, which, in a shadowy way, suggested to me

the idea of something wanting. At one time it seemed like something wanting in HER: at another, like

something wanting in myself, which hindered me from understanding her as I ought. The impression was

always strongest in the most contradictory manner, when she looked at me; or, in other words, when I was

most conscious of the harmony and charm of her face, and yet, at the same time, most troubled by the sense

of an incompleteness which it was impossible to discover. Something wanting, something wantingand

The effect of this curious caprice of fancy (as I thought it then) was not of a nature to set me at my ease,

during a first interview with Miss Fairlie. The few kind words of welcome which she spoke found me hardly

selfpossessed enough to thank her in the customary phrases of reply. Observing my hesitation, and no doubt

attributing it, naturally enough, to some momentary shyness on my part, Miss Halcombe took the business of

"Look there, Mr. Hartright," she said, pointing to the sketchbook on the table, and to the little delicate

wandering hand that was still trifling with it. "Surely you will acknowledge that your model pupil is found at

last? The moment she hears that you are in the house, she seizes her inestimable sketchbook looks universal

Miss Fairlie laughed with a ready goodhumour, which broke out as brightly as if it had been part of the

"I must not take credit to myself where no credit is due," she said, her clear, truthful blue eyes looking

alternately at Miss Halcombe and at me. "Fond as I am of drawing, I am so conscious of my own ignorance

that I am more afraid than anxious to begin. Now I know you are here, Mr. Hartright, I find myself looking

over my sketches, as I used to look over my lessons when I was a little girl, and when I was sadly afraid that I

She made the confession very prettily and simply, and, with quaint, childish earnestness, drew the

sketchbook away close to her own side of the table. Miss Halcombe cut the knot of the little embarrassment

"Good, bad, or indifferent," she said, "the pupil's sketches must pass through the fiery ordeal of the master's

judgmentand there's an end of it. Suppose we take them with us in the carriage, Laura, and let Mr.

Hartright see them, for the first time, under circumstances of perpetual jolting and interruption? If we can

only confuse him all through the drive, between Nature as it is, when he looks up at the view, and Nature as it

is not when he looks down again at our sketchbooks, we shall drive him into the last desperate refuge of

paying us compliments, and shall slip through his professional fingers with our pet feathers of vanity all

"I hope Mr. Hartright will pay ME no compliments," said Miss Fairlie, as we all left the summerhouse.

In those few words she unconsciously gave me the key to her whole character: to that generous trust in others

which, in her nature, grew innocently out of the sense of her own truth. I only knew it intuitively then. I know

We merely waited to rouse good Mrs. Vesey from the place which she still occupied at the deserted

luncheontable, before we entered the open carriage for our promised drive. The old lady and Miss

Halcombe occupied the back seat, and Miss Fairlie and I sat together in front, with the sketchbook open

between us, fairly exhibited at last to my professional eyes. All serious criticism on the drawings, even if I

had been disposed to volunteer it, was rendered impossible by Miss Halcombe's lively resolution to see

nothing but the ridiculous side of the Fine Arts, as practised by herself, her sister, and ladies in general. I can

remember the conversation that passed far more easily than the sketches that I mechanically looked over.

That part of the talk, especially, in which Miss Fairlie took any share, is still as vividly impressed on my

Yes! let me acknowledge that on this first day I let the charm of her presence lure me from the recollection of

myself and my position. The most trifling of the questions that she put to me, on the subject of using her

pencil and mixing her colours; the slightest alterations of expression in the lovely eyes that looked into mine

with such an earnest desire to learn all that I could teach, and to discover all that I could show, attracted more

of my attention than the finest view we passed through, or the grandest changes of light and shade, as they

flowed into each other over the waving moorland and the level beach. At any time, and under any

circumstances of human interest, is it not strange to see how little real hold the objects of the natural world

amid which we live can gain on our hearts and minds? We go to Nature for comfort in trouble, and sympathy

in joy, only in books. Admiration of those beauties of the inanimate world, which modern poetry so largely

and so eloquently describes, is not, even in the best of us, one of the original instincts of our nature. As

children, we none of us possess it. No uninstructed man or woman possesses it. Those whose lives are most

exclusively passed amid the ever changing wonders of sea and land are also those who are most universally

insensible to every aspect of Nature not directly associated with the human interest of their calling. Our

capacity of appreciating the beauties of the earth we live on is, in truth, one of the civilised accomplishments

which we all learn as an Art; and, more, that very capacity is rarely practised by any of us except when our

minds are most indolent and most unoccupied. How much share have the attractions of Nature ever had in the

pleasurable or painful interests and emotions of ourselves or our friends? What space do they ever occupy in

the thousand little narratives of personal experience which pass every day by word of mouth from one of us

to the other? All that our minds can compass, all that our hearts can learn, can be accomplished with equal

certainty, equal profit, and equal satisfaction to ourselves, in the poorest as in the richest prospect that the

face of the earth can show. There is surely a reason for this want of inborn sympathy between the creature

and the creation around it, a reason which may perhaps be found in the widelydiffering destinies of man and

his earthly sphere. The grandest mountain prospect that the eye can range over is appointed to annihilation.

The smallest human interest that the pure heart can feel is appointed to immortality.

We had been out nearly three hours, when the carriage again passed through the gates of Limmeridge House.

On our way back I had let the ladies settle for themselves the first point of view which they were to sketch,

under my instructions, on the afternoon of the next day. When they withdrew to dress for dinner, and when I

was alone again in my little sittingroom, my spirits seemed to leave me on a sudden. I felt ill at ease and

dissatisfied with myself, I hardly knew why. Perhaps I was now conscious for the first time of having enjoyed

our drive too much in the character of a guest, and too little in the character of a drawingmaster. Perhaps

that strange sense of something wanting, either in Miss Fairlie or in myself, which had perplexed me when I

was first introduced to her, haunted me still. Anyhow, it was a relief to my spirits when the dinnerhour

called me out of my solitude, and took me back to the society of the ladies of the house.

I was struck, on entering the drawingroom, by the curious contrast, rather in material than in colour, of the

dresses which they now wore. While Mrs. Vesey and Miss Halcombe were richly clad (each in the manner

most becoming to her age), the first in silvergrey, and the second in that delicate primroseyellow colour

which matches so well with a dark complexion and black hair, Miss Fairlie was unpretendingly and almost

poorly dressed in plain white muslin. It was spotlessly pure: it was beautifully put on; but still it was the sort

of dress which the wife or daughter of a poor man might have worn, and it made her, so far as externals went,

look less affluent in circumstances than her own governess. At a later period, when I learnt to know more of

Miss Fairlie's character, I discovered that this curious contrast, on the wrong side, was due to her natural

delicacy of feeling and natural intensity of aversion to the slightest personal display of her own wealth.

Neither Mrs. Vesey nor Miss Halcombe could ever induce her to let the advantage in dress desert the two

When the dinner was over we returned together to the drawingroom. Although Mr. Fairlie (emulating the

magnificent condescension of the monarch who had picked up Titian's brush for him) had instructed his

butler to consult my wishes in relation to the wine that I might prefer after dinner, I was resolute enough to

resist the temptation of sitting in solitary grandeur among bottles of my own choosing, and sensible enough to

ask the ladies' permission to leave the table with them habitually, on the civilised foreign plan, during the

The drawingroom, to which we had now withdrawn for the rest of the evening, was on the groundfloor,

and was of the same shape and size as the breakfastroom. Large glass doors at the lower end opened on to a

terrace, beautifully ornamented along its whole length with a profusion of flowers. The soft, hazy twilight

was just shading leaf and blossom alike into harmony with its own sober hues as we entered the room, and

the sweet evening scent of the flowers met us with its fragrant welcome through the open glass doors. Good

Mrs. Vesey (always the first of the party to sit down) took possession of an armchair in a corner, and dozed

off comfortably to sleep. At my request Miss Fairlie placed herself at the piano. As I followed her to a seat

near the instrument, I saw Miss Halcombe retire into a recess of one of the side windows, to proceed with the

search through her mother's letters by the last quiet rays of the evening light.

How vividly that peaceful homepicture of the drawingroom comes back to me while I write! From the

place where I sat I could see Miss Halcombe's graceful figure, half of it in soft light, half in mysterious

shadow, bending intently over the letters in her lap; while, nearer to me, the fair profile of the player at the

piano was just delicately defined against the faintlydeepening background of the inner wall of the room.

Outside, on the terrace, the clustering flowers and long grasses and creepers waved so gently in the light

evening air, that the sound of their rustling never reached us. The sky was without a cloud, and the dawning

mystery of moonlight began to tremble already in the region of the eastern heaven. The sense of peace and

seclusion soothed all thought and feeling into a rapt, unearthly repose; and the balmy quiet, that deepened

ever with the deepening light, seemed to hover over us with a gentler influence still, when there stole upon it

from the piano the heavenly tenderness of the music of Mozart. It was an evening of sights and sounds never

We all sat silent in the places we had chosenMrs. Vesey still sleeping, Miss Fairlie still playing, Miss

Halcombe still reading till the light failed us. By this time the moon had stolen round to the terrace, and

soft, mysterious rays of light were slanting already across the lower end of the room. The change from the

twilight obscurity was so beautiful that we banished the lamps, by common consent, when the servant

brought them in, and kept the large room unlighted, except by the glimmer of the two candles at the piano.

For half an hour more the music still went on. After that the beauty of the moonlight view on the terrace

tempted Miss Fairlie out to look at it, and I followed her. When the candles at the piano had been lighted

Miss Halcombe had changed her place, so as to continue her examination of the letters by their assistance.

We left her, on a low chair, at one side of the instrument, so absorbed over her reading that she did not seem

We had been out on the terrace together, just in front of the glass doors, hardly so long as five minutes, I

should think; and Miss Fairlie was, by my advice, just tying her white handkerchief over her head as a

precaution against the night airwhen I heard Miss Halcombe's voicelow, eager, and altered from its

"Mr. Hartright," she said, "will you come here for a minute? I want to speak to you."

I entered the room again immediately. The piano stood about half way down along the inner wall. On the

side of the instrument farthest from the terrace Miss Halcombe was sitting with the letters scattered on her

lap, and with one in her hand selected from them, and held close to the candle. On the side nearest to the

terrace there stood a low ottoman, on which I took my place. In this position I was not far from the glass

doors, and I could see Miss Fairlie plainly, as she passed and repassed the opening on to the terrace, walking

"I want you to listen while I read the concluding passages in this letter," said Miss Halcombe. "Tell me if you

think they throw any light upon your strange adventure on the road to London. The letter is addressed by my

mother to her second husband, Mr. Fairlie, and the date refers to a period of between eleven and twelve years

since. At that time Mr. and Mrs. Fairlie, and my halfsister Laura, had been living for years in this house; and

She looked and spoke earnestly, and, as I thought, a little uneasily as well. At the moment when she raised

the letter to the candle before beginning to read it, Miss Fairlie passed us on the terrace, looked in for a

"'You will be tired, my dear Philip, of hearing perpetually about my schools and my scholars. Lay the blame,

pray, on the dull uniformity of life at Limmeridge, and not on me. Besides, this time I have something really

"'You know old Mrs. Kempe at the village shop. Well, after years of ailing, the doctor has at last given her

up, and she is dying slowly day by day. Her only living relation, a sister, arrived last week to take care of her.

This sister comes all the way from Hampshireher name is Mrs. Catherick. Four days ago Mrs. Catherick

came here to see me, and brought her only child with her, a sweet little girl about a year older than our

As the last sentence fell from the reader's lips, Miss Fairlie passed us on the terrace once more. She was softly

singing to herself one of the melodies which she had been playing earlier in the evening. Miss Halcombe

"'Mrs. Catherick is a decent, wellbehaved, respectable woman; middleaged, and with the remains of

having been moderately, only moderately, nicelooking. There is something in her manner and in her

appearance, however, which I can't make out. She is reserved about herself to the point of downright

secrecy, and there is a look in her faceI can't describe itwhich suggests to me that she has something on

her mind. She is altogether what you would call a walking mystery. Her errand at Limmeridge House,

however, was simple enough. When she left Hampshire to nurse her sister, Mrs. Kempe, through her last

illness, she had been obliged to bring her daughter with her, through having no one at home to take care of

the little girl. Mrs. Kempe may die in a week's time, or may linger on for months; and Mrs. Catherick's object

was to ask me to let her daughter, Anne, have the benefit of attending my school, subject to the condition of

her being removed from it to go home again with her mother, after Mrs. Kempe's death. I consented at once,

and when Laura and I went out for our walk, we took the little girl (who is just eleven years old) to the school

Once more Miss Fairlie's figure, bright and soft in its snowy muslin dressher face prettily framed by the

white folds of the handkerchief which she had tied under her chinpassed by us in the moonlight. Once

"'I have taken a violent fancy, Philip, to my new scholar, for a reason which I mean to keep till the last for the

sake of surprising you. Her mother having told me as little about the child as she told me of herself, I was left

to discover (which I did on the first day when we tried her at lessons) that the poor little thing's intellect is not

developed as it ought to be at her age. Seeing this I had her up to the house the next day, and privately

arranged with the doctor to come and watch her and question her, and tell me what he thought. His opinion is

that she will grow out of it. But he says her careful bringingup at school is a matter of great importance just

now, because her unusual slowness in acquiring ideas implies an unusual tenacity in keeping them, when they

are once received into her mind. Now, my love, you must not imagine, in your offhand way, that I have

been attaching myself to an idiot. This poor little Anne Catherick is a sweet, affectionate, grateful girl, and

says the quaintest, prettiest things (as you shall judge by an instance), in the most oddly sudden, surprised,

halffrightened way. Although she is dressed very neatly, her clothes show a sad want of taste in colour and

pattern. So I arranged, yesterday, that some of our darling Laura's old white frocks and white hats should be

altered for Anne Catherick, explaining to her that little girls of her complexion looked neater and better all in

white than in anything else. She hesitated and seemed puzzled for a minute, then flushed up, and appeared to

understand. Her little hand clasped mine suddenly. She kissed it, Philip, and said (oh, so earnestly!), "I will

always wear white as long as I live. It will help me to remember you, ma'am, and to think that I am pleasing

you still, when I go away and see you no more." This is only one specimen of the quaint things she says so

prettily. Poor little soul! She shall have a stock of white frocks, made with good deep tucks, to let out for her

"Did the forlorn woman whom you met in the highroad seem young?" she asked. "Young enough to be

While the answer was passing my lips Miss Fairlie glided into view on the terrace for the third time. Instead

of proceeding on her walk, she stopped, with her back turned towards us, and, leaning on the balustrade of the

terrace, looked down into the garden beyond. My eyes fixed upon the white gleam of her muslin gown and

headdress in the moonlight, and a sensation, for which I can find no namea sensation that quickened my

"All in white?" Miss Halcombe repeated. "The most important sentences in the letter, Mr. Hartright, are those

at the end, which I will read to you immediately. But I can't help dwelling a little upon the coincidence of the

white costume of the woman you met, and the white frocks which produced that strange answer from my

mother's little scholar. The doctor may have been wrong when he discovered the child's defects of intellect,

and predicted that she would 'grow out of them.' She may never have grown out of them, and the old grateful

fancy about dressing in white, which was a serious feeling to the girl, may be a serious feeling to the woman

I said a few words in answerI hardly know what. All my attention was concentrated on the white gleam of

"Listen to the last sentences of the letter," said Miss Halcombe. "I think they will surprise you."

As she raised the letter to the light of the candle, Miss Fairlie turned from the balustrade, looked doubtfully

up and down the terrace, advanced a step towards the glass doors, and then stopped, facing us.

"'And now, my love, seeing that I am at the end of my paper, now for the real reason, the surprising reason,

for my fondness for little Anne Catherick. My dear Philip, although she is not half so pretty, she is,

nevertheless, by one of those extraordinary caprices of accidental resemblance which one sometimes sees, the

living likeness, in her hair, her complexion, the colour of her eyes, and the shape of her face'"

I started up from the ottoman before Miss Halcombe could pronounce the next words. A thrill of the same

feeling which ran through me when the touch was laid upon my shoulder on the lonely highroad chilled me

There stood Miss Fairlie, a white figure, alone in the moonlight; in her attitude, in the turn of her head, in her

complexion, in the shape of her face, the living image, at that distance and under those circumstances, of the

woman in white! The doubt which had troubled my mind for hours and hours past flashed into conviction in

an instant. That "something wanting" was my own recognition of the ominous likeness between the fugitive

"You see it!" said Miss Halcombe. She dropped the useless letter, and her eyes flashed as they met mine.

"I see itmore unwillingly than I can say. To associate that forlorn, friendless, lost woman, even by an

accidental likeness only, with Miss Fairlie, seems like casting a shadow on the future of the bright creature

who stands looking at us now. Let me lose the impression again as soon as possible. Call her in, out of the

"Mr. Hartright, you surprise me. Whatever women may be, I thought that men, in the nineteenth century,

"Hush, hush! She is coming of her own accord. Say nothing in her presence. Let this discovery of the likeness

be kept a secret between you and me. Come in, Laura, come in, and wake Mrs. Vesey with the piano. Mr.

Hartright is petitioning for some more music, and he wants it, this time, of the lightest and liveliest kind."

Miss Halcombe and I kept our secret. After the discovery of the likeness no fresh light seemed destined to

break over the mystery of the woman in white. At the first safe opportunity Miss Halcombe cautiously led her

halfsister to speak of their mother, of old times, and of Anne Catherick. Miss Fairlie's recollections of the

little scholar at Limmeridge were, however, only of the most vague and general kind. She remembered the

likeness between herself and her mother's favourite pupil, as something which had been supposed to exist in

past times; but she did not refer to the gift of the white dresses, or to the singular form of words in which the

child had artlessly expressed her gratitude for them. She remembered that Anne had remained at Limmeridge

for a few months only, and had then left it to go back to her home in Hampshire; but she could not say

whether the mother and daughter had ever returned, or had ever been heard of afterwards. No further search,

on Miss Halcombe's part, through the few letters of Mrs. Fairlie's writing which she had left unread, assisted

in clearing up the uncertainties still left to perplex us. We had identified the unhappy woman whom I had met

in the nighttime with Anne Catherickwe had made some advance, at least, towards connecting the

probably defective condition of the poor creature's intellect with the peculiarity of her being dressed all in

white, and with the continuance, in her maturer years, of her childish gratitude towards Mrs. Fairlieand

The days passed on, the weeks passed on, and the track of the golden autumn wound its bright way visibly

through the green summer of the trees. Peaceful, fastflowing, happy time! my story glides by you now as

swiftly as you once glided by me. Of all the treasures of enjoyment that you poured so freely into my heart,

how much is left me that has purpose and value enough to be written on this page? Nothing but the saddest of

The secret which that confession discloses should be told with little effort, for it has indirectly escaped me

already. The poor weak words, which have failed to describe Miss Fairlie, have succeeded in betraying the

sensations she awakened in me. It is so with us all. Our words are giants when they do us an injury, and

Ah! how well I know all the sadness and all the mockery that is contained in those three words. I can sigh

over my mournful confession with the tenderest woman who reads it and pities me. I can laugh at it as bitterly

as the hardest man who tosses it from him in contempt. I loved her! Feel for me, or despise me, I confess it

Was there no excuse for me? There was some excuse to be found, surely, in the conditions under which my

My morning hours succeeded each other calmly in the quiet and seclusion of my own room. I had just work

enough to do, in mounting my employer's drawings, to keep my hands and eyes pleasurably employed, while

my mind was left free to enjoy the dangerous luxury of its own unbridled thoughts. A perilous solitude, for it

lasted long enough to enervate, not long enough to fortify me. A perilous solitude, for it was followed by

afternoons and evenings spent, day after day and week after week alone in the society of two women, one of

whom possessed all the accomplishments of grace, wit, and highbreeding, the other all the charms of

beauty, gentleness, and simple truth, that can purify and subdue the heart of man. Not a day passed, in that

dangerous intimacy of teacher and pupil, in which my hand was not close to Miss Fairlie's; my cheek, as we

bent together over her sketchbook, almost touching hers. The more attentively she watched every movement

of my brush, the more closely I was breathing the perfume of her hair, and the warm fragrance of her breath.

It was part of my service to live in the very light of her eyesat one time to be bending over her, so close to

her bosom as to tremble at the thought of touching it; at another, to feel her bending over me, bending so

close to see what I was about, that her voice sank low when she spoke to me, and her ribbons brushed my

The evenings which followed the sketching excursions of the afternoon varied, rather than checked, these

innocent, these inevitable familiarities. My natural fondness for the music which she played with such tender

feeling, such delicate womanly taste, and her natural enjoyment of giving me back, by the practice of her art,

the pleasure which I had offered to her by the practice of mine, only wove another tie which drew us closer

and closer to one another. The accidents of conversation; the simple habits which regulated even such a little

thing as the position of our places at table; the play of Miss Halcombe's everready raillery, always directed

against my anxiety as teacher, while it sparkled over her enthusiasm as pupil; the harmless expression of poor

Mrs. Vesey's drowsy approval, which connected Miss Fairlie and me as two model young people who never

disturbed herevery one of these trifles, and many more, combined to fold us together in the same domestic

I should have remembered my position, and have put myself secretly on my guard. I did so, but not till it was

too late. All the discretion, all the experience, which had availed me with other women, and secured me

against other temptations, failed me with her. It had been my profession, for years past, to be in this close

contact with young girls of all ages, and of all orders of beauty. I had accepted the position as part of my

calling in life; I had trained myself to leave all the sympathies natural to my age in my employer's outer hall,

as coolly as I left my umbrella there before I went upstairs. I had long since learnt to understand, composedly

and as a matter of course, that my situation in life was considered a guarantee against any of my female

pupils feeling more than the most ordinary interest in me, and that I was admitted among beautiful and

captivating women much as a harmless domestic animal is admitted among them. This guardian experience I

had gained early; this guardian experience had sternly and strictly guided me straight along my own poor

narrow path, without once letting me stray aside, to the right hand or to the left. And now I and my trusty

talisman were parted for the first time. Yes, my hardlyearned selfcontrol was as completely lost to me as if

I had never possessed it; lost to me, as it is lost every day to other men, in other critical situations, where

women are concerned. I know, now, that I should have questioned myself from the first. I should have asked

why any room in the house was better than home to me when she entered it, and barren as a desert when she

went out againwhy I always noticed and remembered the little changes in her dress that I had noticed and

remembered in no other woman's beforewhy I saw her, heard her, and touched her (when we shook hands

at night and morning) as I had never seen, heard, and touched any other woman in my life? I should have

looked into my own heart, and found this new growth springing up there, and plucked it out while it was

young. Why was this easiest, simplest work of selfculture always too much for me? The explanation has

been written already in the three words that were many enough, and plain enough, for my confession. I loved

The days passed, the weeks passed; it was approaching the third month of my stay in Cumberland. The

delicious monotony of life in our calm seclusion flowed on with me, like a smooth stream with a swimmer

who glides down the current. All memory of the past, all thought of the future, all sense of the falseness and

hopelessness of my own position, lay hushed within me into deceitful rest. Lulled by the Syrensong that my

own heart sung to me, with eyes shut to all sight, and ears closed to all sound of danger, I drifted nearer and

nearer to the fatal rocks. The warning that aroused me at last, and startled me into sudden, selfaccusing

consciousness of my own weakness, was the plainest, the truest, the kindest of all warnings, for it came

We had parted one night as usual. No word had fallen from my lips, at that time or at any time before it, that

could betray me, or startle her into sudden knowledge of the truth. But when we met again in the morning, a

I shrank thenI shrink stillfrom invading the innermost sanctuary of her heart, and laying it open to

others, as I have laid open my own. Let it be enough to say that the time when she first surprised my secret

was, I firmly believe, the time when she first surprised her own, and the time, also, when she changed

towards me in the interval of one night. Her nature, too truthful to deceive others, was too noble to deceive

itself. When the doubt that I had hushed asleep first laid its weary weight on her heart, the true face owned

all, and said, in its own frank, simple languageI am sorry for him; I am sorry for myself.

It said this, and more, which I could not then interpret. I understood but too well the change in her manner, to

greater kindness and quicker readiness in interpreting all my wishes, before othersto constraint and

sadness, and nervous anxiety to absorb herself in the first occupation she could seize on, whenever we

happened to be left together alone. I understood why the sweet sensitive lips smiled so rarely and so

restrainedly now, and why the clear blue eyes looked at me, sometimes with the pity of an angel, sometimes

with the innocent perplexity of a child. But the change meant more than this. There was a coldness in her

hand, there was an unnatural immobility in her face, there was in all her movements the mute expression of

constant fear and clinging selfreproach. The sensations that I could trace to herself and to me, the

unacknowledged sensations that we were feeling in common, were not these. There were certain elements of

the change in her that were still secretly drawing us together, and others that were, as secretly, beginning to

In my doubt and perplexity, in my vague suspicion of something hidden which I was left to find by my own

unaided efforts, I examined Miss Halcombe's looks and manner for enlightenment. Living in such intimacy as

ours, no serious alteration could take place in any one of us which did not sympathetically affect the others.

The change in Miss Fairlie was reflected in her half sister. Although not a word escaped Miss Halcombe

which hinted at an altered state of feeling towards myself, her penetrating eyes had contracted a new habit of

always watching me. Sometimes the look was like suppressed anger, sometimes like suppressed dread,

sometimes like neitherlike nothing, in short, which I could understand. A week elapsed, leaving us all

three still in this position of secret constraint towards one another. My situation, aggravated by the sense of

my own miserable weakness and forgetfulness of myself, now too late awakened in me, was becoming

intolerable. I felt that I must cast off the oppression under which I was living, at once and for everyet how

From this position of helplessness and humiliation I was rescued by Miss Halcombe. Her lips told me the

bitter, the necessary, the unexpected truth; her hearty kindness sustained me under the shock of hearing it; her

sense and courage turned to its right use an event which threatened the worst that could happen, to me and to

It was on a Thursday in the week, and nearly at the end of the third month of my sojourn in Cumberland.

In the morning, when I went down into the breakfastroom at the usual hour, Miss Halcombe, for the first

Miss Fairlie was out on the lawn. She bowed to me, but did not come in. Not a word had dropped from my

lips, or from hers, that could unsettle either of usand yet the same unacknowledged sense of

embarrassment made us shrink alike from meeting one another alone. She waited on the lawn, and I waited in

the breakfast room, till Mrs. Vesey or Miss Halcombe came in. How quickly I should have joined her: how

readily we should have shaken hands, and glided into our customary talk, only a fortnight ago.

In a few minutes Miss Halcombe entered. She had a preoccupied look, and she made her apologies for being

"I have been detained," she said, "by a consultation with Mr. Fairlie on a domestic matter which he wished to

Miss Fairlie came in from the garden, and the usual morning greeting passed between us. Her hand struck

colder to mine than ever. She did not look at me, and she was very pale. Even Mrs. Vesey noticed it when she

"I suppose it is the change in the wind," said the old lady. "The winter is comingah, my love, the winter is

Our morning mealonce so full of pleasant goodhumoured discussion of the plans for the daywas short

and silent. Miss Fairlie seemed to feel the oppression of the long pauses in the conversation, and looked

appealingly to her sister to fill them up. Miss Halcombe, after once or twice hesitating and checking herself,

"I have seen your uncle this morning, Laura," she said. "He thinks the purple room is the one that ought to be

While these words were being spoken Miss Fairlie looked down at the table beneath her. Her fingers moved

nervously among the crumbs that were scattered on the cloth. The paleness on her cheeks spread to her lips,

and the lips themselves trembled visibly. I was not the only person present who noticed this. Miss Halcombe

Mrs. Vesey and Miss Fairlie left the room together. The kind sorrowful blue eyes looked at me, for a

moment, with the prescient sadness of a coming and a long farewell. I felt the answering pang in my own

heartthe pang that told me I must lose her soon, and love her the more unchangeably for the loss.

I turned towards the garden when the door had closed on her. Miss Halcombe was standing with her hat in

her hand, and her shawl over her arm, by the large window that led out to the lawn, and was looking at me

"Have you any leisure time to spare," she asked, "before you begin to work in your own room?"

"I want to say a word to you in private, Mr. Hartright. Get your hat and come out into the garden. We are not

As we stepped out on to the lawn, one of the undergardenersa mere ladpassed us on his way to the

"Nay, miss; it's just said to be for Miss Fairlie," answered the lad, holding out the letter as he spoke.

"A strange handwriting," she said to herself. "Who can Laura's correspondent be? Where did you get this?"

"That gate," said the undergardener, turning with great deliberation towards the south, and embracing the

"Curious," said Miss Halcombe; "I suppose it must be a begging letter. There," she added, handing the letter

back to the lad, "take it to the house, and give it to one of the servants. And now, Mr. Hartright, if you have

She led me across the lawn, along the same path by which I had followed her on the day after my arrival at

At the little summerhouse, in which Laura Fairlie and I had first seen each other, she stopped, and broke the

With those words she entered the summerhouse, took one of the chairs at the little round table inside, and

signed to me to take the other. I suspected what was coming when she spoke to me in the breakfastroom; I

"Mr. Hartright," she said, "I am going to begin by making a frank avowal to you. I am going to saywithout

phrasemaking, which I detest, or paying compliments, which I heartily despisethat I have come, in the

course of your residence with us, to feel a strong friendly regard for you. I was predisposed in your favour

when you first told me of your conduct towards that unhappy woman whom you met under such remarkable

circumstances. Your management of the affair might not have been prudent, but it showed the self control,

the delicacy, and the compassion of a man who was naturally a gentleman. It made me expect good things

She pausedbut held up her hand at the same time, as a sign that she awaited no answer from me before she

proceeded. When I entered the summerhouse, no thought was in me of the woman in white. But now, Miss

Halcombe's own words had put the memory of my adventure back in my mind. It remained there throughout

"As your friend," she proceeded, "I am going to tell you, at once, in my own plain, blunt, downright

language, that I have discovered your secretwithout help or hint, mind, from any one else. Mr. Hartright,

you have thoughtlessly allowed yourself to form an attachmenta serious and devoted attachment I am

afraidto my sister Laura. I don't put you to the pain of confessing it in so many words, because I see and

know that you are too honest to deny it. I don't even blame youI pity you for opening your heart to a

hopeless affection. You have not attempted to take any underhand advantageyou have not spoken to my

sister in secret. You are guilty of weakness and want of attention to your own best interests, but of nothing

worse. If you had acted, in any single respect, less delicately and less modestly, I should have told you to

leave the house without an instant's notice, or an instant's consultation of anybody. As it is, I blame the

misfortune of your years and your positionI don't blame YOU. Shake handsI have given you pain; I am

going to give you more, but there is no help for itshake hands with your friend, Marian Halcombe, first."

The sudden kindnessthe warm, highminded, fearless sympathy which met me on such mercifully equal

terms, which appealed with such delicate and generous abruptness straight to my heart, my honour, and my

courage, overcame me in an instant. I tried to look at her when she took my hand, but my eves were dim. I

"Listen to me," she said, considerately avoiding all notice of my loss of selfcontrol. "Listen to me, and let us

get it over at once. It is a real true relief to me that I am not obliged, in what I have now to say, to enter into

the questionthe hard and cruel question as I think itof social inequalities. Circumstances which will try

you to the quick, spare me the ungracious necessity of paining a man who has lived in friendly intimacy

under the same roof with myself by any humiliating reference to matters of rank and station. You must leave

Limmeridge House, Mr. Hartright, before more harm is done. It is my duty to say that to you; and it would be

equally my duty to say it, under precisely the same serious necessity, if you were the representative of the

oldest and wealthiest family in England. You must leave us, not because you are a teacher of drawing"

She waited a moment, turned her face full on me, and reaching across the table, laid her hand firmly on my

"Not because you are a teacher of drawing," she repeated, "but because Laura Fairlie is engaged to be

The last word went like a bullet to my heart. My arm lost all sensation of the hand that grasped it. I never

moved and never spoke. The sharp autumn breeze that scattered the dead leaves at our feet came as cold to

me, on a sudden, as if my own mad hopes were dead leaves too, whirled away by the wind like the rest.

Hopes! Betrothed, or not betrothed, she was equally far from me. Would other men have remembered that in

The pang passed, and nothing but the dull numbing pain of it remained. I felt Miss Halcombe's hand again,

tightening its hold on my armI raised my head and looked at her. Her large black eyes were rooted on me,

"Crush it!" she said. "Here, where you first saw her, crush it! Don't shrink under it like a woman. Tear it out;

The suppressed vehemence with which she spoke, the strength which her willconcentrated in the look she

fixed on me, and in the hold on my arm that she had not yet relinquishedcommunicated to mine, steadied

me. We both waited for a minute in silence. At the end of that time I had justified her generous faith in my

"Enough myself, Miss Halcombe, to ask your pardon and hers. Enough myself to be guided by your advice,

"You have proved it already," she answered, "by those words. Mr. Hartright, concealment is at an end

between us. I cannot affect to hide from you what my sister has unconsciously shown to me. You must leave

us for her sake, as well as for your own. Your presence here, your necessary intimacy with us, harmless as it

has been, God knows, in all other respects, has unsteadied her and made her wretched. I, who love her better

than my own lifeI, who have learnt to believe in that pure, noble, innocent nature as I believe in my

religionknow but too well the secret misery of selfreproach that she has been suffering since the first

shadow of a feeling disloyal to her marriage engagement entered her heart in spite of her. I don't sayit

would be useless to attempt to say it after what has happenedthat her engagement has ever had a strong

hold on her affections. It is an engagement of honour, not of love; her father sanctioned it on his deathbed,

two years since; she herself neither welcomed it nor shrank from itshe was content to make it. Till you

came here she was in the position of hundreds of other women, who marry men without being greatly

attracted to them or greatly repelled by them, and who learn to love them (when they don't learn to hate!)

after marriage, instead of before. I hope more earnestly than words can sayand you should have the

selfsacrificing courage to hope toothat the new thoughts and feelings which have disturbed the old

calmness and the old content have not taken root too deeply to be ever removed. Your absence (if I had less

belief in your honour, and your courage, and your sense, I should not trust to them as I am trusting now) your

absence will help my efforts, and time will help us all three. It is something to know that my first confidence

in you was not all misplaced. It is something to know that you will not be less honest, less manly, less

considerate towards the pupil whose relation to yourself you have had the misfortune to forget, than towards

Again the chance reference to the woman in white! Was there no possibility of speaking of Miss Fairlie and

of me without raising the memory of Anne Catherick, and setting her between us like a fatality that it was

"Tell me what apology I can make to Mr. Fairlie for breaking my engagement," I said. "Tell me when to go

after that apology is accepted. I promise implicit obedience to you and to your advice."

"Time is every way of importance," she answered. "You heard me refer this morning to Monday next, and to

the necessity of setting the purple room in order. The visitor whom we expect on Monday"

I could not wait for her to be more explicit. Knowing what I knew now, the memory of Miss Fairlie's look

and manner at the breakfasttable told me that the expected visitor at Limmeridge House was her future

husband. I tried to force it back; but something rose within me at that moment stronger than my own will, and

"No, not today," she replied. "The only reason you can assign to Mr. Fairlie for your departure, before the

end of your engagement, must be that an unforeseen necessity compels you to ask his permission to return at

once to London. You must wait till to morrow to tell him that, at the time when the post comes in, because

he will then understand the sudden change in your plans, by associating it with the arrival of a letter from

London. It is miserable and sickening to descend to deceit, even of the most harmless kindbut I know Mr.

Fairlie, and if you once excite his suspicions that you are trifling with him, he will refuse to release you.

Speak to him on Friday morning: occupy yourself afterwards (for the sake of your own interests with your

employer) in leaving your unfinished work in as little confusion as possible, and quit this place on Saturday.

Before I could assure her that she might depend on my acting in the strictest accordance with her wishes, we

were both startled by advancing footsteps in the shrubbery. Some one was coming from the house to seek for

us! I felt the blood rush into my cheeks and then leave them again. Could the third person who was fast

It was a reliefso sadly, so hopelessly was my position towards her changed alreadyit was absolutely a

relief to me, when the person who had disturbed us appeared at the entrance of the summerhouse, and

"Could I speak to you for a moment, miss?" said the girl, in rather a flurried, unsettled manner.

Miss Halcombe descended the steps into the shrubbery, and walked aside a few paces with the maid.

Left by myself, my mind reverted, with a sense of forlorn wretchedness which it is not in any words that I can

find to describe, to my approaching return to the solitude and the despair of my lonely London home.

Thoughts of my kind old mother, and of my sister, who had rejoiced with her so innocently over my

prospects in Cumberlandthoughts whose long banishment from my heart it was now my shame and my

reproach to realise for the first timecame back to me with the loving mournfulness of old, neglected

friends. My mother and my sister, what would they feel when I returned to them from my broken

engagement, with the confession of my miserable secretthey who had parted from me so hopefully on that

Anne Catherick again! Even the memory of the farewell evening with my mother and my sister could not

return to me now unconnected with that other memory of the moonlight walk back to London. What did it

mean? Were that woman and I to meet once more? It was possible, at the least. Did she know that I lived in

London? Yes; I had told her so, either before or after that strange question of hers, when she had asked me so

distrustfully if I knew many men of the rank of Baronet. Either before or aftermy mind was not calm

A few minutes elapsed before Miss Halcombe dismissed the maid and came back to me. She, too, looked

"We have arranged all that is necessary, Mr. Hartright," she said. "We have understood each other, as friends

should, and we may go back at once to the house. To tell you the truth, I am uneasy about Laura. She has sent

to say she wants to see me directly, and the maid reports that her mistress is apparently very much agitated by

a letter that she has received this morningthe same letter, no doubt, which I sent on to the house before we

We retraced our steps together hastily along the shrubbery path. Although Miss Halcombe had ended all that

she thought it necessary to say on her side, I had not ended all that I wanted to say on mine. From the

moment when I had discovered that the expected visitor at Limmeridge was Miss Fairlie's future husband, I

had felt a bitter curiosity, a burning envious eagerness, to know who he was. It was possible that a future

opportunity of putting the question might not easily offer, so I risked asking it on our way back to the house.

"Now that you are kind enough to tell me we have understood each other, Miss Halcombe," I said, "now that

you are sure of my gratitude for your forbearance and my obedience to your wishes, may I venture to ask

who"(I hesitatedI had forced myself to think of him, but it was harder still to speak of him, as her

Her mind was evidently occupied with the message she had received from her sister. She answered in a hasty,

Hampshire! Anne Catherick's native place. Again, and yet again, the woman in white. There WAS a fatality

SIRSir Percival! Anne Catherick's questionthat suspicious question about the men of the rank of

Baronet whom I might happen to knowhad hardly been dismissed from my mind by Miss Halcombe's

return to me in the summerhouse, before it was recalled again by her own answer. I stopped suddenly, and

"Sir Percival Glyde," she repeated, imagining that I had not heard her former reply.

Not a word more was said, on either side, as we walked back to the house. Miss Halcombe hastened

immediately to her sister's room, and I withdrew to my studio to set in order all of Mr. Fairlie's drawings that

I had not yet mounted and restored before I resigned them to the care of other hands. Thoughts that I had

hitherto restrained, thoughts that made my position harder than ever to endure, crowded on me now that I was

She was engaged to be married, and her future husband was Sir Percival Glyde. A man of the rank of

There were hundreds of baronets in England, and dozens of landowners in Hampshire. Judging by the

ordinary rules of evidence, I had not the shadow of a reason, thus far, for connecting Sir Percival Glyde with

the suspicious words of inquiry that had been spoken to me by the woman in white. And yet, I did connect

him with them. Was it because he had now become associated in my mind with Miss Fairlie, Miss Fairlie

being, in her turn, associated with Anne Catherick, since the night when I had discovered the ominous

likeness between them? Had the events of the morning so unnerved me already that I was at the mercy of any

delusion which common chances and common coincidences might suggest to my imagination? Impossible to

say. I could only feel that what had passed between Miss Halcombe and myself, on our way from the

summerhouse, had affected me very strangely. The foreboding of some undiscoverable danger lying hid

from us all in the darkness of the future was strong on me. The doubt whether I was not linked already to a

chain of events which even my approaching departure from Cumberland would be powerless to snap

asunderthe doubt whether we any of us saw the end as the end would really begathered more and more

darkly over my mind. Poignant as it was, the sense of suffering caused by the miserable end of my brief,

presumptuous love seemed to be blunted and deadened by the still stronger sense of something obscurely

impending, something invisibly threatening, that Time was holding over our heads.

I had been engaged with the drawings little more than half an hour, when there was a knock at the door. It

Her manner was angry and agitated. She caught up a chair for herself before I could give her one, and sat

"Mr. Hartright," she said, "I had hoped that all painful subjects of conversation were exhausted between us,

for today at least. But it is not to be so. There is some underhand villainy at work to frighten my sister about

her approaching marriage. You saw me send the gardener on to the house, with a letter addressed, in a strange

"The letter is an anonymous lettera vile attempt to injure Sir Percival Glyde in my sister's estimation. It has

so agitated and alarmed her that I have had the greatest possible difficulty in composing her spirits

sufficiently to allow me to leave her room and come here. I know this is a family matter on which I ought not

"I beg your pardon, Miss Halcombe. I feel the strongest possible concern and interest in anything that affects

"I am glad to hear you say so. You are the only person in the house, or out of it, who can advise me. Mr.

Fairlie, in his state of health and with his horror of difficulties and mysteries of all kinds, is not to be thought

of. The clergyman is a good, weak man, who knows nothing out of the routine of his duties; and our

neighbours are just the sort of comfortable, jogtrot acquaintances whom one cannot disturb in times of

trouble and danger. What I want to know is this: ought I at once to take such steps as I can to discover the

writer of the letter? or ought I to wait, and apply to Mr. Fairlie's legal adviser tomorrow? It is a

questionperhaps a very important oneof gaining or losing a day. Tell me what you think, Mr. Hartright.

If necessity had not already obliged me to take you into my confidence under very delicate circumstances,

even my helpless situation would, perhaps, be no excuse for me. But as things are I cannot surely be wrong,

after all that has passed between us, in forgetting that you are a friend of only three months' standing."

She gave me the letter. It began abruptly, without any preliminary form of address, as follows

"Do you believe in dreams? I hope, for your own sake, that you do. See what Scripture says about dreams and

their fulfilment (Genesis xl. 8, xli. 25; Daniel iv. 1825), and take the warning I send you before it is too late.

"Last night I dreamed about you, Miss Fairlie. I dreamed that I was standing inside the communion rails of a

churchI on one side of the altartable, and the clergyman, with his surplice and his prayerbook, on the

"After a time there walked towards us, down the aisle of the church, a man and a woman, coming to be

married. You were the woman. You looked so pretty and innocent in your beautiful white silk dress, and your

long white lace veil, that my heart felt for you, and the tears came into my eyes.

"They were tears of pity, young lady, that heaven blesses and instead of falling from my eyes like the

everyday tears that we all of us shed, they turned into two rays of light which slanted nearer and nearer to the

man standing at the altar with you, till they touched his breast. The two rays sprang ill arches like two

rainbows between me and him. I looked along them, and I saw down into his inmost heart.

"The outside of the man you were marrying was fair enough to see. He was neither tall nor shorthe was a

little below the middle size. A light, active, highspirited manabout fiveandforty years old, to look at.

He had a pale face, and was bald over the forehead, but had dark hair on the rest of his head. His beard was

shaven on his chin, but was let to grow, of a fine rich brown, on his cheeks and his upper lip. His eyes were

brown too, and very bright; his nose straight and handsome and delicate enough to have done for a woman's.

His hands the same. He was troubled from time to time with a dry hacking cough, and when he put up his

white right hand to his mouth, he showed the red scar of an old wound across the back of it. Have I dreamt of

the right man? You know best, Miss Fairlie and you can say if I was deceived or not. Read next, what I saw

"I looked along the two rays of light, and I saw down into his inmost heart. It was black as night, and on it

were written, in the red flaming letters which are the handwriting of the fallen angel, 'Without pity and

without remorse. He has strewn with misery the paths of others, and he will live to strew with misery the path

of this woman by his side.' I read that, and then the rays of light shifted and pointed over his shoulder; and

there, behind him, stood a fiend laughing. And the rays of light shifted once more, and pointed over your

shoulder; and there behind you, stood an angel weeping. And the rays of light shifted for the third time, and

pointed straight between you and that man. They widened and widened, thrusting you both asunder, one from

the other. And the clergyman looked for the marriageservice in vain: it was gone out of the book, and he

shut up the leaves, and put it from him in despair. And I woke with my eyes full of tears and my heart

"Believe too, Miss FairlieI beg of you, for your own sake, believe as I do. Joseph and Daniel, and others in

Scripture, believed in dreams. Inquire into the past life of that man with the scar on his hand, before you say

the words that make you his miserable wife. I don't give you this warning on my account, but on yours. I have

an interest in your wellbeing that will live as long as I draw breath. Your mother's daughter has a tender

The handwriting afforded no prospect of a clue. It was traced on ruled lines, in the cramped, conventional,

copybook character technically termed "small hand." It was feeble and faint, and defaced by blots, but had

"That is not an illiterate letter," said Miss Halcombe, "and at the same time, it is surely too incoherent to be

the letter of an educated person in the higher ranks of life. The reference to the bridal dress and veil, and other

little expressions, seem to point to it as the production of some woman. What do you think, Mr. Hartright?"

"I think so too. It seems to me to be not only the letter of a woman, but of a woman whose mind must

I did not answer. While I was speaking, my eyes rested on the last sentence of the letter: "Your mother's

daughter has a tender place in my heartfor your mother was my first, my best, my only friend." Those

words and the doubt which had just escaped me as to the sanity of the writer of the letter, acting together on

my mind, suggested an idea, which I was literally afraid to express openly, or even to encourage secretly. I

began to doubt whether my own faculties were not in danger of losing their balance. It seemed almost like a

monomania to be tracing back everything strange that happened, everything unexpected that was said, always

to the same hidden source and the same sinister influence. I resolved, this time, in defence of my own

courage and my own sense, to come to no decision that plain fact did not warrant, and to turn my back

"If we have any chance of tracing the person who has written this," I said, returning the letter to Miss

Halcombe, "there can be no harm in seizing our opportunity the moment it offers. I think we ought to speak

to the gardener again about the elderly woman who gave him the letter, and then to continue our inquiries in

the village. But first let me ask a question. You mentioned just now the alternative of consulting Mr. Fairlie's

legal adviser tomorrow. Is there no possibility of communicating with him earlier? Why not today?"

"I can only explain," replied Miss Halcombe, "by entering into certain particulars, connected with my sister's

marriage engagement, which I did not think it necessary or desirable to mention to you this morning. One of

Sir Percival Glyde's objects in coming here on Monday, is to fix the period of his marriage, which has

hitherto been left quite unsettled. He is anxious that the event should take place before the end of the year."

"She has no suspicion of it, and after what has happened, I shall not take the responsibility upon myself of

enlightening her. Sir Percival has only mentioned his views to Mr. Fairlie, who has told me himself that he is

ready and anxious, as Laura's guardian, to forward them. He has written to London, to the family solicitor,

Mr. Gilmore. Mr. Gilmore happens to be away in Glasgow on business, and he has replied by proposing to

stop at Limmeridge House on his way back to town. He will arrive tomorrow, and will stay with us a few

days, so as to allow Sir Percival time to plead his own cause. If he succeeds, Mr. Gilmore will then return to

London, taking with him his instructions for my sister's marriage settlement. You understand now, Mr.

Hartright, why I speak of waiting to take legal advice until tomorrow? Mr. Gilmore is the old and tried

friend of two generations of Fairlies, and we can trust him, as we could trust no one else."

The marriagesettlement! The mere hearing of those two words stung me with a jealous despair that was

poison to my higher and better instincts. I began to thinkit is hard to confess this, but I must suppress

nothing from beginning to end of the terrible story that I now stand committed to revealI began to think,

with a hateful eagerness of hope, of the vague charges against Sir Percival Glyde which the anonymous letter

contained. What if those wild accusations rested on a foundation of truth? What if their truth could be proved

before the fatal words of consent were spoken, and the marriagesettlement was drawn? I have tried to think

since, that the feeling which then animated me began and ended in pure devotion to Miss Fairlie's interests,

but I have never succeeded in deceiving myself into believing it, and I must not now attempt to deceive

others. The feeling began and ended in reckless, vindictive, hopeless hatred of the man who was to marry her.

"If we are to find out anything," I said, speaking under the new influence which was now directing me, "we

had better not let another minute slip by us unemployed. I can only suggest, once more, the propriety of

questioning the gardener a second time, and of inquiring in the village immediately afterwards."

"I think I may be of help to you in both cases," said Miss Halcombe, rising. "Let us go, Mr. Hartright, at

I had the door in my hand to open it for herbut I stopped, on a sudden, to ask an important question before

"One of the paragraphs of the anonymous letter," I said, "contains some sentences of minute personal

description. Sir Percival Glyde's name is not mentioned, I knowbut does that description at all resemble

Fortyfive; and she was not yet twentyone! Men of his age married wives of her age every dayand

experience had shown those marriages to be often the happiest ones. I knew thatand yet even the mention

of his age, when I contrasted it with hers, added to my blind hatred and distrust of him.

"Accurately," Miss Halcombe continued, "even to the scar on his right hand, which is the scar of a wound

that he received years since when he was travelling in Italy. There can be no doubt that every peculiarity of

"Yes, and mentioned correctly. He treats it lightly himself, though it sometimes makes his friends anxious

"Mr. Hartright! I hope you are not unjust enough to let that infamous letter influence you?"

"I hope not," I answered confusedly. "Perhaps I had no right to ask the question."

"I am not sorry you asked it," she said, "for it enables me to do justice to Sir Percival's reputation. Not a

whisper, Mr. Hartright, has ever reached me, or my family, against him. He has fought successfully two

contested elections, and has come out of the ordeal unscathed. A man who can do that, in England, is a man

I opened the door for her in silence, and followed her out. She had not convinced me. If the recording angel

had come down from heaven to confirm her, and had opened his book to my mortal eyes, the recording angel

We found the gardener at work as usual. No amount of questioning could extract a single answer of any

importance from the lad's impenetrable stupidity. The woman who had given him the letter was an elderly

woman; she had not spoken a word to him, and she had gone away towards the south in a great hurry. That

Our inquiries at Limmeridge were patiently pursued in all directions, and among all sorts and conditions of

people. But nothing came of them. Three of the villagers did certainly assure us that they had seen the

woman, but as they were quite unable to describe her, and quite incapable of agreeing about the exact

direction in which she was proceeding when they last saw her, these three bright exceptions to the general

rule of total ignorance afforded no more real assistance to us than the mass of their unhelpful and unobservant

The course of our useless investigations brought us, in time, to the end of the village at which the schools

established by Mrs. Fairlie were situated. As we passed the side of the building appropriated to the use of the

boys, I suggested the propriety of making a last inquiry of the schoolmaster, whom we might presume to be,

"I am afraid the schoolmaster must have been occupied with his scholars," said Miss Halcombe, "just at the

time when the woman passed through the village and returned again. However, we can but try."

We entered the playground enclosure, and walked by the schoolroom window to get round to the door, which

was situated at the back of the building. I stopped for a moment at the window and looked in.

The schoolmaster was sitting at his high desk, with his back to me, apparently haranguing the pupils, who

were all gathered together in front of him, with one exception. The one exception was a sturdy whiteheaded

boy, standing apart from all the rest on a stool in a cornera forlorn little Crusoe, isolated in his own desert

The door, when we got round to it, was ajar, and the school master's voice reached us plainly, as we both

"Now, boys," said the voice, "mind what I tell you. If I hear another word spoken about ghosts in this school,

it will be the worse for all of you. There are no such things as ghosts, and therefore any boy who believes in

ghosts believes in what can't possibly be; and a boy who belongs to Limmeridge School, and believes in what

can't possibly be, sets up his back against reason and discipline, and must be punished accordingly. You all

see Jacob Postlethwaite standing up on the stool there in disgrace. He has been punished, not because he said

he saw a ghost last night, but because he is too impudent and too obstinate to listen to reason, and because he

persists in saying he saw the ghost after I have told him that no such thing can possibly be. If nothing else

will do, I mean to cane the ghost out of Jacob Postlethwaite, and if the thing spreads among any of the rest of

"We seem to have chosen an awkward moment for our visit," said Miss Halcombe, pushing open the door at

Our appearance produced a strong sensation among the boys. They appeared to think that we had arrived for

"Go home all of you to dinner," said the schoolmaster, "except Jacob. Jacob must stop where he is; and the

Jacob's fortitude deserted him at the double disappearance of his schoolfellows and his prospect of dinner. He

took his hands out of his pockets, looked hard at his knuckles, raised them with great deliberation to his eyes,

and when they got there, ground them round and round slowly, accompanying the action by short spasms of

sniffing, which followed each other at regular intervalsthe nasal minute guns of juvenile distress.

"We came here to ask you a question, Mr. Dempster." said Miss Halcombe, addressing the schoolmaster;

"and we little expected to find you occupied in exorcising a ghost. What does it all mean? What has really

"That wicked boy has been frightening the whole school, Miss Halcombe, by declaring that he saw a ghost

yesterday evening," answered the master; "and he still persists in his absurd story, in spite of all that I can say

"Most extraordinary," said Miss Halcombe "I should not have thought it possible that any of the boys had

imagination enough to see a ghost. This is a new accession indeed to the hard labour of forming the youthful

mind at Limmeridge, and I heartily wish you well through it, Mr. Dempster. In the meantime, let me explain

She then put the same question to the schoolmaster which we had asked already of almost every one else in

the village. It was met by the same discouraging answer Mr. Dempster had not set eyes on the stranger of

"We may as well return to the house, Mr. Hartright," said Miss Halcombe; "the information we want is

She had bowed to Mr. Dempster, and was about to leave the schoolroom, when the forlorn position of Jacob

Postlethwaite, piteously sniffing on the stool of penitence, attracted her attention as she passed him, and made

her stop goodhumouredly to speak a word to the little prisoner before she opened the door.

"You foolish boy," she said, "why don't you beg Mr. Dempster's pardon, and hold your tongue about the

"Eh!but I saw t' ghaist," persisted Jacob Postlethwaite, with a stare of terror and a burst of tears.

"I beg your pardon, Miss Halcombe," interposed the schoolmaster a little uneasily"but I think you had

better not question the boy. The obstinate folly of his story is beyond all belief; and you might lead him into

"Ignorantly shocking your feelings," said Mr. Dempster, looking very much discomposed.

"Upon my word, Mr. Dempster, you pay my feelings a great compliment in thinking them weak enough to be

shocked by such an urchin as that!" She turned with an air of satirical defiance to little Jacob, and began to

question him directly. "Come!" she said, "I mean to know all about this. You naughty boy, when did you see

"Arl in whiteas a ghaist should be," answered the ghostseer, with a confidence beyond his years.

"As a 'ghaist' should bewhere a 'ghaist' ought to bewhy, you little fool, you talk as if the manners and

customs of ghosts had been familiar to you from your infancy! You have got your story at your fingers' ends,

at any rate. I suppose I shall hear next that you can actually tell me whose ghost it was?"

"Eh! but I just can," replied Jacob, nodding his head with an air of gloomy triumph.

Mr. Dempster had already tried several times to speak while Miss Halcombe was examining his pupil, and he

"Excuse me, Miss Halcombe," he said, "if I venture to say that you are only encouraging the boy by asking

"I will merely ask one more, Mr. Dempster, and then I shall be quite satisfied. Well," she continued, turning

The effect which this extraordinary reply produced on Miss Halcombe fully justified the anxiety which the

schoolmaster had shown to prevent her from hearing it. Her face crimsoned with indignationshe turned

upon little Jacob with an angry suddenness which terrified him into a fresh burst of tearsopened her lips to

speak to himthen controlled herself, and addressed the master instead of the boy.

"It is useless," she said, "to hold such a child as that responsible for what he says. I have little doubt that the

idea has been put into his head by others. If there are people in this village, Mr. Dempster, who have

forgotten the respect and gratitude due from every soul in it to my mother's memory, I will find them out, and

"I hopeindeed, I am sure, Miss Halcombethat you are mistaken," said the schoolmaster. "The matter

begins and ends with the boy's own perversity and folly. He saw, or thought he saw, a woman in white,

yesterday evening, as he was passing the churchyard; and the figure, real or fancied, was standing by the

marble cross, which he and every one else in Limmeridge knows to be the monument over Mrs. Fairlie's

grave. These two circumstances are surely sufficient to have suggested to the boy himself the answer which

Although Miss Halcombe did not seem to be convinced, she evidently felt that the schoolmaster's statement

of the case was too sensible to be openly combated. She merely replied by thanking him for his attention, and

by promising to see him again when her doubts were satisfied. This said, she bowed, and led the way out of

Throughout the whole of this strange scene I had stood apart, listening attentively, and drawing my own

conclusions. As soon as we were alone again, Miss Halcombe asked me if I had formed any opinion on what

"A very strong opinion," I answered; "the boy's story, as I believe, has a foundation in fact. I confess I am

anxious to see the monument over Mrs. Fairlie's grave, and to examine the ground about it."

She paused after making that reply, and reflected a little as we walked on. "What has happened in the

schoolroom," she resumed, "has so completely distracted my attention from the subject of the letter, that I

feel a little bewildered when I try to return to it. Must we give up all idea of making any further inquiries, and

"By no means, Miss Halcombe. What has happened in the schoolroom encourages me to persevere in the

"Because it strengthens a suspicion I felt when you gave me the letter to read."

"I suppose you had your reasons, Mr. Hartright, for concealing that suspicion from me till this moment?"

"I was afraid to encourage it in myself. I thought it was utterly preposterousI distrusted it as the result of

some perversity in my own imagination. But I can do so no longer. Not only the boy's own answers to your

questions, but even a chance expression that dropped from the schoolmaster's lips in explaining his story,

have forced the idea back into my mind. Events may yet prove that idea to be a delusion, Miss Halcombe; but

the belief is strong in me, at this moment, that the fancied ghost in the churchyard, and the writer of the

"The schoolmaster unconsciously told you. When he spoke of the figure that the boy saw in the churchyard

"I don't know why," she said in low tones, "but there is something in this suspicion of yours that seems to

startle and unnerve me. I feel" She stopped, and tried to laugh it off. "Mr. Hartright," she went on, "I

will show you the grave, and then go back at once to the house. I had better not leave Laura too long alone. I

We were close to the churchyard when she spoke. The church, a dreary building of grey stone, was situated in

a little valley, so as to be sheltered from the bleak winds blowing over the moorland all round it. The

burialground advanced, from the side of the church, a little way up the slope of the hill. It was surrounded

by a rough, low stone wall, and was bare and open to the sky, except at one extremity, where a brook trickled

down the stony hillside, and a clump of dwarf trees threw their narrow shadows over the short, meagre

grass. Just beyond the brook and the trees, and not far from one of the three stone stiles which afforded

entrance, at various points, to the churchyard, rose the white marble cross that distinguished Mrs. Fairlie's

"I need go no farther with you," said Miss Halcombe, pointing to the grave. "You will let me know if you

find anything to confirm the idea you have just mentioned to me. Let us meet again at the house."

She left me. I descended at once to the churchyard, and crossed the stile which led directly to Mrs. Fairlie's

The grass about it was too short, and the ground too hard, to show any marks of footsteps. Disappointed thus

far, I next looked attentively at the cross, and at the square block of marble below it, on which the inscription

The natural whiteness of the cross was a little clouded, here and there, by weather stains, and rather more

than one half of the square block beneath it, on the side which bore the inscription, was in the same condition.

The other half, however, attracted my attention at once by its singular freedom from stain or impurity of any

kind. I looked closer, and saw that it had been cleaned recently cleaned, in a downward direction from top

to bottom. The boundary line between the part that had been cleaned and the part that had not was traceable

wherever the inscription left a blank space of marblesharply traceable as a line that had been produced by

artificial means. Who had begun the cleansing of the marble, and who had left it unfinished?

I looked about me, wondering how the question was to be solved. No sign of a habitation could be discerned

from the point at which I was standingthe burialground was left in the lonely possession of the dead. I

returned to the church, and walked round it till I came to the back of the building; then crossed the boundary

wall beyond, by another of the stone stiles, and found myself at the head of a path leading down into a

deserted stone quarry. Against one side of the quarry a little tworoom cottage was built, and just outside the

I walked up to her, and entered into conversation about the church and burialground. She was ready enough

to talk, and almost the first words she said informed me that her husband filled the two offices of clerk and

sexton. I said a few words next in praise of Mrs. Fairlie's monument. The old woman shook her head, and

told me I had not seen it at its best. It was her husband's business to look after it, but he had been so ailing

and weak for months and months past, that he had hardly been able to crawl into church on Sundays to do his

duty, and the monument had been neglected in consequence. He was getting a little better now, and in a week

This informationextracted from a long rambling answer in the broadest Cumberland dialecttold me all

that I most wanted to know. I gave the poor woman a trifle, and returned at once to Limmeridge House.

The partial cleansing of the monument had evidently been accomplished by a strange hand. Connecting what

I had discovered, thus far, with what I had suspected after hearing the story of the ghost seen at twilight, I

wanted nothing more to confirm my resolution to watch Mrs. Fairlie's grave, in secret, that evening, returning

to it at sunset, and waiting within sight of it till the night fell. The work of cleansing the monument had been

left unfinished, and the person by whom it had been begun might return to complete it.

On getting back to the house I informed Miss Halcombe of what I intended to do. She looked surprised and

uneasy while I was explaining my purpose, but she made no positive objection to the execution of it. She

Just as she was leaving me again, I stopped her to inquire, as calmly as I could, after Miss Fairlie's health.

She was in better spirits, and Miss Halcombe hoped she might be induced to take a little walking exercise

I returned to my own room to resume setting the drawings in order. It was necessary to do this, and doubly

necessary to keep my mind employed on anything that would help to distract my attention from myself, and

from the hopeless future that lay before me. From time to time I paused in my work to look out of window

and watch the sky as the sun sank nearer and nearer to the horizon. On one of those occasions I saw a figure

I had not seen her since the morning, and I had hardly spoken to her then. Another day at Limmeridge was all

that remained to me, and after that day my eyes might never look on her again. This thought was enough to

hold me at the window. I had sufficient consideration for her to arrange the blind so that she might not see me

if she looked up, but I had no strength to resist the temptation of letting my eyes, at least, follow her as far as

She was dressed in a brown cloak, with a plain black silk gown under it. On her head was the same simple

straw hat which she had worn on the morning when we first met. A veil was attached to it now which hid her

face from me. By her side trotted a little Italian greyhound, the pet companion of all her walks, smartly

dressed in a scarlet cloth wrapper, to keep the sharp air from his delicate skin. She did not seem to notice the

dog. She walked straight forward, with her head drooping a little, and her arms folded in her cloak. The dead

leaves, which had whirled in the wind before me when I had heard of her marriage engagement in the

morning, whirled in the wind before her, and rose and fell and scattered themselves at her feet as she walked

on in the pale waning sunlight. The dog shivered and trembled, and pressed against her dress impatiently for

notice and encouragement. But she never heeded him. She walked on, farther and farther away from me, with

the dead leaves whirling about her on the path walked on, till my aching eyes could see her no more, and I

In another hour's time I had done my work, and the sunset was at hand. I got my hat and coat in the hall, and

The clouds were wild in the western heaven, and the wind blew chill from the sea. Far as the shore was, the

sound of the surf swept over the intervening moorland, and beat drearily in my ears when I entered the

churchyard. Not a living creature was in sight. The place looked lonelier than ever as I chose my position,

and waited and watched, with my eyes on the white cross that rose over Mrs. Fairlie's grave.

The exposed situation of the churchyard had obliged me to be cautious in choosing the position that I was to

The main entrance to the church was on the side next to the burialground, and the door was screened by a

porch walled in on either side. After some little hesitation, caused by natural reluctance to conceal myself,

indispensable as that concealment was to the object in view, I had resolved on entering the porch. A loophole

window was pierced in each of its side walls. Through one of these windows I could see Mrs. Fairlie's grave.

The other looked towards the stone quarry in which the sexton's cottage was built. Before me, fronting the

porch entrance, was a patch of bare burialground, a line of low stone wall, and a strip of lonely brown hill,

with the sunset clouds sailing heavily over it before the strong, steady wind. No living creature was visible or

audibleno bird flew by me, no dog barked from the sexton's cottage. The pauses in the dull beating of the

surf were filled up by the dreary rustling of the dwarf trees near the grave, and the cold faint bubble of the

brook over its stony bed. A dreary scene and a dreary hour. My spirits sank fast as I counted out the minutes

It was not twilight yetthe light of the setting sun still lingered in the heavens, and little more than the first

halfhour of my solitary watch had elapsedwhen I heard footsteps and a voice. The footsteps were

"Don't you fret, my dear, about the letter," said the voice. "I gave it to the lad quite safe, and the lad he took it

from me without a word. He went his way and I went mine, and not a living soul followed me

These words strung up my attention to a pitch of expectation that was almost painful. There was a pause of

silence, but the footsteps still advanced. In another moment two persons, both women, passed within my

range of view from the porch window. They were walking straight towards the grave; and therefore they had

One of the women was dressed in a bonnet and shawl. The other wore a long travellingcloak of a darkblue

colour, with the hood drawn over her head. A few inches of her gown were visible below the cloak. My heart

After advancing about halfway between the church and the grave they stopped, and the woman in the cloak

turned her head towards her companion. But her side face, which a bonnet might now have allowed me to

"Mind you keep that comfortable warm cloak on," said the same voice which I had already heardthe voice

of the woman in the shawl. "Mrs. Todd is right about your looking too particular, yesterday, all in white. I'll

walk about a little while you're here, churchyards being not at all in my way, whatever they may be in yours.

Finish what you want to do before I come back, and let us be sure and get home again before night."

With those words she turned about, and retracing her steps, advanced with her face towards me. It was the

face of an elderly woman, brown, rugged, and healthy, with nothing dishonest or suspicious in the look of it.

"Queer," she said to herself, "always queer, with her whims and her ways, ever since I can remember her.

She sighedlooked about the burialground nervouslyshook her head, as if the dreary prospect by no

I doubted for a moment whether I ought to follow and speak to her or not. My intense anxiety to find myself

face to face with her companion helped me to decide in the negative. I could ensure seeing the woman in the

shawl by waiting near the churchyard until she came backalthough it seemed more than doubtful whether

she could give me the information of which I was in search. The person who had delivered the letter was of

little consequence. The person who had written it was the one centre of interest, and the one source of

information, and that person I now felt convinced was before me in the churchyard.

While these ideas were passing through my mind I saw the woman in the cloak approach close to the grave,

and stand looking at it for a little while. She then glanced all round her, and taking a white linen cloth or

handkerchief from under her cloak, turned aside towards the brook. The little stream ran into the churchyard

under a tiny archway in the bottom of the wall, and ran out again, after a winding course of a few dozen

yards, under a similar opening. She dipped the cloth in the water, and returned to the grave. I saw her kiss the

white cross, then kneel down before the inscription, and apply her wet cloth to the cleansing of it.

After considering how I could show myself with the least possible chance of frightening her, I resolved to

cross the wall before me, to skirt round it outside, and to enter the churchyard again by the stile near the

grave, in order that she might see me as I approached. She was so absorbed over her employment that she did

not hear me coming until I had stepped over the stile. Then she looked up, started to her feet with a faint cry,

I stopped while I spokethen advanced a few steps gentlythen stopped againand so approached by

little and little till I was close to her. If there had been any doubt still left in my mind, it must have been now

set at rest. There, speaking affrightedly for itselfthere was the same face confronting me over Mrs. Fairlie's

"You remember me?" I said. "We met very late, and I helped you to find the way to London. Surely you have

Her features relaxed, and she drew a heavy breath of relief. I saw the new life of recognition stirring slowly

"Don't attempt to speak to me just yet," I went on. "Take time to recover yourselftake time to feel quite

She stopped, and I kept silence on my side. I was not granting time for composure to her only, I was gaining

time also for myself. Under the wan wild evening light, that woman and I were met together again, a grave

between us, the dead about us, the lonesome hills closing us round on every side. The time, the place, the

circumstances under which we now stood face to face in the evening stillness of that dreary valleythe

lifelong interests which might hang suspended on the next chance words that passed between usthe sense

that, for aught I knew to the contrary, the whole future of Laura Fairlie's life might be determined, for good or

for evil, by my winning or losing the confidence of the forlorn creature who stood trembling by her mother's

graveall threatened to shake the steadiness and the selfcontrol on which every inch of the progress I

might yet make now depended. I tried hard, as I felt this, to possess myself of all my resources; I did my

"Are you calmer now?" I said, as soon as I thought it time to speak again. "Can you talk to me without feeling

"How did you come here?" she asked, without noticing what I had just said to her.

"Don't you remember my telling you, when we last met, that I was going to Cumberland? I have been in

"At Limmeridge House!" Her pale face brightened as she repeated the words, her wandering eyes fixed on

me with a sudden interest. "Ah, how happy you must have been!" she said, looking at me eagerly, without a

I took advantage of her newlyaroused confidence in me to observe her face, with an attention and a curiosity

which I had hitherto restrained myself from showing, for caution's sake. I looked at her, with my mind full of

that other lovely face which had so ominously recalled her to my memory on the terrace by moonlight. I had

seen Anne Catherick's likeness in Miss Fairlie. I now saw Miss Fairlie's likeness in Anne Cathericksaw it

all the more clearly because the points of dissimilarity between the two were presented to me as well as the

points of resemblance. In the general outline of the countenance and general proportion of the featuresin

the colour of the hair and in the little nervous uncertainty about the lipsin the height and size of the figure,

and the carriage of the head and body, the likeness appeared even more startling than I had ever felt it to be

yet. But there the resemblance ended, and the dissimilarity, in details, began. The delicate beauty of Miss

Fairlie's complexion, the transparent clearness of her eyes, the smooth purity of her skin, the tender bloom of

colour on her lips, were all missing from the worn weary face that was now turned towards mine. Although I

hated myself even for thinking such a thing, still, while I looked at the woman before me, the idea would

force itself into my mind that one sad change, in the future, was all that was wanting to make the likeness

complete, which I now saw to be so imperfect in detail. If ever sorrow and suffering set their profaning marks

on the youth and beauty of Miss Fairlie's face, then, and then only, Anne Catherick and she would be the

I shuddered at the thought. There was something horrible in the blind unreasoning distrust of the future which

the mere passage of it through my mind seemed to imply. It was a welcome interruption to be roused by

feeling Anne Catherick's hand laid on my shoulder. The touch was as stealthy and as sudden as that other

"You are looking at me, and you are thinking of something," she said, with her strange breathless rapidity of

"Where should I go if not here?" she said. "The friend who was better than a mother to me is the only friend I

have to visit at Limmeridge. Oh, it makes my heart ache to see a stain on her tomb! It ought to be kept white

as snow, for her sake. I was tempted to begin cleaning it yesterday, and I can't help coming back to go on

with it today. Is there anything wrong in that? I hope not. Surely nothing can be wrong that I do for Mrs.

The old grateful sense of her benefactress's kindness was evidently the ruling idea still in the poor creature's

mindthe narrow mind which had but too plainly opened to no other lasting impression since that first

impression of her younger and happier days. I saw that my best chance of winning her confidence lay in

encouraging her to proceed with the artless employment which she had come into the burialground to

pursue. She resumed it at once, on my telling her she might do so, touching the hard marble as tenderly as if

it had been a sentient thing, and whispering the words of the inscription to herself, over and over again, as if

the lost days of her girlhood had returned and she was patiently learning her lesson once more at Mrs.

"Should you wonder very much," I said, preparing the way as cautiously as I could for the questions that were

to come, "if I owned that it is a satisfaction to me, as well as a surprise, to see you here? I felt very uneasy

"A strange thing happened after we parted that night. Two men overtook me in a chaise. They did not see

where I was standing, but they stopped near me, and spoke to a policeman on the other side of the way."

She instantly suspended her employment. The hand holding the damp cloth with which she had been cleaning

the inscription dropped to her side. The other hand grasped the marble cross at the head of the grave. Her face

turned towards me slowly, with the blank look of terror set rigidly on it once more. I went on at all hazards

"The two men spoke to the policeman," I said, "and asked him if he had seen you. He had not seen you; and

"Stop! and hear the end," I cried. "Stop! and you shall know how I befriended you. A word from me would

have told the men which way you had goneand I never spoke that word. I helped your escapeI made it

My manner seemed to influence her more than my words. She made an effort to grasp the new idea. Her

hands shifted the damp cloth hesitatingly from one to the other, exactly as they had shifted the little

travellingbag on the night when I first saw her. Slowly the purpose of my words seemed to force its way

through the confusion and agitation of her mind. Slowly her features relaxed, and her eyes looked at me with

"Yes, yes, you did help me indeed; you helped me at the hard part," she went on a little vacantly. "It was easy

to escape, or I should not have got away. They never suspected me as they suspected the others. I was so

quiet, and so obedient, and so easily frightened. The finding London was the hard part, and there you helped

"Was the Asylum far from where you met me? Come! show that you believe me to be your friend, and tell

She mentioned the placea private Asylum, as its situation informed me; a private Asylum not very far from

the spot where I had seen herand then, with evident suspicion of the use to which I might put her answer,

anxiously repeated her former inquiry, "You don't think I ought to be taken back, do you?"

"Once again, I am glad you escapedI am glad you prospered well after you left me," I answered. "You said

"Yes. It was very late, but there was a girl up at needlework in the house, and she helped me to rouse Mrs.

Clements. Mrs. Clements is my friend. A good, kind woman, but not like Mrs. Fairlie. Ah no, nobody is like

"Yes, she was a neighbour of ours once, at home, in Hampshire, and liked me, and took care of me when I

was a little girl. Years ago, when she went away from us, she wrote down in my Prayerbook for me where

she was going to live in London, and she said, 'If you are ever in trouble, Anne, come to me. I have no

husband alive to say me nay, and no children to look after, and I will take care of you.' Kind words, were they

not? I suppose I remember them because they were kind. It's little enough I remember besideslittle enough,

"Father?I never saw himI never heard mother speak of him. Father? Ah, dear! he is dead, I suppose."

A trouble and a fear to each other! At those words the suspicion crossed my mind, for the first time, that her

"Don't ask me about mother," she went on. "I'd rather talk of Mrs. Clements. Mrs. Clements is like you, she

doesn't think that I ought to be back in the Asylum, and she is as glad as you are that I escaped from it. She

Her "misfortune." In what sense was she using that word? In a sense which might explain her motive in

writing the anonymous letter? In a sense which might show it to be the too common and too customary

motive that has led many a woman to interpose anonymous hindrances to the marriage of the man who has

ruined her? I resolved to attempt the clearing up of this doubt before more words passed between us on either

"The misfortune of my being shut up," she answered, with every appearance of feeling surprised at my

I determined to persist, as delicately and forbearingly as possible. It was of very great importance that I

should be absolutely sure of every step in the investigation which I now gained in advance.

"There is another misfortune," I said, "to which a woman may be liable, and by which she may suffer lifelong

"The misfortune of believing too innocently in her own virtue, and in the faith and honour of the man she

She looked up at me with the artless bewilderment of a child. Not the slightest confusion or change of

colournot the faintest trace of any secret consciousness of shame struggling to the surface appeared in her

facethat face which betrayed every other emotion with such transparent clearness. No words that ever were

spoken could have assured me, as her look and manner now assured me, that the motive which I had assigned

for her writing the letter and sending it to Miss Fairlie was plainly and distinctly the wrong one. That doubt,

at any rate, was now set at rest; but the very removal of it opened a new prospect of uncertainty. The letter, as

I knew from positive testimony, pointed at Sir Percival Glyde, though it did not name him. She must have

had some strong motive, originating in some deep sense of injury, for secretly denouncing him to Miss Fairlie

in such terms as she had employed, and that motive was unquestionably not to be traced to the loss of her

innocence and her character. Whatever wrong he might have inflicted on her was not of that nature. Of what

"I don't understand you," she said, after evidently trying hard, and trying in vain, to discover the meaning of

"Never mind," I answered. "Let us go on with what we were talking about. Tell me how long you stayed with

"How long?" she repeated. "I stayed with Mrs. Clements till we both came to this place, two days ago."

"You are living in the village, then?" I said. "It is strange I should not have heard of you, though you have

"No, no, not in the village. Three miles away at a farm. Do you know the farm? They call it Todd's Corner."

I remembered the place perfectlywe had often passed by it in our drives. It was one of the oldest farms in

the neighbourhood, situated in a solitary, sheltered spot, inland at the junction of two hills.

"They are relations of Mrs. Clements at Todd's Corner," she went on, "and they had often asked her to go and

see them. She said she would go, and take me with her, for the quiet and the fresh air. It was very kind, was it

not? I would have gone anywhere to be quiet, and safe, and out of the way. But when I heard that Todd's

Corner was near Limmeridgeoh! I was so happy I would have walked all the way barefoot to get there, and

see the schools and the village and Limmeridge House again. They are very good people at Todd's Corner. I

hope I shall stay there a long time. There is only one thing I don't like about them, and don't like about Mrs.

"They will tease me about dressing all in whitethey say it looks so particular. How do they know? Mrs.

Fairlie knew best. Mrs. Fairlie would never have made me wear this ugly blue cloak! Ah! she was fond of

white in her lifetime, and here is white stone about her graveand I am making it whiter for her sake. She

often wore white herself, and she always dressed her little daughter in white. Is Miss Fairlie well and happy?

Her voice sank when she put the questions about Miss Fairlie, and she turned her head farther and farther

away from me. I thought I detected, in the alteration of her manner, an uneasy consciousness of the risk she

had run in sending the anonymous letter, and I instantly determined so to frame my answer as to surprise her

She murmured a few words, but they were spoken so confusedly, and in such a low tone, that I could not

"Did you ask me why Miss Fairlie was neither well nor happy this morning?" I continued.

"I will tell you without your asking," I went on. "Miss Fairlie has received your letter."

She had been down on her knees for some little time past, carefully removing the last weatherstains left

about the inscription while we were speaking together. The first sentence of the words I had just addressed to

her made her pause in her occupation, and turn slowly without rising from her knees, so as to face me. The

second sentence literally petrified her. The cloth she had been holding dropped from her handsher lips fell

apartall the little colour that there was naturally in her face left it in an instant.

"How do you know?" she said faintly. "Who showed it to you?" The blood rushed back into her facerushed

overwhelmingly, as the sense rushed upon her mind that her own words had betrayed her. She struck her

hands together in despair. "I never wrote it," she gasped affrightedly; "I know nothing about it!"

"Yes," I said, "you wrote it, and you know about it. It was wrong to send such a letter, it was wrong to

frighten Miss Fairlie. If you had anything to say that it was right and necessary for her to hear, you should

have gone yourself to Limmeridge Houseyou should have spoken to the young lady with your own lips."

She crouched down over the flat stone of the grave, till her face was hidden on it, and made no reply.

"Miss Fairlie will be as good and kind to you as her mother was, if you mean well," I went on. "Miss Fairlie

will keep your secret, and not let you come to any harm. Will you see her to morrow at the farm? Will you

"Oh, if I could die, and be hidden and at rest with YOU!" Her lips murmured the words close on the

gravestone, murmured them in tones of passionate endearment, to the dead remains beneath. "You know

how I love your child, for your sake! Oh, Mrs. Fairlie! Mrs. Fairlie! tell me how to save her. Be my darling

I heard her lips kissing the stoneI saw her hands beating on it passionately. The sound and the sight deeply

affected me. I stooped down, and took the poor helpless hands tenderly in mine, and tried to soothe her.

It was useless. She snatched her hands from me, and never moved her face from the stone. Seeing the urgent

necessity of quieting her at any hazard and by any means, I appealed to the only anxiety that she appeared to

feel, in connection with me and with my opinion of herthe anxiety to convince me of her fitness to be

"Come, come," I said gently. "Try to compose yourself, or you will make me alter my opinion of you. Don't

let me think that the person who put you in the Asylum might have had some excuse"

The next words died away on my lips. The instant I risked that chance reference to the person who had put

her in the Asylum she sprang up on her knees. A most extraordinary and startling change passed over her.

Her face, at all ordinary times so touching to look at, in its nervous sensitiveness, weakness, and uncertainty,

became suddenly darkened by an expression of maniacally intense hatred and fear, which communicated a

wild, unnatural force to every feature. Her eyes dilated in the dim evening light, like the eyes of a wild

animal. She caught up the cloth that had fallen at her side, as if it had been a living creature that she could

kill, and crushed it in both her hands with such convulsive strength, that the few drops of moisture left in it

"Talk of something else," she said, whispering through her teeth. "I shall lose myself if you talk of that."

Every vestige of the gentler thoughts which had filled her mind hardly a minute since seemed to be swept

from it now. It was evident that the impression left by Mrs. Fairlie's kindness was not, as I had supposed, the

only strong impression on her memory. With the grateful remembrance of her schooldays at Limmeridge,

there existed the vindictive remembrance of the wrong inflicted on her by her confinement in the Asylum.

It was hard to give up pursuing the inquiry to that final point, but I forced myself to abandon all idea of

continuing it. Seeing her as I saw her now, it would have been cruel to think of anything but the necessity and

"You want something," she answered sharply and suspiciously. "Don't look at me like that. Speak to metell

"I only want you to quiet yourself, and when you are calmer, to think over what I have said."

"Said?" She pausedtwisted the cloth in her hands, backwards and forwards, and whispered to herself,

"What is it he said?" She turned again towards me, and shook her head impatiently. "Why don't you help

"Yes, yes," I said, "I will help you, and you will soon remember. I ask you to see Miss Fairlie tomorrow and

The mere utterance of the loved familiar name seemed to quiet her. Her face softened and grew like itself

"You need have no fear of Miss Fairlie," I continued, "and no fear of getting into trouble through the letter.

She knows so much about it already, that you will have no difficulty in telling her all. There can be little

necessity for concealment where there is hardly anything left to conceal. You mention no names in the letter;

The instant I pronounced that name she started to her feet, and a scream burst from her that rang through the

churchyard, and made my heart leap in me with the terror of it. The dark deformity of the expression which

had just left her face lowered on it once more, with doubled and trebled intensity. The shriek at the name, the

reiterated look of hatred and fear that instantly followed, told all. Not even a last doubt now remained. Her

mother was guiltless of imprisoning her in the Asylum. A man had shut her upand that man was Sir

The scream had reached other ears than mine. On one side I heard the door of the sexton's cottage open; on

the other I heard the voice of her companion, the woman in the shawl, the woman whom she had spoken of as

"Who are you?" she cried, facing me resolutely as she set her foot on the stile. "How dare you frighten a poor

She was at Anne Catherick's side, and had put one arm around her, before I could answer. "What is it, my

Mrs. Clements turned on me with a fearless indignation, for which I respected her.

"I should be heartily ashamed of myself if I deserved that angry look," I said. "But I do not deserve it. I have

unfortunately startled her without intending it. This is not the first time she has seen me. Ask her yourself,

and she will tell you that I am incapable of willingly harming her or any woman."

I spoke distinctly, so that Anne Catherick might hear and understand me, and I saw that the words and their

"Yes, yes," she said"he was good to me oncehe helped me" She whispered the rest into her friend's

"Strange, indeed!" said Mrs. Clements, with a look of perplexity. "It makes all the difference, though. I'm

sorry I spoke so rough to you, sir; but you must own that appearances looked suspicious to a stranger. It's

more my fault than yours, for humouring her whims, and letting her be alone in such a place as this. Come,

I thought the good woman looked a little uneasy at the prospect of the walk back, and I offered to go with

them until they were both within sight of home. Mrs. Clements thanked me civilly, and declined. She said

they were sure to meet some of the farm labourers as soon as they got to the moor.

"Try to forgive me," I said, when Anne Catherick took her friend's arm to go away. Innocent as I had been of

any intention to terrify and agitate her, my heart smote me as I looked at the poor, pale, frightened face.

"I will try," she answered. "But you know too muchI'm afraid you'll always frighten me now."

"Goodnight, sir," she said. "You couldn't help it, I know but I wish it was me you had frightened, and not

They moved away a few steps. I thought they had left me, but Anne suddenly stopped, and separated herself

She returned to the grave, rested both hands tenderly on the marble cross, and kissed it.

She joined her companion again, and they left the burialground. I saw them stop near the church and speak

to the sexton's wife, who had come from the cottage, and had waited, watching us from a distance. Then they

went on again up the path that led to the moor. I looked after Anne Catherick as she disappeared, till all trace

of her had faded in the twilightlooked as anxiously and sorrowfully as if that was the last I was to see in

Half an hour later I was back at the house, and was informing Miss Halcombe of all that had happened.

She listened to me from beginning to end with a steady, silent attention, which, in a woman of her

temperament and disposition, was the strongest proof that could be offered of the serious manner in which

"My mind misgives me," was all she said when I had done. "My mind misgives me sadly about the future."

"The future may depend," I suggested, "on the use we make of the present. It is not improbable that Anne

Catherick may speak more readily and unreservedly to a woman than she has spoken to me. If Miss

"Not to be thought of for a moment," interposed Miss Halcombe, in her most decided manner.

"Let me suggest, then," I continued, "that you should see Anne Catherick yourself, and do all you can to win

her confidence. For my own part, I shrink from the idea of alarming the poor creature a second time, as I have

most unhappily alarmed her already. Do you see any objection to accompanying me to the farmhouse to

"None whatever. I will go anywhere and do anything to serve Laura's interests. What did you say the place

"Certainly. Todd's Corner is one of Mr. Fairlie's farms. Our dairymaid here is the farmer's second daughter.

She goes backwards and forwards constantly between this house and her father's farm, and she may have

heard or seen something which it may be useful to us to know. Shall I ascertain, at once, if the girl is

She rang the bell, and sent the servant with his message. He returned, and announced that the dairymaid was

then at the farm. She had not been there for the last three days, and the housekeeper had given her leave to go

"I can speak to her tomorrow," said Miss Halcombe, when the servant had left the room again. "In the

meantime, let me thoroughly understand the object to be gained by my interview with Anne Catherick. Is

there no doubt in your mind that the person who confined her in the Asylum was Sir Percival Glyde?"

"There is not the shadow of a doubt. The only mystery that remains is the mystery of his MOTIVE. Looking

to the great difference between his station in life and hers, which seems to preclude all idea of the most

distant relationship between them, it is of the last importanceeven assuming that she really required to be

placed under restraintto know why HE should have been the person to assume the serious responsibility of

"Yes, in a private Asylum, where a sum of money, which no poor person could afford to give, must have

"I see where the doubt lies, Mr. Hartright, and I promise you that it shall be set at rest, whether Anne

Catherick assists us to morrow or not. Sir Percival Glyde shall not be long in this house without satisfying

Mr. Gilmore, and satisfying me. My sister's future is my dearest care in life, and I have influence enough over

her to give me some power, where her marriage is concerned, in the disposal of it."

After breakfast the next morning, an obstacle, which the events of the evening before had put out of my

memory, interposed to prevent our proceeding immediately to the farm. This was my last day at Limmeridge

House, and it was necessary, as soon as the post came in, to follow Miss Halcombe's advice, and to ask Mr.

Fairlie's permission to shorten my engagement by a month, in consideration of an unforeseen necessity for

Fortunately for the probability of this excuse, so far as appearances were concerned, the post brought me two

letters from London friends that morning. I took them away at once to my own room, and sent the servant

with a message to Mr. Fairlie, requesting to know when I could see him on a matter of business.

I awaited the man's return, free from the slightest feeling of anxiety about the manner in which his master

might receive my application. With Mr. Fairlie's leave or without it, I must go. The consciousness of having

now taken the first step on the dreary journey which was henceforth to separate my life from Miss Fairlie's

seemed to have blunted my sensibility to every consideration connected with myself. I had done with my

poor man's touchy prideI had done with all my little artist vanities. No insolence of Mr. Fairlie's, if he

The servant returned with a message for which I was not unprepared. Mr. Fairlie regretted that the state of his

health, on that particular morning, was such as to preclude all hope of his having the pleasure of receiving

me. He begged, therefore, that I would accept his apologies, and kindly communicate what I had to say in the

form of a letter. Similar messages to this had reached me, at various intervals, during my three months'

residence in the house. Throughout the whole of that period Mr. Fairlie had been rejoiced to "possess" me,

but had never been well enough to see me for a second time. The servant took every fresh batch of drawings

that I mounted and restored back to his master with my "respects," and returned emptyhanded with Mr.

Fairlie's "kind compliments," "best thanks," and "sincere regrets" that the state of his health still obliged him

to remain a solitary prisoner in his own room. A more satisfactory arrangement to both sides could not

possibly have been adopted. It would be hard to say which of us, under the circumstances, felt the most

I sat down at once to write the letter, expressing myself in it as civilly, as clearly, and as briefly as possible.

Mr. Fairlie did not hurry his reply. Nearly an hour elapsed before the answer was placed in my hands. It was

written with beautiful regularity and neatness of character, in violetcoloured ink, on notepaper as smooth

"Mr. Fairlie's compliments to Mr. Hartright. Mr. Fairlie is more surprised and disappointed than he can say

(in the present state of his health) by Mr. Hartright's application. Mr. Fairlie is not a man of business, but he

has consulted his steward, who is, and that person confirms Mr. Fairlie's opinion that Mr. Hartright's request

to be allowed to break his engagement cannot be justified by any necessity whatever, excepting perhaps a

case of life and death. If the highlyappreciative feeling towards Art and its professors, which it is the

consolation and happiness of Mr. Fairlie's suffering existence to cultivate, could be easily shaken, Mr.

Hartright's present proceeding would have shaken it. It has not done soexcept in the instance of Mr.

"Having stated his opinionso far, that is to say, as acute nervous suffering will allow him to state

anythingMr. Fairlie has nothing to add but the expression of his decision, in reference to the highly

irregular application that has been made to him. Perfect repose of body and mind being to the last degree

important in his case, Mr. Fairlie will not suffer Mr. Hartright to disturb that repose by remaining in the house

under circumstances of an essentially irritating nature to both sides. Accordingly, Mr. Fairlie waives his right

of refusal, purely with a view to the preservation of his own tranquillityand informs Mr. Hartright that he

I folded the letter up, and put it away with my other papers. The time had been when I should have resented it

as an insultI accepted it now as a written release from my engagement. It was off my mind, it was almost

out of my memory, when I went downstairs to the breakfastroom, and informed Miss Halcombe that I was

"Has Mr. Fairlie given you a satisfactory answer?" she asked as we left the house.

She looked up at me quickly, and then, for the first time since I had known her, took my arm of her own

accord. No words could have expressed so delicately that she understood how the permission to leave my

employment had been granted, and that she gave me her sympathy, not as my superior, but as my friend. I

had not felt the man's insolent letter, but I felt deeply the woman's atoning kindness.

On our way to the farm we arranged that Miss Halcombe was to enter the house alone, and that I was to wait

outside, within call. We adopted this mode of proceeding from an apprehension that my presence, after what

had happened in the churchyard the evening before, might have the effect of renewing Anne Catherick's

nervous dread, and of rendering her additionally distrustful of the advances of a lady who was a stranger to

her. Miss Halcombe left me, with the intention of speaking, in the first instance, to the farmer's wife (of

whose friendly readiness to help her in any way she was well assured), while I waited for her in the near

I had fully expected to be left alone for some time. To my surprise, however, little more than five minutes had

"Gone with Mrs. Clements. They both left the farm at eight o'clock this morning."

I could say nothingI could only feel that our last chance of discovery had gone with them.

"All that Mrs. Todd knows about her guests, I know," Miss Halcombe went on, "and it leaves me, as it leaves

her, in the dark. They both came back safe last night, after they left you, and they passed the first part of the

evening with Mr. Todd's family as usual. Just before suppertime, however, Anne Catherick startled them all

by being suddenly seized with faintness. She had had a similar attack, of a less alarming kind, on the day she

arrived at the farm; and Mrs. Todd had connected it, on that occasion, with something she was reading at the

time in our local newspaper, which lay on the farm table, and which she had taken up only a minute or two

"Does Mrs. Todd know what particular passage in the newspaper affected her in that way?" I inquired.

"No," replied Miss Halcombe. "She had looked it over, and had seen nothing in it to agitate any one. I asked

leave, however, to look it over in my turn, and at the very first page I opened I found that the editor had

enriched his small stock of news by drawing upon our family affairs, and had published my sister's marriage

engagement, among his other announcements, copied from the London papers, of Marriages in High Life. I

concluded at once that this was the paragraph which had so strangely affected Anne Catherick, and I thought

I saw in it, also, the origin of the letter which she sent to our house the next day."

"There can be no doubt in either case. But what did you hear about her second attack of faintness yesterday

"Nothing. The cause of it is a complete mystery. There was no stranger in the room. The only visitor was our

dairymaid, who, as I told you, is one of Mr. Todd's daughters, and the only conversation was the usual gossip

about local affairs. They heard her cry out, and saw her turn deadly pale, without the slightest apparent

reason. Mrs. Todd and Mrs. Clements took her upstairs, and Mrs. Clements remained with her. They were

heard talking together until long after the usual bedtime, and early this morning Mrs. Clements took Mrs.

Todd aside, and amazed her beyond all power of expression by saying that they must go. The only

explanation Mrs. Todd could extract from her guest was, that something had happened, which was not the

fault of any one at the farmhouse, but which was serious enough to make Anne Catherick resolve to leave

Limmeridge immediately. It was quite useless to press Mrs. Clements to be more explicit. She only shook her

head, and said that, for Anne's sake, she must beg and pray that no one would question her. All she could

repeat, with every appearance of being seriously agitated herself, was that Anne must go, that she must go

with her, and that the destination to which they might both betake themselves must be kept a secret from

everybody. I spare you the recital of Mrs. Todd's hospitable remonstrances and refusals. It ended in her

driving them both to the nearest station, more than three hours since. She tried hard on the way to get them to

speak more plainly, but without success; and she set them down outside the stationdoor, so hurt and

offended by the unceremonious abruptness of their departure and their unfriendly reluctance to place the least

confidence in her, that she drove away in anger, without so much as stopping to bid them goodbye. That is

exactly what has taken place. Search your own memory, Mr. Hartright, and tell me if anything happened in

the burialground yesterday evening which can at all account for the extraordinary departure of those two

"I should like to account first, Miss Halcombe, for the sudden change in Anne Catherick which alarmed them

at the farmhouse, hours after she and I had parted, and when time enough had elapsed to quiet any violent

agitation that I might have been unfortunate enough to cause. Did you inquire particularly about the gossip

"Yes. But Mrs. Todd's household affairs seem to have divided her attention that evening with the talk in the

farmhouse parlour. She could only tell me that it was 'just the news,'meaning, I suppose, that they all

"The dairymaid's memory may be better than her mother's," I said. "It may be as well for you to speak to the

My suggestion was acted on the moment we returned to the house. Miss Halcombe led me round to the

servants' offices, and we found the girl in the dairy, with her sleeves tucked up to her shoulders, cleaning a

"I have brought this gentleman to see your dairy, Hannah," said Miss Halcombe. "It is one of the sights of the

The girl blushed and curtseyed, and said shyly that she hoped she always did her best to keep things neat and

"We have just come from your father's," Miss Halcombe continued. "You were there yesterday evening, I

"One of them was taken faint and ill, I am told. I suppose nothing was said or done to frighten her? You were

"Yes, miss. And I'm quite sure nothing was said to frighten the poor thing, for I was talking when she was

taken ill. It gave me quite a turn, miss, to see it, never having been taken faint myself."

Before any more questions could be put to her, she was called away to receive a basket of eggs at the dairy

"Ask her if she happened to mention, last night, that visitors were expected at Limmeridge House."

Miss Halcombe showed me, by a look, that she understood, and put the question as soon as the dairymaid

"Oh yes, miss, I mentioned that," said the girl simply. "The company coming, and the accident to the brindled

"Did you mention names? Did you tell them that Sir Percival Glyde was expected on Monday?"

"Yes, missI told them Sir Percival Glyde was coming. I hope there was no harm in itI hope I didn't do

"Oh no, no harm. Come, Mr. Hartright, Hannah will begin to think us in the way, if we interrupt her any

"Sir Percival Glyde shall remove that doubt, Mr. Hartrightor Laura Fairlie shall never be his wife."

As we walked round to the front of the house a fly from the railway approached us along the drive. Miss

Halcombe waited on the doorsteps until the fly drew up, and then advanced to shake hands with an old

gentleman, who got out briskly the moment the steps were let down. Mr. Gilmore had arrived.

I looked at him, when we were introduced to each other, with an interest and a curiosity which I could hardly

conceal. This old man was to remain at Limmeridge House after I had left it, he was to hear Sir Percival

Glyde's explanation, and was to give Miss Halcombe the assistance of his experience in forming her

judgment; he was to wait until the question of the marriage was set at rest; and his hand, if that question were

decided in the affirmative, was to draw the settlement which bound Miss Fairlie irrevocably to her

engagement. Even then, when I knew nothing by comparison with what I know now, I looked at the family

lawyer with an interest which I had never felt before in the presence of any man breathing who was a total

In external appearance Mr. Gilmore was the exact opposite of the conventional idea of an old lawyer. His

complexion was florid his white hair was worn rather long and kept carefully brushed his black coat,

waistcoat, and trousers fitted him with perfect neatnesshis white cravat was carefully tied, and his

lavender coloured kid gloves might have adorned the hands of a fashionable clergyman, without fear and

without reproach. His manners were pleasantly marked by the formal grace and refinement of the old school

of politeness, quickened by the invigorating sharpness and readiness of a man whose business in life obliges

him always to keep his faculties in good working order. A sanguine constitution and fair prospects to begin

witha long subsequent career of creditable and comfortable prosperitya cheerful, diligent,

widelyrespected old agesuch were the general impressions I derived from my introduction to Mr.

Gilmore, and it is but fair to him to add, that the knowledge I gained by later and better experience only

I left the old gentleman and Miss Halcombe to enter the house together, and to talk of family matters

undisturbed by the restraint of a stranger's presence. They crossed the hall on their way to the drawingroom,

My hours were numbered at Limmeridge Housemy departure the next morning was irrevocably

settledmy share in the investigation which the anonymous letter had rendered necessary was at an end. No

harm could be done to any one but myself if I let my heart loose again, for the little time that was left me,

from the cold cruelty of restraint which necessity had forced me to inflict upon it, and took my farewell of the

scenes which were associated with the brief dreamtime of my happiness and my love.

I turned instinctively to the walk beneath my studywindow, where I had seen her the evening before with

her little dog, and followed the path which her dear feet had trodden so often, till I came to the wicket gate

that led into her rose garden. The winter bareness spread drearily over it now. The flowers that she had taught

me to distinguish by their names, the flowers that I had taught her to paint from, were gone, and the tiny

white paths that led between the beds were damp and green already. I went on to the avenue of trees, where

we had breathed together the warm fragrance of August evenings, where we had admired together the myriad

combinations of shade and sunlight that dappled the ground at our feet. The leaves fell about me from the

groaning branches, and the earthy decay in the atmosphere chilled me to the bones. A little farther on, and I

was out of the grounds, and following the lane that wound gently upward to the nearest hills. The old felled

tree by the wayside, on which we had sat to rest, was sodden with rain, and the tuft of ferns and grasses which

I had drawn for her, nestling under the rough stone wall in front of us, had turned to a pool of water,

stagnating round an island of draggled weeds. I gained the summit of the hill, and looked at the view which

we had so often admired in the happier time. It was cold and barrenit was no longer the view that I

remembered. The sunshine of her presence was far from methe charm of her voice no longer murmured in

my ear. She had talked to me, on the spot from which I now looked down, of her father, who was her last

surviving parenthad told me how fond of each other they had been, and how sadly she missed him still

when she entered certain rooms in the house, and when she took up forgotten occupations and amusements

with which he had been associated. Was the view that I had seen, while listening to those words, the view that

I saw now, standing on the hilltop by myself? I turned and left itI wound my way back again, over the

moor, and round the sandhills, down to the beach. There was the white rage of the surf, and the multitudinous

glory of the leaping wavesbut where was the place on which she had once drawn idle figures with her

parasol in the sandthe place where we had sat together, while she talked to me about myself and my home,

while she asked me a woman's minutely observant questions about my mother and my sister, and innocently

wondered whether I should ever leave my lonely chambers and have a wife and a house of my own? Wind

and wave had long since smoothed out the trace of her which she had left in those marks on the sand, I looked

over the wide monotony of the seaside prospect, and the place in which we two had idled away the sunny

hours was as lost to me as if I had never known it, as strange to me as if I stood already on a foreign shore.

The empty silence of the beach struck cold to my heart. I returned to the house and the garden, where traces

On the west terrace walk I met Mr. Gilmore. He was evidently in search of me, for he quickened his pace

when we caught sight of each other. The state of my spirits little fitted me for the society of a stranger; but the

"You are the very person I wanted to see," said the old gentleman. "I had two words to say to you, my dear

sir; and If you have no objection I will avail myself of the present opportunity. To put it plainly, Miss

Halcombe and I have been talking over family affairsaffairs which are the cause of my being hereand in

the course of our conversation she was naturally led to tell me of this unpleasant matter connected with the

anonymous letter, and of the share which you have most creditably and properly taken in the proceedings so

far. That share, I quite understand, gives you an interest which you might not otherwise have felt, in knowing

that the future management of the investigation which you have begun will be placed in safe hands. My dear

"You are, in every way, Mr. Gilmore, much fitter to advise and to act in the matter than I am. Is it an

indiscretion on my part to ask if you have decided yet on a course of proceeding?

"So far as it is possible to decide, Mr. Hartright, I have decided. I mean to send a copy of the letter,

accompanied by a statement of the circumstances, to Sir Percival Glyde's solicitor in London, with whom I

have some acquaintance. The letter itself I shall keep here to show to Sir Percival as soon as he arrives. The

tracing of the two women I have already provided for, by sending one of Mr. Fairlie's servantsa

confidential personto the station to make inquiries. The man has his money and his directions, and he will

follow the women in the event of his finding any clue. This is all that can be done until Sir Percival comes on

Monday. I have no doubt myself that every explanation which can be expected from a gentleman and a man

of honour, he will readily give. Sir Percival stands very high, siran eminent position, a reputation above

suspicionI feel quite easy about resultsquite easy, I am rejoiced to assure you. Things of this sort happen

constantly in my experience. Anonymous letters unfortunate womansad state of society. I don't deny

that there are peculiar complications in this case; but the case itself is, most unhappily, commoncommon."

"I am afraid, Mr. Gilmore, I have the misfortune to differ from you in the view I take of the case."

"Just so, my dear sirjust so. I am an old man, and I take the practical view. You are a young man, and you

take the romantic view. Let us not dispute about our views. I live professionally in an atmosphere of

disputation, Mr. Hartright, and I am only too glad to escape from it, as I am escaping here. We will wait for

eventsyes, yes, yeswe will wait for events. Charming place this. Good shooting? Probably not, none of

Mr. Fairlie's land is preserved, I think. Charming place, though, and delightful people. You draw and paint, I

We dropped into general conversation, or rather, Mr. Gilmore talked and I listened. My attention was far

from him, and from the topics on which he discoursed so fluently. The solitary walk of the last two hours had

wrought its effect on meit had set the idea in my mind of hastening my departure from Limmeridge House.

Why should I prolong the hard trial of saying farewell by one unnecessary minute? What further service was

required of me by any one? There was no useful purpose to be served by my stay in Cumberlandthere was

no restriction of time in the permission to leave which my employer had granted to me. Why not end it there

I determined to end it. There were some hours of daylight still leftthere was no reason why my journey

back to London should not begin on that afternoon. I made the first civil excuse that occurred to me for

On my way up to my own room I met Miss Halcombe on the stairs. She saw, by the hurry of my movements

and the change in my manner, that I had some new purpose in view, and asked what had happened.

I told her the reasons which induced me to think of hastening my departure, exactly as I have told them here.

"No, no," she said, earnestly and kindly, "leave us like a friend break bread with us once more. Stay here

and dine, stay here and help us to spend our last evening with you as happily, as like our first evenings, as we

can. It is my invitationMrs. Vesey's invitation" she hesitated a little, and then added, "Laura's

I promised to remain. God knows I had no wish to leave even the shadow of a sorrowful impression with any

My own room was the best place for me till the dinner bell rang. I waited there till it was time to go

I had not spoken to Miss FairlieI had not even seen herall that day. The first meeting with her, when I

entered the drawing room, was a hard trial to her selfcontrol and to mine. She, too, had done her best to

make our last evening renew the golden bygone timethe time that could never come again. She had put on

the dress which I used to admire more than any other that she possesseda dark blue silk, trimmed quaintly

and prettily with oldfashioned lace; she came forward to meet me with her former readinessshe gave me

her hand with the frank, innocent goodwill of happier days. The cold fingers that trembled round minethe

pale cheeks with a bright red spot burning in the midst of them the faint smile that struggled to live on her

lips and died away from them while I looked at it, told me at what sacrifice of herself her outward composure

was maintained. My heart could take her no closer to me, or I should have loved her then as I had never loved

Mr. Gilmore was a great assistance to us. He was in high good humour, and he led the conversation with

unflagging spirit. Miss Halcombe seconded him resolutely, and I did all I could to follow her example. The

kind blue eyes, whose slightest changes of expression I had learnt to interpret so well, looked at me

appealingly when we first sat down to table. Help my sisterthe sweet anxious face seemed to sayhelp

We got through the dinner, to all outward appearance at least, happily enough. When the ladies had risen

from table, and Mr. Gilmore and I were left alone in the diningroom, a new interest presented itself to

occupy our attention, and to give me an opportunity of quieting myself by a few minutes of needful and

welcome silence. The servant who had been despatched to trace Anne Catherick and Mrs. Clements returned

"I have found out, sir," answered the man, "that both the women took tickets at our station here for Carlisle."

"Well, my friend, you have done all you could, and I have done all I could, and there the matter must rest till

further notice. We have played our trump cards, Mr. Hartright," continued the old gentleman when the

servant had withdrawn. "For the present, at least, the women have outmanoeuvred us, and our only resource

now is to wait till Sir Percival Glyde comes here on Monday next. Won't you fill your glass again? Good

bottle of port, thatsound, substantial, old wine. I have got better in my own cellar, though."

We returned to the drawingroomthe room in which the happiest evenings of my life had been

passedthe room which, after this last night, I was never to see again. Its aspect was altered since the days

had shortened and the weather had grown cold. The glass doors on the terrace side were closed, and hidden

by thick curtains. Instead of the soft twilight obscurity, in which we used to sit, the bright radiant glow of

Miss Halcombe and Mr. Gilmore sat down together at the cardtable Mrs. Vesey took her customary

chair. There was no restraint on the disposal of THEIR evening, and I felt the restraint on the disposal of

mine all the more painfully from observing it. I saw Miss Fairlie lingering near the musicstand. The time

had been when I might have joined her there. I waited irresolutelyI knew neither where to go nor what to

do next. She cast one quick glance at me, took a piece of music suddenly from the stand, and came towards

"Shall I play some of those little melodies of Mozart's which you used to like so much?" she asked, opening

Before I could thank her she hastened to the piano. The chair near it, which I had always been accustomed to

occupy, stood empty. She struck a few chordsthen glanced round at methen looked back again at her

"Won't you take your old place?" she said, speaking very abruptly and in very low tones.

She did not replyshe kept her attention riveted on the music music which she knew by memory, which

she had played over and over again, in former times, without the book. I only knew that she had heard me, I

only knew that she was aware of my being close to her, by seeing the red spot on the cheek that was nearest

"I am very sorry you are going," she said, her voice almost sinking to a whisper, her eyes looking more and

more intently at the music, her fingers flying over the keys of the piano with a strange feverish energy which

"I shall remember those kind words, Miss Fairlie, long after to morrow has come and gone."

"Don't speak of tomorrow," she said. "Let the music speak to us of tonight, in a happier language than

Her lips trembleda faint sigh fluttered from them, which she tried vainly to suppress. Her fingers wavered

on the pianoshe struck a false note, confused herself in trying to set it right, and dropped her hands angrily

on her lap. Miss Halcombe and Mr. Gilmore looked up in astonishment from the cardtable at which they

were playing. Even Mrs. Vesey, dozing in her chair, woke at the sudden cessation of the music, and inquired

"You play at whist, Mr. Hartright?" asked Miss Halcombe, with her eyes directed significantly at the place I

I knew what she meantI knew she was right, and I rose at once to go to the cardtable. As I left the piano

Miss Fairlie turned a page of the music, and touched the keys again with a surer hand.

"I WILL play it," she said, striking the notes almost passionately. "I WILL play it on the last night."

"Come, Mrs. Vesey," said Miss Halcombe, "Mr. Gilmore and I are tired of ecartecome and be Mr.

The old lawyer smiled satirically. His had been the winning hand, and he had just turned up a king. He

evidently attributed Miss Halcombe's abrupt change in the cardtable arrangements to a lady's inability to

The rest of the evening passed without a word or a look from her. She kept her place at the piano, and I kept

mine at the card table. She played unintermittinglyplayed as if the music was her only refuge from

herself. Sometimes her fingers touched the notes with a lingering fondnessa soft, plaintive, dying

tenderness, unutterably beautiful and mournful to hear; sometimes they faltered and failed her, or hurried

over the instrument mechanically, as if their task was a burden to them. But still, change and waver as they

might in the expression they imparted to the music, their resolution to play never faltered. She only rose from

"I shall not see you again, Mr. Hartright," said the old lady. "I am truly sorry you are going away. You have

been very kind and attentive, and an old woman like me feels kindness and attention. I wish you happy,

"I hope we shall have a future opportunity of bettering our acquaintance, Mr. Hartright. You quite understand

about that little matter of business being safe in my hands? Yes, yes, of course. Bless me, how cold it is!

Don't let me keep you at the door. Bon voyage, my dear sirbon voyage, as the French say."

"Halfpast seven tomorrow morning," she saidthen added in a whisper, "I have heard and seen more than

Miss Fairlie came last. I could not trust myself to look at her when I took her hand, and when I thought of the

"My departure must be a very early one," I said. "I shall be gone, Miss Fairlie, before you"

"No, no," she interposed hastily, "not before I am out of my room. I shall be down to breakfast with Marian. I

Her voice failed her, her hand closed gently round minethen dropped it suddenly. Before I could say

The end comes fast to meet mecomes inevitably, as the light of the last morning came at Limmeridge

It was barely halfpast seven when I went downstairs, but I found them both at the breakfasttable waiting

for me. In the chill air, in the dim light, in the gloomy morning silence of the house, we three sat down

together, and tried to eat, tried to talk. The struggle to preserve appearances was hopeless and useless, and I

As I held out my hand, as Miss Halcombe, who was nearest to me, took it, Miss Fairlie turned away suddenly

"Better so," said Miss Halcombe, when the door had closed"better so, for you and for her."

I waited a moment before I could speakit was hard to lose her, without a parting word or a parting look. I

controlled myselfI tried to take leave of Miss Halcombe in fitting terms; but all the farewell words I would

"You have nobly deserved everything that I can do for you, as long as we both live. Whatever the end is you

"And if I can ever be of help again, at any future time, long after the memory of my presumption and my

She caught me by both handsshe pressed them with the strong, steady grasp of a manher dark eyes

glitteredher brown complexion flushed deepthe force and energy of her face glowed and grew beautiful

"I will trust youif ever the time comes I will trust you as my friend and HER friend, as my brother and

HER brother." She stopped, drew me nearer to herthe fearless, noble creature touched my forehead,

sisterlike, with her lips, and called me by my Christian name. "God bless you, Walter!" she said. "Wait here

alone and compose yourselfI had better not stay for both our sakesI had better see you go from the

She left the room. I turned away towards the window, where nothing faced me but the lonely autumn

landscapeI turned away to master myself, before I too left the room in my turn, and left it for ever.

A minute passedit could hardly have been morewhen I heard the door open again softly, and the rustling

of a woman's dress on the carpet moved towards me. My heart beat violently as I turned round. Miss Fairlie

She stopped and hesitated when our eyes met, and when she saw that we were alone. Then, with that courage

which women lose so often in the small emergency, and so seldom in the great, she came on nearer to me,

strangely pale and strangely quiet, drawing one hand after her along the table by which she walked, and

holding something at her side in the other, which was hidden by the folds of her dress.

"I only went into the drawingroom," she said, "to look for this. It may remind you of your visit here, and of

the friends you leave behind you. You told me I had improved very much when I did it, and I thought you

She turned her head away, and offered me a little sketch, drawn throughout by her own pencil, of the

summerhouse in which we had first met. The paper trembled in her hand as she held it out to metrembled

I was afraid to say what I feltI only answered, "It shall never leave meall my life long it shall be the

treasure that I prize most. I am very grateful for itvery grateful to you, for not letting me go away without

"Oh!" she said innocently, "how could I let you go, after we have passed so many happy days together!"

"Those days may never return, Miss Fairliemy way of life and yours are very far apart. But if a time

should come, when the devotion of my whole heart and soul and strength will give you a moment's

happiness, or spare you a moment's sorrow, will you try to remember the poor drawingmaster who has

The farewell sadness in the kind blue eyes shone dimly through her gathering tears.

"I promise it," she said in broken tones. "Oh, don't look at me like that! I promise it with all my heart."

"You have many friends who love you, Miss Fairlie. Your happy future is the dear object of many hopes.

The tears flowed fast down her cheeks. She rested one trembling hand on the table to steady herself while she

gave me the other. I took it in mineI held it fast. My head drooped over it, my tears fell on it, my lips

pressed itnot in love; oh, not in love, at that last moment, but in the agony and the self abandonment of

The confession of her heart's secret burst from her in those pleading words. I had no right to hear them, no

right to answer themthey were the words that banished me, in the name of her sacred weakness, from the

room. It was all over. I dropped her hand, I said no more. The blinding tears shut her out from my eyes, and I

dashed them away to look at her for the last time. One look as she sank into a chair, as her arms fell on the

table, as her fair head dropped on them wearily. One farewell look, and the door had closed upon herthe

great gulf of separation had opened between usthe image of Laura Fairlie was a memory of the past

I write these lines at the request of my friend, Mr. Walter Hartright. They are intended to convey a

description of certain events which seriously affected Miss Fairlie's interests, and which took place after the

There is no need for me to say whether my own opinion does or does not sanction the disclosure of the

remarkable family story, of which my narrative forms an important component part. Mr. Hartright has taken

that responsibility on himself, and circumstances yet to be related will show that he has amply earned the

right to do so, if he chooses to exercise it. The plan he has adopted for presenting the story to others, in the

most truthful and most vivid manner, requires that it should be told, at each successive stage in the march of

events, by the persons who were directly concerned in those events at the time of their occurrence. My

appearance here, as narrator, is the necessary consequence of this arrangement. I was present during the

sojourn of Sir Percival Glyde in Cumberland, and was personally concerned in one important result of his

short residence under Mr. Fairlie's roof. It is my duty, therefore, to add these new links to the chain of events,

and to take up the chain itself at the point where, for the present only Mr. Hartright has dropped it.

My object was to remain at Mr. Fairlie's until the arrival of Sir Percival Glyde. If that event led to the

appointment of any given day for Sir Percival's union with Miss Fairlie, I was to take the necessary

instructions back with me to London, and to occupy myself in drawing the lady's marriagesettlement.

On the Friday I was not favoured by Mr. Fairlie with an interview. He had been, or had fancied himself to be,

an invalid for years past, and he was not well enough to receive me. Miss Halcombe was the first member of

the family whom I saw. She met me at the house door, and introduced me to Mr. Hartright, who had been

I did not see Miss Fairlie until later in the day, at dinnertime. She was not looking well, and I was sorry to

observe it. She is a sweet lovable girl, as amiable and attentive to every one about her as her excellent mother

used to bethough, personally speaking, she takes after her father. Mrs. Fairlie had dark eyes and hair, and

her elder daughter, Miss Halcombe, strongly reminds me of her. Miss Fairlie played to us in the

eveningnot so well as usual, I thought. We had a rubber at whist, a mere profanation, so far as play was

concerned, of that noble game. I had been favourably impressed by Mr. Hartright on our first introduction to

one another, but I soon discovered that he was not free from the social failings incidental to his age. There are

three things that none of the young men of the present generation can do. They can't sit over their wine, they

can't play at whist, and they can't pay a lady a compliment. Mr. Hartright was no exception to the general

rule. Otherwise, even in those early days and on that short acquaintance, he struck me as being a modest and

So the Friday passed. I say nothing about the more serious matters which engaged my attention on that

daythe anonymous letter to Miss Fairlie, the measures I thought it right to adopt when the matter was

mentioned to me, and the conviction I entertained that every possible explanation of the circumstances would

be readily afforded by Sir Percival Glyde, having all been fully noticed, as I understand, in the narrative

On the Saturday Mr. Hartright had left before I got down to breakfast. Miss Fairlie kept her room all day, and

Miss Halcombe appeared to me to be out of spirits. The house was not what it used to be in the time of Mr.

and Mrs. Philip Fairlie. I took a walk by myself in the forenoon, and looked about at some of the places

which I first saw when I was staying at Limmeridge to transact family business, more than thirty years since.

At two o'clock Mr. Fairlie sent to say he was well enough to see me. HE had not altered, at any rate, since I

first knew him. His talk was to the same purpose as usualall about himself and his ailments, his wonderful

coins, and his matchless Rembrandt etchings. The moment I tried to speak of the business that had brought

me to his house, he shut his eyes and said I "upset" him. I persisted in upsetting him by returning again and

again to the subject. All I could ascertain was that he looked on his niece's marriage as a settled thing, that her

father had sanctioned it, that he sanctioned it himself, that it was a desirable marriage, and that he should be

personally rejoiced when the worry of it was over. As to the settlements, if I would consult his niece, and

afterwards dive as deeply as I pleased into my own knowledge of the family affairs, and get everything ready,

and limit his share in the business, as guardian, to saying Yes, at the right moment why, of course he

would meet my views, and everybody else's views, with infinite pleasure. In the meantime, there I saw him, a

helpless sufferer, confined to his room. Did I think he looked as if he wanted teasing? No. Then why tease

I might, perhaps, have been a little astonished at this extraordinary absence of all selfassertion on Mr.

Fairlie's part, in the character of guardian, if my knowledge of the family affairs had not been sufficient to

remind me that he was a single man, and that he had nothing more than a lifeinterest in the Limmeridge

property. As matters stood, therefore, I was neither surprised nor disappointed at the result of the interview.

Sunday was a dull day, out of doors and in. A letter arrived for me from Sir Percival Glyde's solicitor,

acknowledging the receipt of my copy of the anonymous letter and my accompanying statement of the case.

Miss Fairlie joined us in the afternoon, looking pale and depressed, and altogether unlike herself. I had some

talk with her, and ventured on a delicate allusion to Sir Percival. She listened and said nothing. All other

subjects she pursued willingly, but this subject she allowed to drop. I began to doubt whether she might not

be repenting of her engagement just as young ladies often do, when repentance comes too late.

I found him to be a most prepossessing man, so far as manners and appearance were concerned. He looked

rather older than I had expected, his head being bald over the forehead, and his face somewhat marked and

worn, but his movements were as active and his spirits as high as a young man's. His meeting with Miss

Halcombe was delightfully hearty and unaffected, and his reception of me, upon my being presented to him,

was so easy and pleasant that we got on together like old friends. Miss Fairlie was not with us when he

arrived, but she entered the room about ten minutes afterwards. Sir Percival rose and paid his compliments

with perfect grace. His evident concern on seeing the change for the worse in the young lady's looks was

expressed with a mixture of tenderness and respect, with an unassuming delicacy of tone, voice, and manner,

which did equal credit to his good breeding and his good sense. I was rather surprised, under these

circumstances, to see that Miss Fairlie continued to be constrained and uneasy in his presence, and that she

took the first opportunity of leaving the room again. Sir Percival neither noticed the restraint in her reception

of him, nor her sudden withdrawal from our society. He had not obtruded his attentions on her while she was

present, and he did not embarrass Miss Halcombe by any allusion to her departure when she was gone. His

tact and taste were never at fault on this or on any other occasion while I was in his company at Limmeridge

As soon as Miss Fairlie had left the room he spared us all embarrassment on the subject of the anonymous

letter, by adverting to it of his own accord. He had stopped in London on his way from Hampshire, had seen

his solicitor, had read the documents forwarded by me, and had travelled on to Cumberland, anxious to

satisfy our minds by the speediest and the fullest explanation that words could convey. On hearing him

express himself to this effect, I offered him the original letter, which I had kept for his inspection. He thanked

me, and declined to look at it, saying that he had seen the copy, and that he was quite willing to leave the

The statement itself, on which he immediately entered, was as simple and satisfactory as I had all along

Mrs. Catherick, he informed us, had in past years laid him under some obligations for faithful services

rendered to his family connections and to himself. She had been doubly unfortunate in being married to a

husband who had deserted her, and in having an only child whose mental faculties had been in a disturbed

condition from a very early age. Although her marriage had removed her to a part of Hampshire far distant

from the neighbourhood in which Sir Percival's property was situated, he had taken care not to lose sight of

herhis friendly feeling towards the poor woman, in consideration of her past services, having been greatly

strengthened by his admiration of the patience and courage with which she supported her calamities. In

course of time the symptoms of mental affliction in her unhappy daughter increased to such a serious extent,

as to make it a matter of necessity to place her under proper medical care. Mrs. Catherick herself recognised

this necessity, but she also felt the prejudice common to persons occupying her respectable station, against

allowing her child to be admitted, as a pauper, into a public Asylum. Sir Percival had respected this prejudice,

as he respected honest independence of feeling in any rank of life, and had resolved to mark his grateful sense

of Mrs. Catherick's early attachment to the interests of himself and his family, by defraying the expense of

her daughter's maintenance in a trustworthy private Asylum. To her mother's regret, and to his own regret, the

unfortunate creature had discovered the share which circumstances had induced him to take in placing her

under restraint, and had conceived the most intense hatred and distrust of him in consequence. To that hatred

and distrustwhich had expressed itself in various ways in the Asylumthe anonymous letter, written after

her escape, was plainly attributable. If Miss Halcombe's or Mr. Gilmore's recollection of the document did

not confirm that view, or if they wished for any additional particulars about the Asylum (the address of which

he mentioned, as well as the names and addresses of the two doctors on whose certificates the patient was

admitted), he was ready to answer any question and to clear up any uncertainty. He had done his duty to the

unhappy young woman, by instructing his solicitor to spare no expense in tracing her, and in restoring her

once more to medical care, and he was now only anxious to do his duty towards Miss Fairlie and towards her

I was the first to speak in answer to this appeal. My own course was plain to me. It is the great beauty of the

Law that it can dispute any human statement, made under any circumstances, and reduced to any form. If I

had felt professionally called upon to set up a case against Sir Percival Glyde, on the strength of his own

explanation, I could have done so beyond all doubt. But my duty did not lie in this directionmy function

was of the purely judicial kind. I was to weigh the explanation we had just heard, to allow all due force to the

high reputation of the gentleman who offered it, and to decide honestly whether the probabilities, on Sir

Percival's own showing, were plainly with him, or plainly against him. My own conviction was that they

were plainly with him, and I accordingly declared that his explanation was, to my mind, unquestionably a

Miss Halcombe, after looking at me very earnestly, said a few words, on her side, to the same effectwith a

certain hesitation of manner, however, which the circumstances did not seem to me to warrant. I am unable to

say, positively, whether Sir Percival noticed this or not. My opinion is that he did, seeing that he pointedly

resumed the subject, although he might now, with all propriety, have allowed it to drop.

"If my plain statement of facts had only been addressed to Mr. Gilmore," he said, "I should consider any

further reference to this unhappy matter as unnecessary. I may fairly expect Mr. Gilmore, as a gentleman, to

believe me on my word, and when he has done me that justice, all discussion of the subject between us has

come to an end. But my position with a lady is not the same. I owe to herwhat I would concede to no man

alivea PROOF of the truth of my assertion. You cannot ask for that proof, Miss Halcombe, and it is

therefore my duty to you, and still more to Miss Fairlie, to offer it. May I beg that you will write at once to

the mother of this unfortunate womanto Mrs. Catherickto ask for her testimony in support of the

I saw Miss Halcombe change colour, and look a little uneasy. Sir Percival's suggestion, politely as it was

expressed, appeared to her, as it appeared to me, to point very delicately at the hesitation which her manner

"I hope, Sir Percival, you don't do me the injustice to suppose that I distrust you," she said quickly.

"Certainly not, Miss Halcombe. I make my proposal purely as an act of attention to YOU. Will you excuse

He walked to the writingtable as he spoke, drew a chair to it, and opened the paper case.

"Let me beg you to write the note," he said, "as a favour to ME. It need not occupy you more than a few

minutes. You have only to ask Mrs. Catherick two questions. First, if her daughter was placed in the Asylum

with her knowledge and approval. Secondly, if the share I took in the matter was such as to merit the

expression of her gratitude towards myself? Mr. Gilmore's mind is at ease on this unpleasant subject, and

"You oblige me to grant your request, Sir Percival, when I would much rather refuse it."

With those words Miss Halcombe rose from her place and went to the writingtable. Sir Percival thanked

her, handed her a pen, and then walked away towards the fireplace. Miss Fairlie's little Italian greyhound was

The little beast, cowardly and crossgrained, as petdogs usually are, looked up at him sharply, shrank away

from his outstretched hand, whined, shivered, and hid itself under a sofa. It was scarcely possible that he

could have been put out by such a trifle as a dog's reception of him, but I observed, nevertheless, that he

walked away towards the window very suddenly. Perhaps his temper is irritable at times. If so, I can

Miss Halcombe was not long in writing the note. When it was done she rose from the writingtable, and

handed the open sheet of paper to Sir Percival. He bowed, took it from her, folded it up immediately without

looking at the contents, sealed it, wrote the address, and handed it back to her in silence. I never saw anything

"I beg you will post it," he answered. "And now that it is written and sealed up, allow me to ask one or two

last questions about the unhappy woman to whom it refers. I have read the communication which Mr.

Gilmore kindly addressed to my solicitor, describing the circumstances under which the writer of the

anonymous letter was identified. But there are certain points to which that statement does not refer. Did Anne

"She saw nobody from the house then, except a certain Mr. Hartright, who accidentally met with her in the

"Mr. Hartright was employed at Limmeridge as a drawingmaster, I believe? Is he a member of one of the

He paused for a moment, as if he was thinking over the last answer, and then added

"Did you find out where Anne Catherick was living, when she was in this neighbourhood?"

"It is a duty we all owe to the poor creature herself to trace her," continued Sir Percival. "She may have said

something at Todd's Corner which may help us to find her. I will go there and make inquiries on the chance.

In the meantime, as I cannot prevail on myself to discuss this painful subject with Miss Fairlie, may I beg,

Miss Halcombe, that you will kindly undertake to give her the necessary explanation, deferring it of course

Miss Halcombe promised to comp]y with his request. He thanked her, nodded pleasantly, and left us, to go

and establish himself in his own room. As he opened the door the crossgrained greyhound poked out her

"A good morning's work, Miss Halcombe," I said, as soon as we were alone. "Here is an anxious day well

"Oh yeshow can it be otherwise? I know the thing could not be," she went on, speaking more to herself

than to me; "but I almost wish Walter Hartright had stayed here long enough to be present at the explanation,

"Events, it is true, connected Mr. Hartright very remarkably with the affair of the letter," I said; "and I readily

admit that he conducted himself, all things considered, with great delicacy and discretion. But I am quite at a

loss to understand what useful influence his presence could have exercised in relation to the effect of Sir

"It was only a fancy," she said absently. "There is no need to discuss it, Mr. Gilmore. Your experience ought

I did not altogether like her thrusting the whole responsibility, in this marked manner, on my shoulders. If

Mr. Fairlie had done it, I should not have been surprised. But resolute, clearminded Miss Halcombe was the

very last person in the world whom I should have expected to find shrinking from the expression of an

"If any doubts still trouble you," I said, "why not mention them to me at once? Tell me plainly, have you any

"How can I say I do, after the proof he has offered me of the truth of it? Can there be better testimony in his

"None better. If the answer to your note of inquiry proves to be satisfactory, I for one cannot see what more

"Then we will post the note," she said, rising to leave the room, "and dismiss all further reference to the

subject until the answer arrives. Don't attach any weight to my hesitation. I can give no better reason for it

than that I have been overanxious about Laura latelyand anxiety, Mr. Gilmore, unsettles the strongest of

She left me abruptly, her naturally firm voice faltering as she spoke those last words. A sensitive, vehement,

passionate nature a woman of ten thousand in these trivial, superficial times. I had known her from her

earliest yearsI had seen her tested, as she grew up, in more than one trying family crisis, and my long

experience made me attach an importance to her hesitation under the circumstances here detailed, which I

should certainly not have felt in the case of another woman. I could see no cause for any uneasiness or any

doubt, but she had made me a little uneasy, and a little doubtful, nevertheless. In my youth, I should have

chafed and fretted under the irritation of my own unreasonable state of mind. In my age, I knew better, and

Sir Percival was in such boisterous high spirits that I hardly recognised him as the same man whose quiet

tact, refinement, and good sense had impressed me so strongly at the interview of the morning. The only trace

of his former self that I could detect reappeared, every now and then, in his manner towards Miss Fairlie. A

look or a word from her suspended his loudest laugh, checked his gayest flow of talk, and rendered him all

attention to her, and to no one else at table, in an instant. Although he never openly tried to draw her into the

conversation, he never lost the slightest chance she gave him of letting her drift into it by accident, and of

saying the words to her, under those favourable circumstances, which a man with less tact and delicacy would

have pointedly addressed to her the moment they occurred to him. Rather to my surprise, Miss Fairlie

appeared to be sensible of his attentions without being moved by them. She was a little confused from time to

time when he looked at her, or spoke to her; but she never warmed towards him. Rank, fortune, good

breeding, good looks, the respect of a gentleman, and the devotion of a lover were all humbly placed at her

On the next day, the Tuesday, Sir Percival went in the morning (taking one of the servants with him as a

guide) to Todd's Corner. His inquiries, as I afterwards heard, led to no results. On his return he had an

interview with Mr. Fairlie, and in the afternoon he and Miss Halcombe rode out together. Nothing else

happened worthy of record. The evening passed as usual. There was no change in Sir Percival, and no change

The Wednesday's post brought with it an eventthe reply from Mrs. Catherick. I took a copy of the

document, which I have preserved, and which I may as well present in this place. It ran as follows

Short, sharp, and to the point; in form rather a businesslike letter for a woman to writein substance as

plain a confirmation as could be desired of Sir Percival Glyde's statement. This was my opinion, and with

certain minor reservations, Miss Halcombe's opinion also. Sir Percival, when the letter was shown to him, did

not appear to be struck by the sharp, short tone of it. He told us that Mrs. Catherick was a woman of few

words, a clearheaded, straightforward, unimaginative person, who wrote briefly and plainly, just as she

The next duty to be accomplished, now that the answer had been received, was to acquaint Miss Fairlie with

Sir Percival's explanation. Miss Halcombe had undertaken to do this, and had left the room to go to her sister,

when she suddenly returned again, and sat down by the easychair in which I was reading the newspaper. Sir

Percival had gone out a minute before to look at the stables, and no one was in the room but ourselves.

"I suppose we have really and truly done all we can?" she said, turning and twisting Mrs. Catherick's letter in

"If we are friends of Sir Percival's, who know him and trust him, we have done all, and more than all, that is

necessary," I answered, a little annoyed by this return of her hesitation. "But if we are enemies who suspect

"That alternative is not even to be thought of," she interposed. "We are Sir Percival's friends, and if

generosity and forbearance can add to our regard for him, we ought to be Sir Percival's admirers as well. You

know that he saw Mr. Fairlie yesterday, and that he afterwards went out with me."

"We began the ride by talking about Anne Catherick, and about the singular manner in which Mr. Hartright

met with her. But we soon dropped that subject, and Sir Percival spoke next, in the most unselfish terms, of

his engagement with Laura. He said he had observed that she was out of spirits, and he was willing, if not

informed to the contrary, to attribute to that cause the alteration in her manner towards him during his present

visit. If, however, there was any more serious reason for the change, he would entreat that no constraint might

be placed on her inclinations either by Mr. Fairlie or by me. All he asked, in that case, was that she would

recall to mind, for the last time, what the circumstances were under which the engagement between them was

made, and what his conduct had been from the beginning of the courtship to the present time. If, after due

reflection on those two subjects, she seriously desired that he should withdraw his pretensions to the honour

of becoming her husbandand if she would tell him so plainly with her own lipshe would sacrifice

"No man could say more than that, Miss Halcombe. As to my experience, few men in his situation would

She paused after I had spoken those words, and looked at me with a singular expression of perplexity and

"I accuse nobody, and I suspect nothing," she broke out abruptly. "But I cannot and will not accept the

"That is exactly the course which Sir Percival Glyde has himself requested you to take," I replied in

"Consult your own knowledge of Laura, Mr. Gilmore. If I tell her to reflect on the circumstances of her

engagement, I at once appeal to two of the strongest feelings in her natureto her love for her father's

memory, and to her strict regard for truth. You know that she never broke a promise in her lifeyou know

that she entered on this engagement at the beginning of her father's fatal illness, and that he spoke hopefully

"Surely," I said, "you don't mean to infer that when Sir Percival spoke to you yesterday he speculated on such

"Do you think I would remain an instant in the company of any man whom I suspected of such baseness as

I liked to feel her hearty indignation flash out on me in that way. We see so much malice and so little

"In that case," I said, "excuse me if I tell you, in our legal phrase, that you are travelling out of the record.

Whatever the consequences may be, Sir Percival has a right to expect that your sister should carefully

consider her engagement from every reasonable point of view before she claims her release from it. If that

unlucky letter has prejudiced her against him, go at once, and tell her that he has cleared himself in your eyes

and in mine. What objection can she urge against him after that? What excuse can she possibly have for

changing her mind about a man whom she had virtually accepted for her husband more than two years ago?"

"In the eyes of law and reason, Mr. Gilmore, no excuse, I daresay. If she still hesitates, and if I still hesitate,

you must attribute our strange conduct, if you like, to caprice in both cases, and we must bear the imputation

With those words she suddenly rose and left me. When a sensible woman has a serious question put to her,

and evades it by a flippant answer, it is a sure sign, in ninetynine cases out of a hundred, that she has

something to conceal. I returned to the perusal of the newspaper, strongly suspecting that Miss Halcombe and

Miss Fairlie had a secret between them which they were keeping from Sir Percival, and keeping from me. I

My doubtsor to speak more correctly, my convictionswere confirmed by Miss Halcombe's language and

manner when I saw her again later in the day. She was suspiciously brief and reserved in telling me the result

of her interview with her sister. Miss Fairlie, it appeared, had listened quietly while the affair of the letter was

placed before her in the right point of view, but when Miss Halcombe next proceeded to say that the object of

Sir Percival's visit at Limmeridge was to prevail on her to let a day be fixed for the marriage she checked all

further reference to the subject by begging for time. If Sir Percival would consent to spare her for the present,

she would undertake to give him his final answer before the end of the year. She pleaded for this delay with

such anxiety and agitation, that Miss Halcombe had promised to use her influence, if necessary, to obtain it,

and there, at Miss Fairlie's earnest entreaty, all further discussion of the marriage question had ended.

The purely temporary arrangement thus proposed might have been convenient enough to the young lady, but

it proved somewhat embarrassing to the writer of these lines. That morning's post had brought a letter from

my partner, which obliged me to return to town the next day by the afternoon train. It was extremely probable

that I should find no second opportunity of presenting myself at Limmeridge House during the remainder of

the year. In that case, supposing Miss Fairlie ultimately decided on holding to her engagement, my necessary

personal communication with her, before I drew her settlement, would become something like a downright

impossibility, and we should be obliged to commit to writing questions which ought always to be discussed

on both sides by word of mouth. I said nothing about this difficulty until Sir Percival had been consulted on

the subject of the desired delay. He was too gallant a gentleman not to grant the request immediately. When

Miss Halcombe informed me of this I told her that I must absolutely speak to her sister before I left

Limmeridge, and it was, therefore, arranged that I should see Miss Fairlie in her own sittingroom the next

morning. She did not come down to dinner, or join us in the evening. Indisposition was the excuse, and I

thought Sir Percival looked, as well he might, a little annoyed when he heard of it.

The next morning, as soon as breakfast was over, I went up to Miss Fairlie's sittingroom. The poor girl

looked so pale and sad, and came forward to welcome me so readily and prettily, that the resolution to lecture

her on her caprice and indecision, which I had been forming all the way upstairs, failed me on the spot. I led

her back to the chair from which she had risen, and placed myself opposite to her. Her crossgrained pet

greyhound was in the room, and I fully expected a barking and snapping reception. Strange to say, the

whimsical little brute falsified my expectations by jumping into my lap and poking its sharp muzzle

"You used often to sit on my knee when you were a child. my dear," I said, "and now your little dog seems

determined to succeed you in the vacant throne. Is that pretty drawing your doing?"

I pointed to a little album which lay on the table by her side and which she had evidently been looking over

when I came in. The page that lay open had a small watercolour landscape very neatly mounted on it. This

was the drawing which had suggested my questionan idle question enoughbut how could I begin to talk

"No," she said, looking away from the drawing rather confusedly, "it is not my doing."

Her fingers had a restless habit, which I remembered in her as a child, of always playing with the first thing

that came to hand whenever any one was talking to her. On this occasion they wandered to the album, and

toyed absently about the margin of the little watercolour drawing. The expression of melancholy deepened

on her face. She did not look at the drawing, or look at me. Her eyes moved uneasily from object to object in

the room, betraying plainly that she suspected what my purpose was in coming to speak to her. Seeing that, I

"One of the errands, my dear, which brings me here is to bid you goodbye," I began. "I must get back to

London today: and, before I leave, I want to have a word with you on the subject of your own affairs."

"I am very sorry you are going, Mr. Gilmore," she said, looking at me kindly. "It is like the happy old times

"I hope I may be able to come back and recall those pleasant memories once more," I continued; "but as there

is some uncertainty about the future, I must take my opportunity when I can get it, and speak to you now. I

am your old lawyer and your old friend, and I may remind you, I am sure, without offence, of the possibility

She took her hand off the little album as suddenly as if it had turned hot and burnt her. Her fingers twined

together nervously in her lap, her eyes looked down again at the floor, and an expression of constraint settled

"Is it absolutely necessary to speak of my marriage engagement?" she asked in low tones.

"It is necessary to refer to it," I answered, "but not to dwell on it. Let us merely say that you may marry, or

that you may not marry. In the first case, I must be prepared, beforehand, to draw your settlement, and I ought

not to do that without, as a matter of politeness, first consulting you. This may be my only chance of hearing

what your wishes are. Let us, therefore, suppose the case of your marrying, and let me inform you, in as few

words as possible, what your position is now, and what you may make it, if you please, in the future."

I explained to her the object of a marriagesettlement, and then told her exactly what her prospects werein

the first place, on her coming of age, and in the second place, on the decease of her unclemarking the

distinction between the property in which she had a lifeinterest only, and the property which was left at her

own control. She listened attentively, with the constrained expression still on her face, and her hands still

"And now," I said in conclusion, "tell me if you can think of any condition which, in the case we have

supposed, you would wish me to make for yousubject, of course, to your guardian's approval, as you are

She moved uneasily in her chair, then looked in my face on a sudden very earnestly.

"Don't let him part me from Marian," she cried, with a sudden outbreak of energy. "Oh, Mr. Gilmore, pray

Under other circumstances I might, perhaps, have been amused at this essentially feminine interpretation of

my question, and of the long explanation which had preceded it. But her looks and tones, when she spoke,

were of a kind to make me more than seriousthey distressed me. Her words, few as they were, betrayed a

"Your having Marian Halcombe to live with you can easily be settled by private arrangement," I said. "You

hardly understood my question, I think. It referred to your own propertyto the disposal of your money.

Supposing you were to make a will when you come of age, who would you like the money to go to?"

"Marian has been mother and sister both to me," said the good, affectionate girl, her pretty blue eyes

"Certainly, my love," I answered. "But remember what a large sum it is. Would you like it all to go to Miss

She hesitated; her colour came and went, and her hand stole back again to the little album.

She stopped; her colour heightened, and the fingers of the hand that rested upon the album beat gently on the

margin of the drawing, as if her memory had set them going mechanically with the remembrance of a

"You mean some other member of the family besides Miss Halcombe?" I suggested, seeing her at a loss to

The heightening colour spread to her forehead and her neck, and the nervous fingers suddenly clasped

"There is some one else," she said, not noticing my last words, though she had evidently heard them; "there is

some one else who might like a little keepsake ifif I might leave it. There would be no harm if I should die

She paused again. The colour that had spread over her cheeks suddenly, as suddenly left them. The hand on

the album resigned its hold, trembled a little, and moved the book away from her. She looked at me for an

instantthen turned her head aside in the chair. Her handkerchief fell to the floor as she changed her

Sad! To remember her, as I did, the liveliest, happiest child that ever laughed the day through, and to see her

now, in the flower of her age and her beauty, so broken and so brought down as this!

In the distress that she caused me I forgot the years that had passed, and the change they had made in our

position towards one another. I moved my chair close to her, and picked up her handkerchief from the carpet,

and drew her hands from her face gently. "Don't cry, my love," I said, and dried the tears that were gathering

in her eyes with my own hand, as if she had been the little Laura Fairlie of ten long years ago.

It was the best way I could have taken to compose her. She laid her head on my shoulder, and smiled faintly

"I am very sorry for forgetting myself," she said artlessly. "I have not been wellI have felt sadly weak and

nervous lately, and I often cry without reason when I am alone. I am better nowI can answer you as I

"No, no, my dear," I replied, "we will consider the subject as done with for the present. You have said enough

to sanction my taking the best possible care of your interests, and we can settle details at another opportunity.

I led her at once into speaking on other topics. In ten minutes' time she was in better spirits, and I rose to take

"Come here again," she said earnestly. "I will try to be worthier of your kind feeling for me and for my

Still clinging to the pastthat past which I represented to her, in my way, as Miss Halcombe did in hers! It

troubled me sorely to see her looking back, at the beginning of her career, just as I look back at the end of

"If I do come again, I hope I shall find you better," I said; "better and happier. God bless you, my dear!"

She only answered by putting up her cheek to me to be kissed. Even lawyers have hearts, and mine ached a

The whole interview between us had hardly lasted more than half an hourshe had not breathed a word, in

my presence, to explain the mystery of her evident distress and dismay at the prospect of her marriage, and

yet she had contrived to win me over to her side of the question, I neither knew how nor why. I had entered

the room, feeling that Sir Percival Glyde had fair reason to complain of the manner in which she was treating

him. I left it, secretly hoping that matters might end in her taking him at his word and claiming her release. A

man of my age and experience ought to have known better than to vacillate in this unreasonable manner. I

The hour for my departure was now drawing near. I sent to Mr. Fairlie to say that I would wait on him to take

leave if he liked, but that he must excuse my being rather in a hurry. He sent a message back, written in

pencil on a slip of paper: "Kind love and best wishes, dear Gilmore. Hurry of any kind is inexpressibly

"Yes," I replied. "She is very weak and nervousI am glad she has you to take care of her."

"You are altering your opinion about Laura," she said. "You are readier to make allowances for her than you

No sensible man ever engages, unprepared, in a fencing match of words with a woman. I only answered

She still looked hard in my face. "I wish it was all over, and well over, Mr. Gilmoreand so do you." With

"If you are ever in my neighbourhood," he said, "pray don't forget that I am sincerely anxious to improve our

acquaintance. The tried and trusted old friend of this family will be always a welcome visitor in any house of

A really irresistible mancourteous, considerate, delightfully free from pridea gentleman, every inch of

him. As I drove away to the station I felt as if I could cheerfully do anything to promote the interests of Sir

Percival Glydeanything in the world, except drawing the marriage settlement of his wife.

A week passed, after my return to London, without the receipt of any communication from Miss Halcombe.

On the eighth day a letter in her handwriting was placed among the other letters on my table.

It announced that Sir Percival Glyde had been definitely accepted, and that the marriage was to take place, as

he had originally desired, before the end of the year. In all probability the ceremony would be performed

during the last fortnight in December. Miss Fairlie's twentyfirst birthday was late in March. She would,

therefore, by this arrangement, become Sir Percival's wife about three months before she was of age.

I ought not to have been surprised, I ought not to have been sorry, but I was surprised and sorry, nevertheless.

Some little disappointment, caused by the unsatisfactory shortness of Miss Halcombe's letter, mingled itself

with these feelings, and contributed its share towards upsetting my serenity for the day. In six lines my

correspondent announced the proposed marriagein three more, she told me that Sir Percival had left

Cumberland to return to his house in Hampshire, and in two concluding sentences she informed me, first, that

Laura was sadly in want of change and cheerful society; secondly, that she had resolved to try the effect of

some such change forthwith, by taking her sister away with her on a visit to certain old friends in Yorkshire.

There the letter ended, without a word to explain what the circumstances were which had decided Miss

Fairlie to accept Sir Percival Glyde in one short week from the time when I had last seen her.

At a later period the cause of this sudden determination was fully explained to me. It is not my business to

relate it imperfectly, on hearsay evidence. The circumstances came within the personal experience of Miss

Halcombe, and when her narrative succeeds mine, she will describe them in every particular exactly as they

happened. In the meantime, the plain duty for me to perform before I, in my turn, lay down my pen and

withdraw from the story is to relate the one remaining event connected with Miss Fairlie's proposed

It is impossible to refer intelligibly to this document without first entering into certain particulars in relation

to the bride's pecuniary affairs. I will try to make my explanation briefly and plainly, and to keep it free from

professional obscurities and technicalities. The matter is of the utmost importance. I warn all readers of these

lines that Miss Fairlie's inheritance is a very serious part of Miss Fairlie's story, and that Mr. Gilmore's

experience, in this particular, must be their experience also, if they wish to understand the narratives which

Miss Fairlie's expectations, then, were of a twofold kind, comprising her possible inheritance of real property,

or land, when her uncle died, and her absolute inheritance of personal property, or money, when she came of

In the time of Miss Fairlie's paternal grandfather (whom we will call Mr. Fairlie, the elder) the entailed

Mr. Fairlie, the elder, died and left three sons, Philip, Frederick, and Arthur. As eldest son, Philip succeeded

to the estate, If he died without leaving a son, the property went to the second brother, Frederick; and if

Frederick died also without leaving a son, the property went to the third brother, Arthur.

As events turned out, Mr. Philip Fairlie died leaving an only daughter, the Laura of this story, and the estate,

in consequence, went, in course of law, to the second brother, Frederick, a single man. The third brother,

Arthur, had died many years before the decease of Philip, leaving a son and a daughter. The son, at the age of

eighteen, was drowned at Oxford. His death left Laura, the daughter of Mr. Philip Fairlie, presumptive heiress

to the estate, with every chance of succeeding to it, in the ordinary course of nature, on her uncle Frederick's

Except in the event, then, of Mr. Frederick Fairlie's marrying and leaving an heir (the two very last things in

the world that he was likely to do), his niece, Laura, would have the property on his death, possessing, it must

be remembered, nothing more than a lifeinterest in it. If she died single, or died childless, the estate would

revert to her cousin, Magdalen, the daughter of Mr. Arthur Fairlie. If she married, with a proper

settlementor, in other words, with the settlement I meant to make for herthe income from the estate (a

good three thousand a year) would, during her lifetime, be at her own disposal. If she died before her

husband, he would naturally expect to be left in the enjoyment of the income, for HIS lifetime. If she had a

son, that son would be the heir, to the exclusion of her cousin Magdalen. Thus, Sir Percival's prospects in

marrying Miss Fairlie (so far as his wife's expectations from real property were concerned) promised him

these two advantages, on Mr. Frederick Fairlie's death: First, the use of three thousand a year (by his wife's

permission, while she lived, and in his own right, on her death, if he survived her); and, secondly, the

So much for the landed property, and for the disposal of the income from it, on the occasion of Miss Fairlie's

marriage. Thus far, no difficulty or difference of opinion on the lady's settlement was at all likely to arise

The personal estate, or, in other words, the money to which Miss Fairlie would become entitled on reaching

This part of her inheritance was, in itself, a comfortable little fortune. It was derived under her father's will,

and it amounted to the sum of twenty thousand pounds. Besides this, she had a lifeinterest in ten thousand

pounds more, which latter amount was to go, on her decease, to her aunt Eleanor, her father's only sister. It

will greatly assist in setting the family affairs before the reader in the clearest possible light, if I stop here for

a moment, to explain why the aunt had been kept waiting for her legacy until the death of the niece.

Mr. Philip Fairlie had lived on excellent terms with his sister Eleanor, as long as she remained a single

woman. But when her marriage took place, somewhat late in life, and when that marriage united her to an

Italian gentleman named Fosco, or, rather, to an Italian noblemanseeing that he rejoiced in the title of

Count Mr. Fairlie disapproved of her conduct so strongly that he ceased to hold any communication with

her, and even went the length of striking her name out of his will. The other members of the family all

thought this serious manifestation of resentment at his sister's marriage more or less unreasonable. Count

Fosco, though not a rich man, was not a penniless adventurer either. He had a small but sufficient income of

his own. He had lived many years in England, and he held an excellent position in society. These

recommendations, however, availed nothing with Mr. Fairlie. In many of his opinions he was an Englishman

of the old school, and he hated a foreigner simply and solely because he was a foreigner. The utmost that he

could be prevailed on to do, in after years mainly at Miss Fairlie's intercessionwas to restore his sister's

name to its former place in his will, but to keep her waiting for her legacy by giving the income of the money

to his daughter for life, and the money itself, if her aunt died before her, to her cousin Magdalen. Considering

the relative ages of the two ladies, the aunt's chance, in the ordinary course of nature, of receiving the ten

thousand pounds, was thus rendered doubtful in the extreme; and Madame Fosco resented her brother's

treatment of her as unjustly as usual in such cases, by refusing to see her niece, and declining to believe that

Miss Fairlie's intercession had ever been exerted to restore her name to Mr. Fairlie's will.

Such was the history of the ten thousand pounds. Here again no difficulty could arise with Sir Percival's legal

adviser. The income would be at the wife's disposal, and the principal would go to her aunt or her cousin on

All preliminary explanations being now cleared out of the way, I come at last to the real knot of the caseto

This sum was absolutely Miss Fairlie's own on her completing her twentyfirst year, and the whole future

disposition of it depended, in the first instance, on the conditions I could obtain for her in her

marriagesettlement. The other clauses contained in that document were of a formal kind, and need not be

recited here. But the clause relating to the money is too important to be passed over. A few lines will be

My stipulation in regard to the twenty thousand pounds was simply this: The whole amount was to be settled

so as to give the income to the lady for her lifeafterwards to Sir Percival for his life and the principal to

the children of the marriage. In default of issue, the principal was to be disposed of as the lady might by her

will direct, for which purpose I reserved to her the right of making a will. The effect of these conditions may

be thus summed up. If Lady Glyde died without leaving children, her halfsister Miss Halcombe, and any

other relatives or friends whom she might be anxious to benefit, would, on her husband's death, divide among

them such shares of her money as she desired them to have. If, on the other hand, she died leaving children,

then their interest, naturally and necessarily, superseded all other interests whatsoever. This was the

clauseand no one who reads it can fail, I think, to agree with me that it meted out equal justice to all

At the time when Miss Halcombe's letter reached me I was even more busily occupied than usual. But I

contrived to make leisure for the settlement. I had drawn it, and had sent it for approval to Sir Percival's

solicitor, in less than a week from the time when Miss Halcombe had informed me of the proposed marriage.

After a lapse of two days the document was returned to me, with notes and remarks of the baronet's lawyer.

His objections, in general, proved to be of the most trifling and technical kind, until he came to the clause

relating to the twenty thousand pounds. Against this there were double lines drawn in red ink, and the

"Not admissible. The PRINCIPAL to go to Sir Percival Glyde, in the event of his surviving Lady Glyde, and

That is to say, not one farthing of the twenty thousand pounds was to go to Miss Halcombe, or to any other

relative or friend of Lady Glyde's. The whole sum, if she left no children, was to slip into the pockets of her

The answer I wrote to this audacious proposal was as short and sharp as I could make it. "My dear sir. Miss

Fairlie's settlement. I maintain the clause to which you object, exactly as it stands. Yours truly." The rejoinder

came back in a quarter of an hour. "My dear sir. Miss Fairlie's settlement. I maintain the red ink to which you

object, exactly as it stands. Yours truly." In the detestable slang of the day, we were now both "at a

deadlock," and nothing was left for it but to refer to our clients on either side.

As matters stood, my clientMiss Fairlie not having yet completed her twentyfirst yearMr. Frederick

Fairlie, was her guardian. I wrote by that day's post, and put the case before him exactly as it stood, not only

urging every argument I could think of to induce him to maintain the clause as I had drawn it, but stating to

him plainly the mercenary motive which was at the bottom of the opposition to my settlement of the twenty

thousand pounds. The knowledge of Sir Percival's affairs which I had necessarily gained when the provisions

of the deed on HIS side were submitted in due course to my examination, had but too plainly informed me

that the debts on his estate were enormous, and that his income, though nominally a large one, was virtually,

for a man in his position, next to nothing. The want of ready money was the practical necessity of Sir

Percival's existence, and his lawyer's note on the clause in the settlement was nothing but the frankly selfish

Mr. Fairlie's answer reached me by return of post, and proved to be wandering and irrelevant in the extreme.

Turned into plain English, it practically expressed itself to this effect: "Would dear Gilmore be so very

obliging as not to worry his friend and client about such a trifle as a remote contingency? Was it likely that a

young woman of twentyone would die before a man of forty five, and die without children? On the other

hand, in such a miserable world as this, was it possible to overestimate the value of peace and quietness? If

those two heavenly blessings were offered in exchange for such an earthly trifle as a remote chance of twenty

I threw the letter away in disgust. Just as it had fluttered to the ground, there was a knock at my door, and Sir

Percival s solicitor, Mr. Merriman, was shown in. There are many varieties of sharp practitioners in this

world, but I think the hardest of all to deal with are the men who overreach you under the disguise of

inveterate goodhumour. A fat, well fed, smiling, friendly man of business is of all parties to a bargain the

"And how is good Mr. Gilmore?" he began, all in a glow with the warmth of his own amiability. "Glad to see

you, sir, in such excellent health. I was passing your door, and I thought I would look in in case you might

have something to say to me. Donow pray do let us settle this little difference of ours by word of mouth, if

"My dear, good sir! I wish I had heard from him to any purposeI wish, with all my heart, the responsibility

was off my shoulders; but he is obstinateor let me rather say, resoluteand he won't take it off.

'Merriman, I leave details to you. Do what you think right for my interests, and consider me as having

personally withdrawn from the business until it is all over.' Those were Sir Percival's words a fortnight ago,

and all I can get him to do now is to repeat them. I am not a hard man, Mr. Gilmore, as you know. Personally

and privately, I do assure you, I should like to sponge out that note of mine at this very moment. But if Sir

Percival won't go into the matter, if Sir Percival will blindly leave all his interests in my sole care, what

course can I possibly take except the course of asserting them? My hands are bounddon't you see, my dear

"Yesdeuce take it! I have no other alternative." He walked to the fireplace and warmed himself, humming

the fag end of a tune in a rich convivial bass voice. "What does your side say?" he went on; "now pray tell

I was ashamed to tell him. I attempted to gain timenay, I did worse. My legal instincts got the better of me,

"Twenty thousand pounds is rather a large sum to be given up by the lady's friends at two days' notice," I

"Very true," replied Mr. Merriman, looking down thoughtfully at his boots. "Properly put, sirmost properly

"A compromise, recognising the interests of the lady's family as well as the interests of the husband, might

not perhaps have frightened my client quite so much," I went on. "Come, come! this contingency resolves

thousandninehundredandninetyninepoundsnineteenshillings andelevenpencethreefarthings.

"Little enough," I remarked. "The joke is just worth the odd farthing it was made for."

Mr. Merriman was delighted. He laughed over my retort till the room rang again. I was not half so

"By all means," replied Mr. Merriman. "Longer, my dear sir, if you like." He took up his hat to go, and then

addressed me again. "By the way," he said, "your clients in Cumberland have not heard anything more of the

"Not yet," said my legal friend. "But we don't despair. Sir Percival has his suspicions that Somebody is

"Quite another party, sir," answered Mr. Merriman. "We don't happen to have laid hands on the old woman

yet. Our Somebody is a man. We have got him close under our eye here in London, and we strongly suspect

he had something to do with helping her in the first instance to escape from the Asylum. Sir Percival wanted

to question him at once, but I said, 'No. Questioning him will only put him on his guardwatch him, and

wait.' We shall see what happens. A dangerous woman to be at large, Mr. Gilmore; nobody knows what she

may do next. I wish you goodmorning, sir. On Tuesday next I shall hope for the pleasure of hearing from

My mind had been rather absent during the latter part of the conversation with my legal friend. I was so

anxious about the matter of the settlement that I had little attention to give to any other subject, and the

moment I was left alone again I began to think over what my next proceeding ought to be.

In the case of any other client I should have acted on my instructions, however personally distasteful to me,

and have given up the point about the twenty thousand pounds on the spot. But I could not act with this

businesslike indifference towards Miss Fairlie. I had an honest feeling of affection and admiration for

herI remembered gratefully that her father had been the kindest patron and friend to me that ever man

hadI had felt towards her while I was drawing the settlement as I might have felt, if I had not been an old

bachelor, towards a daughter of my own, and I was determined to spare no personal sacrifice in her service

and where her interests were concerned. Writing a second time to Mr. Fairlie was not to be thought ofit

would only be giving him a second opportunity of slipping through my fingers. Seeing him and personally

remonstrating with him might possibly be of more use. The next day was Saturday. I determined to take a

return ticket and jolt my old bones down to Cumberland, on the chance of persuading him to adopt the just,

the independent, and the honourable course. It was a poor chance enough, no doubt, but when I had tried it

my conscience would be at ease. I should then have done all that a man in my position could do to serve the

The weather on Saturday was beautiful, a west wind and a bright sun. Having felt latterly a return of that

fulness and oppression of the head, against which my doctor warned me so seriously more than two years

since, I resolved to take the opportunity of getting a little extra exercise by sending my bag on before me and

walking to the terminus in Euston Square. As I came out into Holborn a gentleman walking by rapidly

If he had not been the first to greet me I should certainly have passed him. He was so changed that I hardly

knew him again. His face looked pale and haggardhis manner was hurried and uncertainand his dress,

which I remembered as neat and gentlemanlike when I saw him at Limmeridge, was so slovenly now that I

should really have been ashamed of the appearance of it on one of my own clerks.

"Have you been long back from Cumberland?" he asked. "I heard from Miss Halcombe lately. I am aware

that Sir Percival Glyde's explanation has been considered satisfactory. Will the marriage take place soon? Do

He spoke so fast, and crowded his questions together so strangely and confusedly, that I could hardly follow

him. However accidentally intimate he might have been with the family at Limmeridge, I could not see that

he had any right to expect information on their private affairs, and I determined to drop him, as easily as

"Time will show, Mr. Hartright," I said"time will show. I dare say if we look out for the marriage in the

papers we shall not be far wrong. Excuse my noticing it, but I am sorry to see you not looking so well as you

A momentary nervous contraction quivered about his lips and eyes, and made me half reproach myself for

"I had no right to ask about her marriage," he said bitterly. "I must wait to see it in the newspapers like other

people. Yes," he went on before I could make any apologies"I have not been well lately. I am going to

another country to try a change of scene and occupation. Miss Halcombe has kindly assisted me with her

influence, and my testimonials have been found satisfactory. It is a long distance off, but I don't care where I

go, what the climate is, or how long I am away." He looked about him while he said this at the throng of

strangers passing us by on either side, in a strange, suspicious manner, as if he thought that some of them

"I wish you well through it, and safe back again," I said, and then added, so as not to keep him altogether at

arm's length on the subject of the Fairlies, "I am going down to Limmeridge today on business. Miss

Halcombe and Miss Fairlie are away just now on a visit to some friends in Yorkshire."

His eyes brightened, and he seemed about to say something in answer, but the same momentary nervous

spasm crossed his face again. He took my hand, pressed it hard, and disappeared among the crowd without

saying another word. Though he was little more than a stranger to me, I waited for a moment, looking after

him almost with a feeling of regret. I had gained in my profession sufficient experience of young men to

know what the outward signs and tokens were of their beginning to go wrong, and when I resumed my walk

to the railway I am sorry to say I felt more than doubtful about Mr. Hartright's future.

Leaving by an early train, I got to Limmeridge in time for dinner. The house was oppressively empty and

dull. I had expected that good Mrs. Vesey would have been company for me in the absence of the young

ladies, but she was confined to her room by a cold. The servants were so surprised at seeing me that they

hurried and bustled absurdly, and made all sorts of annoying mistakes. Even the butler, who was old enough

to have known better, brought me a bottle of port that was chilled. The reports of Mr. Fairlie's health were

just as usual, and when I sent up a message to announce my arrival, I was told that he would be delighted to

see me the next morning but that the sudden news of my appearance had prostrated him with palpitations for

the rest of the evening. The wind howled dismally all night, and strange cracking and groaning noises

sounded here, there, and everywhere in the empty house. I slept as wretchedly as possible, and got up in a

At ten o'clock I was conducted to Mr. Fairlie's apartments. He was in his usual room, his usual chair, and his

usual aggravating state of mind and body. When I went in, his valet was standing before him, holding up for

inspection a heavy volume of etchings, as long and as broad as my office writingdesk. The miserable

foreigner grinned in the most abject manner, and looked ready to drop with fatigue, while his master

composedly turned over the etchings, and brought their hidden beauties to light with the help of a magnifying

"You very best of good old friends," said Mr. Fairlie, leaning hack lazily before he could look at me, "are you

QUITE well? How nice of you to come here and see me in my solitude. Dear Gilmore!"

I had expected that the valet would be dismissed when I appeared, but nothing of the sort happened. There he

stood, in front of his master's chair, trembling under the weight of the etchings, and there Mr. Fairlie sat,

"I have come to speak to you on a very important matter," I said, "and you will therefore excuse me, if I

The unfortunate valet looked at me gratefully. Mr. Fairlie faintly repeated my last three words, "better be

I was in no humour for trifling, and I resolved to make him understand what I meant.

"Oblige me by giving that man permission to withdraw," I said, pointing to the valet.

"Man?" he repeated. "You provoking old Gilmore, what can you possibly mean by calling him a man? He's

nothing of the sort. He might have been a man half an hour ago, before I wanted my etchings, and he may be

a man half an hour hence, when I don't want them any longer. At present he is simply a portfolio stand. Why

My tone and manner left him no alternative but to comply with my request. He looked at the servant, and

"Put down the etchings and go away," he said. "Don't upset me by losing my place. Have you, or have you

not, lost my place? Are you sure you have not? And have you put my handbell quite within my reach? Yes?

The valet went out. Mr. Fairlie twisted himself round in his chair, polished the magnifying glass with his

delicate cambric handkerchief, and indulged himself with a sidelong inspection of the open volume of

etchings. It was not easy to keep my temper under these circumstances, but I did keep it.

"I have come here at great personal inconvenience," I said, "to serve the interests of your niece and your

family, and I think I have established some slight claim to be favoured with your attention in return."

"Don't bully me!" exclaimed Mr. Fairlie, falling back helplessly in the chair, and closing his eyes. "Please

"My object," I went on, "is to entreat you to reconsider your letter, and not to force me to abandon the just

rights of your niece, and of all who belong to her. Let me state the case to you once more, and for the last

"This is heartless of you, Gilmorevery heartless," he said. "Never mind, go on."

I put all the points to him carefullyI set the matter before him in every conceivable light. He lay back in the

chair the whole time I was speaking with his eyes closed. When I had done he opened them indolently, took

his silver smellingbottle from the table, and sniffed at it with an air of gentle relish.

"Good Gilmore!" he said between the sniffs, "how very nice this is of you! How you reconcile one to human

"Give me a plain answer to a plain question, Mr. Fairlie. I tell you again, Sir Percival Glyde has no shadow of

a claim to expect more than the income of the money. The money itself if your niece has no children, ought to

be under her control, and to return to her family. If you stand firm, Sir Percival must give wayhe must give

way, I tell you, or he exposes himself to the base imputation of marrying Miss Fairlie entirely from

"You dear old Gilmore, how you do hate rank and family, don't you? How you detest Glyde because he

happens to be a baronet. What a Radical you areoh, dear me, what a Radical you are!"

A Radical!!! I could put up with a good deal of provocation, but, after holding the soundest Conservative

principles all my life, I could NOT put up with being called a Radical. My blood boiled at itI started out of

"Don't shake the room!" cried Mr. Fairlie"for Heaven's sake don't shake the room! Worthiest of all

possible Gilmores, I meant no offence. My own views are so extremely liberal that I think I am a Radical

myself. Yes. We are a pair of Radicals. Please don't be angry. I can't quarrelI haven't stamina enough.

Shall we drop the subject? Yes. Come and look at these sweet etchings. Do let me teach you to understand

While he was maundering on in this way I was, fortunately for my own selfrespect, returning to my senses.

When I spoke again I was composed enough to treat his impertinence with the silent contempt that it

"You are entirely wrong, sir," I said, "in supposing that I speak from any prejudice against Sir Percival Glyde.

I may regret that he has so unreservedly resigned himself in this matter to his lawyer's direction as to make

any appeal to himself impossible, but I am not prejudiced against him. What I have said would equally apply

to any other man in his situation, high or low. The principle I maintain is a recognised principle. If you were

to apply at the nearest town here, to the first respectable solicitor you could find, he would tell you as a

stranger what I tell you as a friend. He would inform you that it is against all rule to abandon the lady's

money entirely to the man she marries. He would decline, on grounds of common legal caution, to give the

husband, under any circumstances whatever, an interest of twenty thousand pounds in his wife's death."

"Would he really, Gilmore?" said Mr. Fairlie. "If he said anything half so horrid, I do assure you I should

"You shall not irritate me, Mr. Fairliefor your niece's sake and for her father's sake, you shall not irritate

me. You shall take the whole responsibility of this discreditable settlement on your own shoulders before I

"Don't!now please don't!" said Mr. Fairlie. "Think how precious your time is, Gilmore, and don't throw it

away. I would dispute with you if I could, but I can'tI haven't stamina enough. You want to upset me, to

upset yourself, to upset Glyde, and to upset Laura; andoh, dear me!all for the sake of the very last thing

in the world that is likely to happen. No, dear friend, in the interests of peace and quietness, positively No!"

"I am to understand, then, that you hold by the determination expressed in your letter?"

I walked at once to the door, and Mr. Fairlie resignedly "tinkled" his handbell. Before I left the room I

"Whatever happens in the future, sir," I said, "remember that my plain duty of warning you has been

performed. As the faithful friend and servant of your family, I tell you, at parting, that no daughter of mine

should be married to any man alive under such a settlement as you are forcing me to make for Miss Fairlie."

"Louis," said Mr. Fairlie, "show Mr. Gilmore out, and then come back and hold up my etchings for me again.

Make them give you a good lunch downstairs. Do, Gilmore, make my idle beasts of servants give you a good

I was too much disgusted to replyI turned on my heel, and left him in silence. There was an up train at two

On the Tuesday I sent in the altered settlement, which practically disinherited the very persons whom Miss

Fairlie's own lips had informed me she was most anxious to benefit. I had no choice. Another lawyer would

My task is done. My personal share in the events of the family story extends no farther than the point which I

have just reached. Other pens than mine will describe the strange circumstances which are now shortly to

follow. Seriously and sorrowfully I close this brief record. Seriously and sorrowfully I repeat here the parting

words that I spoke at Limmeridge House:No daughter of mine should have been married to any man alive

[1] The passages omitted, here and elsewhere, in Miss Halcombe's Diary are only those which bear no

reference to Miss Fairlie or to any of the persons with whom she is associated in these pages.

His interview with Laura had evidently grieved and surprised him more than he liked to confess. I felt afraid,

from his look and manner when we parted, that she might have inadvertently betrayed to him the real secret

of her depression and my anxiety. This doubt grew on me so, after he had gone, that I declined riding out

I have been sadly distrustful of myself, in this difficult and lamentable matter, ever since I found out my own

ignorance of the strength of Laura's unhappy attachment. I ought to have known that the delicacy and

forbearance and sense of honour which drew me to poor Hartright, and made me so sincerely admire and

respect him, were just the qualities to appeal most irresistibly to Laura's natural sensitiveness and natural

generosity of nature. And yet, until she opened her heart to me of her own accord, I had no suspicion that this

new feeling had taken root so deeply. I once thought time and care might remove it. I now fear that it will

remain with her and alter her for life. The discovery that I have committed such an error in judgment as this

makes me hesitate about everything else. I hesitate about Sir Percival, in the face of the plainest proofs. I

hesitate even in speaking to Laura. On this very morning I doubted, with my hand on the door, whether I

When I went into her room I found her walking up and down in great impatience. She looked flushed and

excited, and she came forward at once, and spoke to me before I could open my lips.

"I wanted you," she said. "Come and sit down on the sofa with me. Marian! I can bear this no longerI must

There was too much colour in her cheeks, too much energy in her manner, too much firmness in her voice.

The little book of Hartright's drawingsthe fatal book that she will dream over whenever she is alonewas

in one of her hands. I began by gently and firmly taking it from her, and putting it out of sight on a

"Tell me quietly, my darling, what you wish to do," I said. "Has Mr. Gilmore been advising you?"

She shook her head. "No, not in what I am thinking of now. He was very kind and good to me, Marian, and I

am ashamed to say I distressed him by crying. I am miserably helplessI can't control myself. For my own

She put her arms round my neck, and rested her head quietly on my bosom. On the opposite wall hung the

miniature portrait of her father. I bent over her, and saw that she was looking at it while her head lay on my

"I can never claim my release from my engagement," she went on. "Whatever way it ends it must end

wretchedly for me. All I can do, Marian, is not to add the remembrance that I have broken my promise and

"To tell Sir Percival Glyde the truth with my own lips," she answered, "and to let him release me, if he will,

"What do you mean, Laura, by 'all'? Sir Percival will know enough (he has told me so himself) if he knows

"Can I tell him that, when the engagement was made for me by my father, with my own consent? I should

have kept my promise, not happily, I am afraid, but still contentedly" she stopped, turned her face to me,

and laid her cheek close against mine"I should have kept my engagement, Marian, if another love had not

grown up in my heart, which was not there when I first promised to be Sir Percival's wife."

"I shall lower myself, indeed, if I gain my release by hiding from him what he has a right to know."

"Wrong, Marian, wrong! I ought to deceive no oneleast of all the man to whom my father gave me, and to

whom I gave myself." She put her lips to mine, and kissed me. "My own love," she said softly, "you are so

much too fond of me, and so much too proud of me, that you forget, in my case, what you would remember

in your own. Better that Sir Percival should doubt my motives, and misjudge my conduct if he will, than that

I should be first false to him in thought, and then mean enough to serve my own interests by hiding the

I held her away from me in astonishment. For the first time in our lives we had changed placesthe

resolution was all on her side, the hesitation all on mine. I looked into the pale, quiet, resigned young faceI

saw the pure, innocent heart, in the loving eyes that looked back at meand the poor worldly cautions and

objections that rose to my lips dwindled and died away in their own emptiness. I hung my head in silence. In

her place the despicably small pride which makes so many women deceitful would have been my pride, and

I only answered by drawing her close to me again. I was afraid of crying if I spoke. My tears do not flow so

easily as they ought they come almost like men's tears, with sobs that seem to tear me in pieces, and that

"I have thought of this, love, for many days," she went on, twining and twisting my hair with that childish

restlessness in her fingers, which poor Mrs. Vesey still tries so patiently and so vainly to cure her of"I have

thought of it very seriously, and I can be sure of my courage when my own conscience tells me I am right.

Let me speak to him tomorrowin your presence, Marian. I will say nothing that is wrong, nothing that

you or I need be ashamed ofbut, oh, it will ease my heart so to end this miserable concealment! Only let

me know and feel that I have no deception to answer for on my side, and then, when he has heard what I have

She sighed, and put her head back in its old position on my bosom. Sad misgivings about what the end would

be weighed upon my mind, but still distrusting myself, I told her that I would do as she wished. She thanked

At dinner she joined us again, and was more easy and more herself with Sir Percival than I have seen her yet.

In the evening she went to the piano, choosing new music of the dexterous, tuneless, florid kind. The lovely

old melodies of Mozart, which poor Hartright was so fond of, she has never played since he left. The book is

no longer in the musicstand. She took the volume away herself, so that nobody might find it out and ask her

I had no opportunity of discovering whether her purpose of the morning had changed or not, until she wished

Sir Percival good nightand then her own words informed me that it was unaltered. She said, very quietly,

that she wished to speak to him after breakfast, and that he would find her in her sittingroom with me. He

changed colour at those words, and I felt his hand trembling a little when it came to my turn to take it. The

event of the next morning would decide his future life, and he evidently knew it.

I went in, as usual, through the door between our two bedrooms, to bid Laura goodnight before she went to

sleep. In stooping over her to kiss her I saw the little book of Hartright's drawings half hidden under her

pillow, just in the place where she used to hide her favourite toys when she was a child. I could not find it in

my heart to say anything, but I pointed to the book and shook my head. She reached both hands up to my

"Leave it there tonight," she whispered; "tomorrow may be cruel, and may make me say goodbye to it for

9th.The first event of the morning was not of a kind to raise my spiritsa letter arrived for me from poor

Walter Hartright. It is the answer to mine describing the manner in which Sir Percival cleared himself of the

suspicions raised by Anne Catherick's letter. He writes shortly and bitterly about Sir Percival's explanations,

only saying that he has no right to offer an opinion on the conduct of those who are above him. This is sad,

but his occasional references to himself grieve me still more. He says that the effort to return to his old habits

and pursuits grows harder instead of easier to him every day and he implores me, if I have any interest, to

exert it to get him employment that will necessitate his absence from England, and take him among new

scenes and new people. I have been made all the readier to comply with this request by a passage at the end

After mentioning that he has neither seen nor heard anything of Anne Catherick, he suddenly breaks off, and

hints in the most abrupt, mysterious manner, that he has been perpetually watched and followed by strange

men ever since he returned to London. He acknowledges that he cannot prove this extraordinary suspicion by

fixing on any particular persons, but he declares that the suspicion itself is present to him night and day. This

has frightened me, because it looks as if his one fixed idea about Laura was becoming too much for his mind.

I will write immediately to some of my mother's influential old friends in London, and press his claims on

their notice. Change of scene and change of occupation may really be the salvation of him at this crisis in his

Greatly to my relief, Sir Percival sent an apology for not joining us at breakfast. He had taken an early cup of

coffee in his own room, and he was still engaged there in writing letters. At eleven o'clock, if that hour was

convenient, he would do himself the honour of waiting on Miss Fairlie and Miss Halcombe.

My eyes were on Laura's face while the message was being delivered. I had found her unaccountably quiet

and composed on going into her room in the morning, and so she remained all through breakfast. Even when

we were sitting together on the sofa in her room, waiting for Sir Percival, she still preserved her selfcontrol.

"Don't be afraid of me, Marian," was all she said; "I may forget myself with an old friend like Mr. Gilmore,

or with a dear sister like you, but I will not forget myself with Sir Percival Glyde."

I looked at her, and listened to her in silent surprise. Through all the years of our close intimacy this passive

force in her character had been hidden from mehidden even from herself, till love found it, and suffering

As the clock on the mantelpiece struck eleven Sir Percival knocked at the door and came in. There was

suppressed anxiety and agitation in every line of his face. The dry, sharp cough, which teases him at most

times, seemed to be troubling him more incessantly than ever. He sat down opposite to us at the table, and

Laura remained by me. I looked attentively at them both, and he was the palest of the two.

He said a few unimportant words, with a visible effort to preserve his customary ease of manner. But his

voice was not to be steadied, and the restless uneasiness in his eyes was not to be concealed. He must have

felt this himself, for he stopped in the middle of a sentence, and gave up even the attempt to hide his

"I wish to speak to you, Sir Percival," she said, "on a subject that is very important to us both. My sister is

here, because her presence helps me and gives me confidence. She has not suggested one word of what I am

going to sayI speak from my own thoughts, not from hers. I am sure you will be kind enough to understand

Sir Percival bowed. She had proceeded thus far, with perfect outward tranquillity and perfect propriety of

manner. She looked at him, and he looked at her. They seemed, at the outset, at least, resolved to understand

"I have heard from Marian," she went on, "that I have only to claim my release from our engagement to

obtain that release from you. It was forbearing and generous on your part, Sir Percival, to send me such a

message. It is only doing you justice to say that I am grateful for the offer, and I hope and believe that it is

His attentive face relaxed a little. But I saw one of his feet, softly, quietly, incessantly beating on the carpet

"I have not forgotten," she said, "that you asked my father's permission before you honoured me with a

proposal of marriage. Perhaps you have not forgotten either what I said when I consented to our engagement?

I ventured to tell you that my father's influence and advice had mainly decided me to give you my promise. I

was guided by my father, because I had always found him the truest of all advisers, the best and fondest of all

protectors and friends. I have lost him nowI have only his memory to love, but my faith in that dear dead

friend has never been shaken. I believe at this moment, as truly as I ever believed, that he knew what was

Her voice trembled for the first time. Her restless fingers stole their way into my lap, and held fast by one of

"May I ask," he said, "if I have ever proved myself unworthy of the trust which it has been hitherto my

"I have found nothing in your conduct to blame," she answered. "You have always treated me with the same

delicacy and the same forbearance. You have deserved my trust, and, what is of far more importance in my

estimation, you have deserved my father's trust, out of which mine grew. You have given me no excuse, even

if I had wanted to find one, for asking to be released from my pledge. What I have said so far has been

spoken with the wish to acknowledge my whole obligation to you. My regard for that obligation, my regard

for my father's memory, and my regard for my own promise, all forbid me to set the example, on my side, of

withdrawing from our present position. The breaking of our engagement must be entirely your wish and your

The uneasy beating of his foot suddenly stopped, and he leaned forward eagerly across the table.

I heard her breath quickeningI felt her hand growing cold. In spite of what she had said to me when we

"A reason that it is very hard to tell you," she answered. "There is a change in me, Sir Percivala change

which is serious enough to justify you, to yourself and to me, in breaking off our engagement."

His face turned so pale again that even his lips lost their colour. He raised the arm which lay on the table,

turned a little away in his chair, and supported his head on his hand, so that his profile only was presented to

"What change?" he asked. The tone in which he put the question jarred on methere was something

She sighed heavily, and leaned towards me a little, so as to rest her shoulder against mine. I felt her

trembling, and tried to spare her by speaking myself. She stopped me by a warning pressure of her hand, and

"I have heard," she said, "and I believe it, that the fondest and truest of all affections is the affection which a

woman ought to bear to her husband. When our engagement began that affection was mine to give, if I could,

and yours to win, if you could. Will you pardon me, and spare me, Sir Percival, if I acknowledge that it is not

A few tears gathered in her eyes, and dropped over her cheeks slowly as she paused and waited for his

answer. He did not utter a word. At the beginning of her reply he had moved the hand on which his head

rested, so that it hid his face. I saw nothing but the upper part of his figure at the table. Not a muscle of him

moved. The fingers of the hand which supported his head were dented deep in his hair. They might have

expressed hidden anger or hidden griefit was hard to say whichthere was no significant trembling in

them. There was nothing, absolutely nothing, to tell the secret of his thoughts at that momentthe moment

"Sir Percival!" I interposed sharply, "have you nothing to say when my sister has said so much? More, in my

opinion," I added, my unlucky temper getting the better of me, "than any man alive, in your position, has a

That last rash sentence opened a way for him by which to escape me if he chose, and he instantly took

"Pardon me, Miss Halcombe," he said, still keeping his hand over his face, "pardon me if I remind you that I

The few plain words which would have brought him back to the point from which he had wandered were just

"I hope I have not made my painful acknowledgment in vain," she continued. "I hope it has secured me your

"Pray be assured of it." He made that brief reply warmly, dropping his hand on the table while he spoke, and

turning towards us again. Whatever outward change had passed over him was gone now. His face was eager

and expectantit expressed nothing but the most intense anxiety to hear her next words.

"I wish you to understand that I have not spoken from any selfish motive," she said. "If you leave me, Sir

Percival, after what you have just heard, you do not leave me to marry another man, you only allow me to

remain a single woman for the rest of my life. My fault towards you has begun and ended in my own

thoughts. It can never go any farther. No word has passed" She hesitated, in doubt about the expression she

should use next, hesitated in a momentary confusion which it was very sad and very painful to see. "No word

has passed," she patiently and resolutely resumed, "between myself and the person to whom I am now

referring for the first and last time in your presence of my feelings towards him, or of his feelings towards

meno word ever can passneither he nor I are likely, in this world, to meet again. I earnestly beg you to

spare me from saying any more, and to believe me, on my word, in what I have just told you. It is the truth.

Sir Percival, the truth which I think my promised husband has a claim to hear, at any sacrifice of my own

feelings. I trust to his generosity to pardon me, and to his honour to keep my secret."

"Both those trusts are sacred to me," he said, "and both shall be sacredly kept."

After answering in those terms he paused, and looked at her as if he was waiting to hear more.

I have said all I wish to say," she added quietly" I have said more than enough to justify you in

"You have said more than enough," he answered, "to make it the dearest object of my life to KEEP the

engagement." With those words he rose from his chair, and advanced a few steps towards the place where she

She started violently, and a faint cry of surprise escaped her. Every word she had spoken had innocently

betrayed her purity and truth to a man who thoroughly understood the priceless value of a pure and true

woman. Her own noble conduct had been the hidden enemy, throughout, of all the hopes she had trusted to it.

I had dreaded this from the first. I would have prevented it, if she had allowed me the smallest chance of

doing so. I even waited and watched now, when the harm was done, for a word from Sir Percival that would

"You have left it to ME, Miss Fairlie, to resign you," he continued. "I am not heartless enough to resign a

He spoke with such warmth and feeling, with such passionate enthusiasm, and yet with such perfect delicacy,

that she raised her head, flushed up a little, and looked at him with sudden animation and spirit.

"No!" she said firmly. "The most wretched of her sex, if she must give herself in marriage when she cannot

"May she not give it in the future," he asked, "if the one object of her husband's life is to deserve it?"

"Never!" she answered. "If you still persist in maintaining our engagement, I may be your true and faithful

She looked so irresistibly beautiful as she said those brave words that no man alive could have steeled his

heart against her. I tried hard to feel that Sir Percival was to blame, and to say so, but my womanhood would

"I gratefully accept your faith and truth," he said. "The least that you can offer is more to me than the utmost

Her left hand still held mine, but her right hand hung listlessly at her side. He raised it gently to his

lipstouched it with them, rather than kissed itbowed to meand then, with perfect delicacy and

She neither moved nor said a word when he was goneshe sat by me, cold and still, with her eyes fixed on

the ground. I saw it was hopeless and useless to speak, and I only put my arm round her, and held her to me

in silence. We remained together so for what seemed a long and weary timeso long and so weary, that I

The sound of my voice seemed to startle her into consciousness. She suddenly drew herself away from me

"I must submit, Marian, as well as I can," she said. "My new life has its hard duties, and one of them begins

As she spoke she went to a sidetable near the window, on which her sketching materials were placed,

gathered them together carefully, and put them in a drawer of her cabinet. She locked the drawer and brought

"I must part from everything that reminds me of him," she said. "Keep the key wherever you pleaseI shall

Before I could say a word she had turned away to her bookcase, and had taken from it the album that

contained Walter Hartright's drawings. She hesitated for a moment, holding the little volume fondly in her

"Oh, Laura! Laura!" I said, not angrily, not reprovinglywith nothing but sorrow in my voice, and nothing

She laid the book on the table and drew out the comb that fastened her hair. It fell, in its matchless beauty,

over her back and shoulders, and dropped round her, far below her waist. She separated one long, thin lock

from the rest, cut it off, and pinned it carefully, in the form of a circle, on the first blank page of the album.

The moment it was fastened she closed the volume hurriedly, and placed it in my hands.

"You write to him and he writes to you," she said. "While I am alive, if he asks after me always tell him I am

well, and never say I am unhappy. Don't distress him, Marian, for my sake, don't distress him. If I die first,

promise you will give him this little book of his drawings, with my hair in it. There can be no harm, when I

am gone, in telling him that I put it there with my own hands. And sayoh, Marian, say for me, then, what I

She flung her arms round my neck, and whispered the last words in my ear with a passionate delight in

uttering them which it almost broke my heart to hear. All the long restraint she had imposed on herself gave

way in that first last outburst of tenderness. She broke from me with hysterical vehemence, and threw herself

I tried vainly to soothe her and reason with hershe was past being soothed, and past being reasoned with. It

was the sad, sudden end for us two of this memorable day. When the fit had worn itself out she was too

exhausted to speak. She slumbered towards the afternoon, and I put away the book of drawings so that she

might not see it when she woke. My face was calm, whatever my heart might be, when she opened her eyes

again and looked at me. We said no more to each other about the distressing interview of the morning. Sir

Percival's name was not mentioned. Walter Hartright was not alluded to again by either of us for the

10th.Finding that she was composed and like herself this morning, I returned to the painful subject of

yesterday, for the sole purpose of imploring her to let me speak to Sir Percival and Mr. Fairlie, more plainly

and strongly than she could speak to either of them herself, about this lamentable marriage. She interposed,

"I left yesterday to decide," she said; "and yesterday HAS decided. It is too late to go back."

Sir Percival spoke to me this afternoon about what had passed in Laura's room. He assured me that the

unparalleled trust she had placed in him had awakened such an answering conviction of her innocence and

integrity in his mind, that he was guiltless of having felt even a moment's unworthy jealousy, either at the

time when he was in her presence, or afterwards when he had withdrawn from it. Deeply as he lamented the

unfortunate attachment which had hindered the progress he might otherwise have made in her esteem and

regard, he firmly believed that it had remained unacknowledged in the past, and that it would remain, under

all changes of circumstance which it was possible to contemplate, unacknowledged in the future. This was his

absolute conviction; and the strongest proof he could give of it was the assurance, which he now offered, that

he felt no curiosity to know whether the attachment was of recent date or not, or who had been the object of

it. His implicit confidence in Miss Fairlie made him satisfied with what she had thought fit to say to him, and

He waited after saying those words and looked at me. I was so conscious of my unreasonable prejudice

against himso conscious of an unworthy suspicion that he might be speculating on my impulsively

answering the very questions which he had just described himself as resolved not to askthat I evaded all

reference to this part of the subject with something like a feeling of confusion on my own part. At the same

time I was resolved not to lose even the smallest opportunity of trying to plead Laura's cause, and I told him

boldly that I regretted his generosity had not carried him one step farther, and induced him to withdraw from

Here, again, he disarmed me by not attempting to defend himself. He would merely beg me to remember the

difference there was between his allowing Miss Fairlie to give him up, which was a matter of submission

only, and his forcing himself to give up Miss Fairlie, which was, in other words, asking him to be the suicide

of his own hopes. Her conduct of the day before had so strengthened the unchangeable love and admiration of

two long years, that all active contention against those feelings, on his part, was henceforth entirely out of his

power. I must think him weak, selfish, unfeeling towards the very woman whom he idolised, and he must

bow to my opinion as resignedly as he couldonly putting it to me, at the same time, whether her future as a

single woman, pining under an unhappily placed attachment which she could never acknowledge, could be

said to promise her a much brighter prospect than her future as the wife of a man who worshipped the very

ground she walked on? In the last case there was hope from time, however slight it might bein the first

I answered himmore because my tongue is a woman's, and must answer, than because I had anything

convincing to say. It was only too plain that the course Laura had adopted the day before had offered him the

advantage if he chose to take itand that he HAD chosen to take it. I felt this at the time, and I feel it just as

strongly now, while I write these lines, in my own room. The one hope left is that his motives really spring,

Before I close my diary for tonight I must record that I wrote today, in poor Hartright's interest, to two of

my mother's old friends in Londonboth men of influence and position. If they can do anything for him, I

am quite sure they will. Except Laura, I never was more anxious about any one than I am now about Walter.

All that has happened since he left us has only increased my strong regard and sympathy for him. I hope I am

doing right in trying to help him to employment abroadI hope, most earnestly and anxiously, that it will

11th.Sir Percival had an interview with Mr. Fairlie, and I was sent for to join them.

I found Mr. Fairlie greatly relieved at the prospect of the "family worry" (as he was pleased to describe his

niece's marriage) being settled at last. So far, I did not feel called on to say anything to him about my own

opinion, but when he proceeded, in his most aggravatingly languid manner, to suggest that the time for the

marriage had better be settled next, in accordance with Sir Percival's wishes, I enjoyed the satisfaction of

assailing Mr. Fairlie's nerves with as strong a protest against hurrying Laura's decision as I could put into

words. Sir Percival immediately assured me that he felt the force of my objection, and begged me to believe

that the proposal had not been made in consequence of any interference on his part. Mr. Fairlie leaned back in

his chair, closed his eyes, said we both of us did honour to human nature, and then repeated his suggestion as

coolly as if neither Sir Percival nor I had said a word in opposition to it. It ended in my flatly declining to

mention the subject to Laura, unless she first approached it of her own accord. I left the room at once after

making that declaration. Sir Percival looked seriously embarrassed and distressed, Mr. Fairlie stretched out

his lazy legs on his velvet footstool, and said, "Dear Marian! how I envy you your robust nervous system!

On going to Laura's room I found that she had asked for me, and that Mrs. Vesey had informed her that I was

with Mr. Fairlie. She inquired at once what I had been wanted for, and I told her all that had passed, without

attempting to conceal the vexation and annoyance that I really felt. Her answer surprised and distressed me

inexpressiblyit was the very last reply that I should have expected her to make.

"My uncle is right," she said. "I have caused trouble and anxiety enough to you, and to all about me. Let me

"I am held to my engagement," she replied; "I have broken with my old life. The evil day will not come the

less surely because I put it off. No, Marian! once again my uncle is right. I have caused trouble enough and

She used to be pliability itself, but she was now inflexibly passive in her resignationI might almost say in

her despair. Dearly as I love her, I should have been less pained if she had been violently agitatedit was so

shockingly unlike her natural character to see her as cold and insensible as I saw her now.

12th.Sir Percival put some questions to me at breakfast about Laura, which left me no choice but to tell

While we were talking she herself came down and joined us. She was just as unnaturally composed in Sir

Percival's presence as she had been in mine. When breakfast was over he had an opportunity of saying a few

words to her privately, in a recess of one of the windows. They were not more than two or three minutes

together, and on their separating she left the room with Mrs. Vesey, while Sir Percival came to me. He said

he had entreated her to favour him by maintaining her privilege of fixing the time for the marriage at her own

will and pleasure. In reply she had merely expressed her acknowledgments, and had desired him to mention

I have no patience to write more. In this instance, as in every other, Sir Percival has carried his point with the

utmost possible credit to himself, in spite of everything that I can say or do. His wishes are now, what they

were, of course, when he first came here; and Laura having resigned herself to the one inevitable sacrifice of

the marriage, remains as coldly hopeless and enduring as ever. In parting with the little occupations and relics

that reminded her of Hartright, she seems to have parted with all her tenderness and all her impressibility. It is

only three o'clock in the afternoon while I write these lines, and Sir Percival has left us already, in the happy

hurry of a bridegroom, to prepare for the bride's reception at his house in Hampshire. Unless some

extraordinary event happens to prevent it they will be married exactly at the time when he wished to be

13th.A sleepless night, through uneasiness about Laura. Towards the morning I came to a resolution to try

what change of scene would do to rouse her. She cannot surely remain in her present torpor of insensibility, if

I take her away from Limmeridge and surround her with the pleasant faces of old friends? After some

consideration I decided on writing to the Arnolds, in Yorkshire. They are simple, kindhearted, hospitable

people, and she has known them from her childhood. When I had put the letter in the postbag I told her what

I had done. It would have been a relief to me if she had shown the spirit to resist and object. But no she

only said, "I will go anywhere with you, Marian. I dare say you are rightI dare say the change will do me

14th.I wrote to Mr. Gilmore, informing him that there was really a prospect of this miserable marriage

taking place, and also mentioning my idea of trying what change of scene would do for Laura. I had no heart

to go into particulars. Time enough for them when we get nearer to the end of the year.

15th.Three letters for me. The first, from the Arnolds, full of delight at the prospect of seeing Laura and

me. The second, from one of the gentlemen to whom I wrote on Walter Hartright's behalf, informing me that

he has been fortunate enough to find an opportunity of complying with my request. The third, from Walter

himself, thanking me, poor fellow, in the warmest terms, for giving him an opportunity of leaving his home,

his country, and his friends. A private expedition to make excavations among the ruined cities of Central

America is, it seems, about to sail from Liverpool. The draughtsman who had been already appointed to

accompany it has lost heart, and withdrawn at the eleventh hour, and Walter is to fill his place. He is to be

engaged for six months certain, from the time of the landing in Honduras, and for a year afterwards, if the

excavations are successful, and if the funds hold out. His letter ends with a promise to write me a farewell

line when they are all on board ship, and when the pilot leaves them. I can only hope and pray earnestly that

he and I are both acting in this matter for the best. It seems such a serious step for him to take, that the mere

contemplation of it startles me. And yet, in his unhappy position, how can I expect him or wish him to remain

16th.The carriage is at the door. Laura and I set out on our visit to the Arnolds today.

23rd.A week in these new scenes and among these kindhearted people has done her some good, though

not so much as I had hoped. I have resolved to prolong our stay for another week at least. It is useless to go

24th.Sad news by this morning's post. The expedition to Central America sailed on the twentyfirst. We

have parted with a true manwe have lost a faithful friend. Water Hartright has left England.

25th.Sad news yesterdayominous news today. Sir Percival Glyde has written to Mr. Fairlie, and Mr.

November 27th.My forebodings are realised. The marriage is fixed for the twentysecond of December.

The day after we left for Polesdean Lodge Sir Percival wrote, it seems, to Mr. Fairlie, to say that the

necessary repairs and alterations in his house in Hampshire would occupy a much longer time in completion

than he had originally anticipated. The proper estimates were to be submitted to him as soon as possible, and

it would greatly facilitate his entering into definite arrangements with the workpeople, if he could be

informed of the exact period at which the wedding ceremony might be expected to take place. He could then

make all his calculations in reference to time, besides writing the necessary apologies to friends who had

been engaged to visit him that winter, and who could not, of course, be received when the house was in the

To this letter Mr. Fairlie had replied by requesting Sir Percival himself to suggest a day for the marriage,

subject to Miss Fairlie's approval, which her guardian willingly undertook to do his best to obtain. Sir

Percival wrote back by the next post, and proposed (in accordance with his own views and wishes from the

first? the latter part of Decemberperhaps the twentysecond, or twentyfourth, or any other day that the

lady and her guardian might prefer. The lady not being at hand to speak for herself, her guardian had decided,

in her absence, on the earliest day mentionedthe twentysecond of December, and had written to recall us

After explaining these particulars to me at a private interview yesterday, Mr. Fairlie suggested, in his most

amiable manner, that I should open the necessary negotiations today. Feeling that resistance was useless,

unless I could first obtain Laura's authority to make it, I consented to speak to her, but declared, at the same

time, that I would on no consideration undertake to gain her consent to Sir Percival's wishes. Mr. Fairlie

complimented me on my "excellent conscience," much as he would have complimented me, if he had been

out walking, on my "excellent constitution," and seemed perfectly satisfied, so far, with having simply shifted

This morning I spoke to Laura as I had promised. The composureI may almost say, the

insensibilitywhich she has so strangely and so resolutely maintained ever since Sir Percival left us, was not

proof against the shock of the news I had to tell her. She turned pale and trembled violently.

The slightest hint she could give was enough for me. I rose to leave the room, and fight her battle for her at

Just as my hand was on the door, she caught fast hold of my dress and stopped me.

"Let me go!" I said. "My tongue burns to tell your uncle that he and Sir Percival are not to have it all their

"Not a minute too late," I retorted. "The question of time is OUR questionand trust me, Laura, to take a

I unclasped her hand from my gown while I spoke; but she slipped both her arms round my waist at the same

"It will only involve us in more trouble and more confusion," she said. "It will set you and my uncle at

"So much the better!" I cried out passionately. "Who cares for his causes of complaint? Are you to break your

heart to set his mind at ease? No man under heaven deserves these sacrifices from us women. Men! They are

the enemies of our innocence and our peacethey drag us away from our parents' love and our sisters'

friendshipthey take us body and soul to themselves, and fasten our helpless lives to theirs as they chain up

a dog to his kennel. And what does the best of them give us in return? Let me go, LauraI'm mad when I

The tearsmiserable, weak, women's tears of vexation and rage started to my eyes. She smiled sadly, and

put her handkerchief over my face to hide for me the betrayal of my own weaknessthe weakness of all

"Oh, Marian!" she said. "You crying! Think what you would say to me, if the places were changed, and if

those tears were mine. All your love and courage and devotion will not alter what must happen, sooner or

later. Let my uncle have his way. Let us have no more troubles and heartburnings that any sacrifice of mine

can prevent. Say you will live with me, Marian, when I am married and say no more."

But I did say more. I forced back the contemptible tears that were no relief to ME, and that only distressed

HER, and reasoned and pleaded as calmly as I could. It was of no avail. She made me twice repeat the

promise to live with her when she was married, and then suddenly asked a question which turned my sorrow

Her altered tonethe abrupt manner in which she looked away from me and hid her face on my

shoulderthe hesitation which silenced her before she had completed her question, all told me, but too

"I thought, Laura, that you and I were never to refer to him again," I said gently.

I hesitated. I had been afraid to tell her of his absence from England, or of the manner in which my exertions

to serve his new hopes and projects had connected me with his departure. What answer could I make? He was

Her cheek grew burning hot against my neck, and her arms trembled and tightened round me.

"Don't tell him about THE TWENTYSECOND," she whispered. "Promise, Marianpray promise you will

I gave the promise. No words can say how sorrowfully I gave it. She instantly took her arm from my waist,

walked away to the window, and stood looking out with her back to me. After a moment she spoke once

more, but without turning round, without allowing me to catch the smallest glimpse of her face.

"Are you going to my uncle's room?" she asked. "Will you say that I consent to whatever arrangement he

may think best? Never mind leaving me, Marian. I shall be better alone for a little while."

I went out. If, as soon as I got into the passage, I could have transported Mr. Fairlie and Sir Percival Glyde to

the uttermost ends of the earth by lifting one of my fingers, that finger would have been raised without an

instant's hesitation. For once my unhappy temper now stood my friend. I should have broken down altogether

and burst into a violent fit of crying, if my tears had not been all burnt up in the heat of my anger. As it was, I

dashed into Mr. Fairlie's roomcalled to him as harshly as possible, "Laura consents to the

twentysecond"and dashed out again without waiting for a word of answer. I banged the door after me,

28th.This morning I read poor Hartright's farewell letter over again, a doubt having crossed my mind since

yesterday, whether I am acting wisely in concealing the fact of his departure from Laura.

On reflection, I still think I am right. The allusions in his letter to the preparations made for the expedition to

Central America, all show that the leaders of it know it to be dangerous. If the discovery of this makes me

uneasy, what would it make HER? It is bad enough to feel that his departure has deprived us of the friend of

all others to whose devotion we could trust in the hour of need, if ever that hour comes and finds us helpless;

but it is far worse to know that he has gone from us to face the perils of a bad climate, a wild country, and a

disturbed population. Surely it would be a cruel candour to tell Laura this, without a pressing and a positive

I almost doubt whether I ought not to go a step farther, and burn the letter at once, for fear of its one day

falling into wrong hands. It not only refers to Laura in terms which ought to remain a secret for ever between

the writer and me, but it reiterates his suspicionso obstinate, so unaccountable, and so alarmingthat he

has been secretly watched since he left Limmeridge. He declares that he saw the faces of the two strange men

who followed him about the streets of London, watching him among the crowd which gathered at Liverpool

to see the expedition embark, and he positively asserts that he heard the name of Anne Catherick pronounced

behind him as he got into the boat. His own words are, "These events have a meaning, these events must lead

to a result. The mystery of Anne Catherick is NOT cleared up yet. She may never cross my path again, but if

ever she crosses yours, make better use of the opportunity, Miss Halcombe, than I made of it. I speak on

strong convictionI entreat you to remember what I say." These are his own expressions. There is no danger

of my forgetting themmy memory is only too ready to dwell on any words of Hartright's that refer to Anne

Catherick. But there is danger in my keeping the letter. The merest accident might place it at the mercy of

strangers. I may fall illI may die. Better to burn it at once, and have one anxiety the less.

It is burnt. The ashes of his farewell letterthe last he may ever write to melie in a few black fragments

on the hearth. Is this the sad end to all that sad story? Oh, not the endsurely, surely not the end already!

29th.The preparations for the marriage have begun. The dressmaker has come to receive her orders. Laura

is perfectly impassive, perfectly careless about the question of all others in which a woman's personal

interests are most closely bound up. She has left it all to the dressmaker and to me. If poor Hartright had been

the baronet, and the husband of her father's choice, how differently she would have behaved! How anxious

and capricious she would have been, and what a hard task the best of dressmakers would have found it to

30th.We hear every day from Sir Percival. The last news is that the alterations in his house will occupy

from four to six months before they can be properly completed. If painters, paperhangers, and upholsterers

could make happiness as well as splendour, I should be interested about their proceedings in Laura's future

home. As it is, the only part of Sir Percival's last letter which does not leave me as it found me, perfectly

indifferent to all his plans and projects, is the part which refers to the wedding tour. He proposes, as Laura is

delicate, and as the winter threatens to be unusually severe, to take her to Rome, and to remain in Italy until

the early part of next summer. If this plan should not be approved, he is equally ready, although he has no

establishment of his own in town, to spend the season in London, in the most suitable furnished house that

Putting myself and my own feelings entirely out of the question (which it is my duty to do, and which I have

done), I, for one, have no doubt of the propriety of adopting the first of these proposals. In either case a

separation between Laura and me is inevitable. It will be a longer separation, in the event of their going

abroad, than it would be in the event of their remaining in Londonbut we must set against this

disadvantage the benefit to Laura, on the other side, of passing the winter in a mild climate, and more than

that, the immense assistance in raising her spirits, and reconciling her to her new existence, which the mere

wonder and excitement of travelling for the first time in her life in the most interesting country in the world,

must surely afford. She is not of a disposition to find resources in the conventional gaieties and excitements

of London. They would only make the first oppression of this lamentable marriage fall the heavier on her. I

dread the beginning of her new life more than words can tell, but I see some hope for her if she travelsnone

It is strange to look back at this latest entry in my journal, and to find that I am writing of the marriage and

the parting with Laura, as people write of a settled thing. It seems so cold and so unfeeling to be looking at

the future already in this cruelly composed way. But what other way is possible, now that the time is drawing

so near? Before another month is over our heads she will be HIS Laura instead of mine! HIS Laura! I am as

little able to realise the idea which those two words conveymy mind feels almost as dulled and stunned by

December 1st.A sad, sad daya day that I have no heart to describe at any length. After weakly putting it

off last night, I was obliged to speak to her this morning of Sir Percival's proposal about the wedding tour.

In the full conviction that I should be with her wherever she went, the poor childfor a child she is still in

many thingswas almost happy at the prospect of seeing the wonders of Florence and Rome and Naples. It

nearly broke my heart to dispel her delusion, and to bring her face to face with the hard truth. I was obliged to

tell her that no man tolerates a rivalnot even a woman rival in his wife's affections, when he first

marries, whatever he may do afterwards. I was obliged to warn her that my chance of living with her

permanently under her own roof, depended entirely on my not arousing Sir Percival's jealousy and distrust by

standing between them at the beginning of their marriage, in the position of the chosen depositary of his

wife's closest secrets. Drop by drop I poured the profaning bitterness of this world's wisdom into that pure

heart and that innocent mind, while every higher and better feeling within me recoiled from my miserable

task. It is over now. She has learnt her hard, her inevitable lesson. The simple illusions of her girlhood are

gone, and my hand has stripped them off. Better mine than histhat is all my consolationbetter mine than

So the first proposal is the proposal accepted. They are to go to Italy, and I am to arrange, with Sir Percival's

permission, for meeting them and staying with them when they return to England. In other words, I am to ask

a personal favour, for the first time in my life, and to ask it of the man of all others to whom I least desire to

owe a serious obligation of any kind. Well! I think I could do even more than that, for Laura's sake.

2nd.On looking back, I find myself always referring to Sir Percival in disparaging terms. In the turn affairs

have now taken. I must and will root out my prejudice against him, I cannot think how it first got into my

Is it Laura's reluctance to become his wife that has set me against him? Have Hartright's perfectly intelligible

prejudices infected me without my suspecting their influence? Does that letter of Anne Catherick's still leave

a lurking distrust in my mind, in spite of Sir Percival's explanation, and of the proof in my possession of the

truth of it? I cannot account for the state of my own feelings; the one thing I am certain of is, that it is my

dutydoubly my duty nownot to wrong Sir Percival by unjustly distrusting him. If it has got to be a habit

with me always to write of him in the same unfavourable manner, I must and will break myself of this

unworthy tendency, even though the effort should force me to close the pages of my journal till the marriage

December 16th.A whole fortnight has passed, and I have not once opened these pages. I have been long

enough away from my journal to come back to it with a healthier and better mind, I hope, so far as Sir

There is not much to record of the past two weeks. The dresses are almost all finished, and the new travelling

trunks have been sent here from London. Poor dear Laura hardly leaves me for a moment all day, and last

night, when neither of us could sleep, she came and crept into my bed to talk to me there. "I shall lose you so

They are to be married at Limmeridge Church, and thank Heaven, not one of the neighbours is to be invited

to the ceremony. The only visitor will be our old friend, Mr. Arnold, who is to come from Polesdean to give

Laura away, her uncle being far too delicate to trust himself outside the door in such inclement weather as we

now have. If I were not determined, from this day forth, to see nothing but the bright side of our prospects,

the melancholy absence of any male relative of Laura's, at the most important moment of her life, would

make me very gloomy and very distrustful of the future. But I have done with gloom and distrustthat is to

say, I have done with writing about either the one or the other in this journal.

Sir Percival is to arrive tomorrow. He offered, in case we wished to treat him on terms of rigid etiquette, to

write and ask our clergyman to grant him the hospitality of the rectory, during the short period of his sojourn

at Limmeridge, before the marriage. Under the circumstances, neither Mr. Fairlie nor I thought it at all

necessary for us to trouble ourselves about attending to trifling forms and ceremonies. In our wild moorland

country, and in this great lonely house, we may well claim to be beyond the reach of the trivial

conventionalities which hamper people in other places. I wrote to Sir Percival to thank him for his polite

offer, and to beg that he would occupy his old rooms, just as usual, at Limmeridge House.

17th.He arrived today, looking, as I thought, a little worn and anxious, but still talking and laughing like

a man in the best possible spirits. He brought with him some really beautiful presents in jewellery, which

Laura received with her best grace, and, outwardly at least, with perfect selfpossession. The only sign I can

detect of the struggle it must cost her to preserve appearances at this trying time, expresses itself in a sudden

unwillingness, on her part, ever to be left alone. Instead of retreating to her own room, as usual, she seems to

dread going there. When I went upstairs today, after lunch, to put on my bonnet for a walk, she volunteered

to join me, and again, before dinner, she threw the door open between our two rooms, so that we might talk to

each other while we were dressing. "Keep me always doing something," she said; "keep me always in

company with somebody. Don't let me thinkthat is all I ask now, Marian don't let me think."

This sad change in her only increases her attractions for Sir Percival. He interprets it, I can see, to his own

advantage. There is a feverish flush in her cheeks, a feverish brightness in her eyes, which he welcomes as

the return of her beauty and the recovery of her spirits. She talked today at dinner with a gaiety and

carelessness so false, so shockingly out of her character, that I secretly longed to silence her and take her

away. Sir Percival's delight and surprise appeared to be beyond all expression. The anxiety which I had

noticed on his face when he arrived totally disappeared from it, and he looked, even to my eyes, a good ten

There can be no doubtthough some strange perversity prevents me from seeing it myselfthere can be no

doubt that Laura's future husband is a very handsome man. Regular features form a personal advantage to

begin withand he has them. Bright brown eyes, either in man or woman, are a great attractionand he has

them. Even baldness, when it is only baldness over the forehead (as in his case), is rather becoming than not

in a man, for it heightens the head and adds to the intelligence of the face. Grace and ease of movement,

untiring animation of manner, ready, pliant, conversational powersall these are unquestionable merits, and

all these he certainly possesses. Surely Mr. Gilmore, ignorant as he is of Laura's secret, was not to blame for

feeling surprised that she should repent of her marriage engagement? Any one else in his place would have

shared our good old friend's opinion. If I were asked, at this moment, to say plainly what defects I have

discovered in Sir Percival, I could only point out two. One, his incessant restlessness and excitabilitywhich

may be caused, naturally enough, by unusual energy of character. The other, his short, sharp, illtempered

manner of speaking to the servants which may be only a bad habit after all. No, I cannot dispute it, and I

will not dispute itSir Percival is a very handsome and a very agreeable man. There! I have written it down

18th.Feeling weary and depressed this morning, I left Laura with Mrs. Vesey, and went out alone for one

of my brisk midday walks, which I have discontinued too much of late. I took the dry airy road over the moor

that leads to Todd's Corner. After having been out half an hour, I was excessively surprised to see Sir

Percival approaching me from the direction of the farm. He was walking rapidly, swinging his stick, his head

erect as usual, and his shooting jacket flying open in the wind. When we met he did not wait for me to ask

any questionshe told me at once that he had been to the farm to inquire if Mr. or Mrs. Todd had received

"Nothing whatever," he replied. "I begin to be seriously afraid that we have lost her. Do you happen to

know," he continued, looking me in the face very attentively "if the artistMr. Hartrightis in a position to

"He has neither heard of her, nor seen her, since he left Cumberland," I answered.

"Very sad," said Sir Percival, speaking like a man who was disappointed, and yet, oddly enough, looking at

the same time like a man who was relieved. "It is impossible to say what misfortunes may not have happened

to the miserable creature. I am inexpressibly annoyed at the failure of all my efforts to restore her to the care

This time he really looked annoyed. I said a few sympathising words, and we then talked of other subjects on

our way back to the house. Surely my chance meeting with him on the moor has disclosed another favourable

trait in his character? Surely it was singularly considerate and unselfish of him to think of Anne Catherick on

the eve of his marriage, and to go all the way to Todd's Corner to make inquiries about her, when he might

have passed the time so much more agreeably in Laura's society? Considering that he can only have acted

from motives of pure charity, his conduct, under the circumstances, shows unusual good feeling and deserves

extraordinary praise. Well! I give him extraordinary praiseand there's an end of it.

Today I approached the subject of my proposed sojourn under his wife's roof when he brings her back to

England. I had hardly dropped my first hint in this direction before he caught me warmly by the hand, and

said I had made the very offer to him which he had been, on his side, most anxious to make to me. I was the

companion of all others whom he most sincerely longed to secure for his wife, and he begged me to believe

that I had conferred a lasting favour on him by making the proposal to live with Laura after her marriage,

When I had thanked him in her name and mine for his considerate kindness to both of us, we passed next to

the subject of his wedding tour, and began to talk of the English society in Rome to which Laura was to be

introduced. He ran over the names of several friends whom he expected to meet abroad this winter. They

were all English, as well as I can remember, with one exception. The one exception was Count Fosco.

The mention of the Count's name, and the discovery that he and his wife are likely to meet the bride and

bridegroom on the continent, puts Laura's marriage, for the first time, in a distinctly favourable light. It is

likely to be the means of healing a family feud. Hitherto Madame Fosco has chosen to forget her obligations

as Laura's aunt out of sheer spite against the late Mr. Fairlie for his conduct in the affair of the legacy. Now

however, she can persist in this course of conduct no longer. Sir Percival and Count Fosco are old and fast

friends, and their wives will have no choice but to meet on civil terms. Madame Fosco in her maiden days

was one of the most impertinent women I ever met withcapricious, exacting, and vain to the last degree of

absurdity. If her husband has succeeded in bringing her to her senses, he deserves the gratitude of every

I am becoming anxious to know the Count. He is the most intimate friend of Laura's husband, and in that

capacity he excites my strongest interest. Neither Laura nor I have ever seen him. All I know of him is that

his accidental presence, years ago, on the steps of the Trinita del Monte at Rome, assisted Sir Percival's

escape from robbery and assassination at the critical moment when he was wounded in the hand, and might

the next instant have been wounded in the heart. I remember also that, at the time of the late Mr. Fairlie's

absurd objections to his sister's marriage, the Count wrote him a very temperate and sensible letter on the

subject, which, I am ashamed to say, remained unanswered. This is all I know of Sir Percival's friend. I

My pen is running away into mere speculation. Let me return to sober matter of fact. It is certain that Sir

Percival's reception of my venturesome proposal to live with his wife was more than kind, it was almost

affectionate. I am sure Laura's husband will have no reason to complain of me if I can only go on as I have

begun. I have already declared him to be handsome, agreeable, full of good feeling towards the unfortunate

and full of affectionate kindness towards me. Really, I hardly; know myself again in my new character of Sir

20th.I hate Sir Percival! I flatly deny his good looks. I consider him to be eminently illtempered and

disagreeable, and totally wanting in kindness and good feeling. Last night the cards for the married couple

were sent home. Laura opened the packet and saw her future name in print for the first time. Sir Percival

looked over her shoulder familiarly at the new card which had already transformed Miss Fairlie into Lady

Glydesmiled with the most odious selfcomplacency, and whispered something in her ear. I don't know

what it wasLaura has refused to tell mebut I saw her face turn to such a deadly whiteness that I thought

she would have fainted. He took no notice of the changehe seemed to be barbarously unconscious that he

had said anything to pain her. All my old feelings of hostility towards him revived on the instant, and all the

hours that have passed since have done nothing to dissipate them. I am more unreasonable and more unjust

than ever. In three wordshow glibly my pen writes them!in three words, I hate him.

21st.Have the anxieties of this anxious time shaken me a little, at last? I have been writing, for the last few

days, in a tone of levity which, Heaven knows, is far enough from my heart, and which it has rather shocked

Perhaps I may have caught the feverish excitement of Laura's spirits for the last week. If so, the fit has

already passed away from me, and has left me in a very strange state of mind. A persistent idea has been

forcing itself on my attention, ever since last night, that something will yet happen to prevent the marriage.

What has produced this singular fancy? Is it the indirect result of my apprehensions for Laura's future? Or has

it been unconsciously suggested to me by the increasing restlessness and irritability which I have certainly

observed in Sir Percival's manner as the weddingday draws nearer and nearer? Impossible to say. I know

that I have the ideasurely the wildest idea, under the circumstances, that ever entered a woman's

This last day has been all confusion and wretchedness. How can I write about it?and yet, I must write.

Kind Mrs. Vesey, whom we have all too much overlooked and forgotten of late, innocently caused us a sad

morning to begin with. She has been, for months past, secretly making a warm Shetland shawl for her dear

pupila most beautiful and surprising piece of work to be done by a woman at her age and with her habits.

The gift was presented this morning, and poor warm hearted Laura completely broke down when the shawl

was put proudly on her shoulders by the loving old friend and guardian of her motherless childhood. I was

hardly allowed time to quiet them both, or even to dry my own eyes, when I was sent for by Mr. Fairlie, to be

favoured with a long recital of his arrangements for the preservation of his own tranquillity on the

"Dear Laura" was to receive his presenta shabby ring, with her affectionate uncle's hair for an ornament,

instead of a precious stone, and with a heartless French inscription inside, about congenial sentiments and

eternal friendship"dear Laura" was to receive this tender tribute from my hands immediately, so that she

might have plenty of time to recover from the agitation produced by the gift before she appeared in Mr.

Fairlie's presence. "Dear Laura" was to pay him a little visit that evening, and to be kind enough not to make

a scene. "Dear Laura" was to pay him another little visit in her weddingdress the next morning, and to be

kind enough, again, not to make a scene. "Dear Laura" was to look in once more, for the third time, before

going away, but without harrowing his feelings by saying WHEN she was going away, and without

tears"in the name of pity, in the name of everything, dear Marian, that is most affectionate and most

domestic, and most delightfully and charmingly selfcomposed, WITHOUT TEARS! " I was so exasperated

by this miserable selfish trifling, at such a time, that I should certainly have shocked Mr. Fairlie by some of

the hardest and rudest truths he has ever heard in his life, if the arrival of Mr. Arnold from Polesdean had not

The rest of the day is indescribable. I believe no one in the house really knew how it passed. The confusion of

small events, all huddled together one on the other, bewildered everybody. There were dresses sent home that

had been forgottenthere were trunks to be packed and unpacked and packed againthere were presents

from friends far and near, friends high and low. We were all needlessly hurried, all nervously expectant of the

morrow. Sir Percival, especially, was too restless now to remain five minutes together in the same place. That

short, sharp cough of his troubled him more than ever. He was in and out of doors all day long, and he

seemed to grow so inquisitive on a sudden, that he questioned the very strangers who came on small errands

to the house. Add to all this, the one perpetual thought in Laura's mind and mine, that we were to part the

next day, and the haunting dread, unexpressed by either of us, and yet ever present to both, that this

deplorable marriage might prove to be the one fatal error of her life and the one hopeless sorrow of mine. For

the first time in all the years of our close and happy intercourse we almost avoided looking each other in the

face, and we refrained, by common consent, from speaking together in private through the whole evening. I

can dwell on it no longer. Whatever future sorrows may be in store for me, I shall always look back on this

twentyfirst of December as the most comfortless and most miserable day of my life.

I am writing these lines in the solitude of my own room, long after midnight, having just come back from a

stolen look at Laura in her pretty little white bedthe bed she has occupied since the days of her girlhood.

There she lay, unconscious that I was looking at herquiet, more quiet than I had dared to hope, but not

sleeping. The glimmer of the nightlight showed me that her eyes were only partially closedthe traces of

tears glistened between her eyelids. My little keepsakeonly a broochlay on the table at her bedside,

with her prayerbook, and the miniature portrait of her father which she takes with her wherever she goes. I

waited a moment, looking at her from behind her pillow, as she lay beneath me, with one arm and hand

resting on the white coverlid, so still, so quietly breathing, that the frill on her nightdress never moved I

waited, looking at her, as I have seen her thousands of times, as I shall never see her againand then stole

back to my room. My own love! with all your wealth, and all your beauty, how friendless you are! The one

man who would give his heart's life to serve you is far away, tossing, this stormy night, on the awful sea.

Who else is left to you? No father, no brotherno living creature but the helpless, useless woman who writes

these sad lines, and watches by you for the morning, in sorrow that she cannot compose, in doubt that she

cannot conquer. Oh, what a trust is to be placed in that man's hands tomorrow! If ever he forgets itif ever

THE TWENTYSECOND OF DECEMBER. Seven o'clock. A wild, unsettled morning. She has just

Ten o'clock. She is dressed. We have kissed each otherwe have promised each other not to lose courage. I

am away for a moment in my own room. In the whirl and confusion of my thoughts, I can detect that strange

fancy of some hindrance happening to stop the marriage still hanging about my mind. Is it hanging about HIS

mind too? I see him from the window, moving hither and thither uneasily among the carriages at the

door.How can I write such folly! The marriage is a certainty. In less than half an hour we start for the

June 11th, 1850.Six months to look back onsix long, lonely months since Laura and I last saw each

How many days have I still to wait? Only one! Tomorrow, the twelfth, the travellers return to England. I can

hardly realise my own happinessI can hardly believe that the next fourand twenty hours will complete

She and her husband have been in Italy all the winter, and afterwards in the Tyrol. They come back,

accompanied by Count Fosco and his wife, who propose to settle somewhere in the neighbourhood of

London, and who have engaged to stay at Blackwater Park for the summer months before deciding on a place

of residence. So long as Laura returns, no matter who returns with her. Sir Percival may fill the house from

floor to ceiling, if he likes, on condition that his wife and I inhabit it together.

Meanwhile, here I am, established at Blackwater Park, "the ancient and interesting seat" (as the county

history obligingly informs me) "of Sir Percival Glyde, Bart.," and the future abidingplace (as I may now

venture to add on my account) of plain Marian Halcombe, spinster, now settled in a snug little sittingroom,

with a cup of tea by her side, and all her earthly possessions ranged round her in three boxes and a bag.

I left Limmeridge yesterday, having received Laura's delightful letter from Paris the day before. I had been

previously uncertain whether I was to meet them in London or in Hampshire, but this last letter informed me

that Sir Percival proposed to land at Southampton, and to travel straight on to his countryhouse. He has

spent so much money abroad that he has none left to defray the expenses of living in London for the

remainder of the season, and he is economically resolved to pass the summer and autumn quietly at

Blackwater. Laura has had more than enough of excitement and change of scene, and is pleased at the

prospect of country tranquillity and retirement which her husband's prudence provides for her. As for me, I

am ready to be happy anywhere in her society. We are all, therefore, well contented in our various ways, to

Last night I slept in London, and was delayed there so long today by various calls and commissions, that I

Judging by my vague impressions of the place thus far, it is the exact opposite of Limmeridge.

The house is situated on a dead flat, and seems to be shut in almost suffocated, to my northcountry

notions, by trees. I have seen nobody but the manservant who opened the door to me, and the housekeeper,

a very civil person, who showed me the way to my own room, and got me my tea. I have a nice little boudoir

and bedroom, at the end of a long passage on the first floor. The servants and some of the spare rooms are on

the second floor, and all the living rooms are on the ground floor. I have not seen one of them yet, and I know

nothing about the house, except that one wing of it is said to be five hundred years old, that it had a moat

Eleven o'clock has just struck, in a ghostly and solemn manner, from a turret over the centre of the house,

which I saw when I came in. A large dog has been woke, apparently by the sound of the bell, and is howling

and yawning drearily, somewhere round a corner. I hear echoing footsteps in the passages below, and the iron

thumping of bolts and bars at the house door. The servants are evidently going to bed. Shall I follow their

No, I am not half sleepy enough. Sleepy, did I say? I feel as if I should never close my eyes again. The bare

anticipation of seeing that dear face, and hearing that wellknown voice to morrow, keeps me in a perpetual

fever of excitement. If I only had the privileges of a man, I would order out Sir Percival's best horse instantly,

and tear away on a nightgallop, eastward, to meet the rising suna long, hard, heavy, ceaseless gallop of

hours and hours, like the famous highwayman's ride to York. Being, however, nothing but a woman,

condemned to patience, propriety, and petticoats for life, I must respect the house keeper's opinions, and try

Reading is out of the questionI can't fix my attention on books. Let me try if I can write myself into

sleepiness and fatigue. My journal has been very much neglected of late. What can I recall standing, as I

now do, on the threshold of a new lifeof persons and events, of chances and changes, during the past six

Walter Hartright is uppermost in my memory, and he passes first in the shadowy procession of my absent

friends. I received a few lines from him, after the landing of the expedition in Honduras, written more

cheerfully and hopefully than he has written yet. A month or six weeks later I saw an extract from an

American newspaper, describing the departure of the adventurers on their inland journey. They were last seen

entering a wild primeval forest, each man with his rifle on his shoulder and his baggage at his back. Since

that time, civilisation has lost all trace of them. Not a line more have I received from Walter, not a fragment

The same dense, disheartening obscurity hangs over the fate and fortunes of Anne Catherick, and her

companion, Mrs. Clements. Nothing whatever has been heard of either of them. Whether they are in the

country or out of it, whether they are living or dead, no one knows. Even Sir Percival's solicitor has lost all

hope, and has ordered the useless search after the fugitives to be finally given up.

Our good old friend Mr. Gilmore has met with a sad check in his active professional career. Early in the

spring we were alarmed by hearing that he had been found insensible at his desk, and that the seizure was

pronounced to be an apoplectic fit. He had been long complaining of fulness and oppression in the head, and

his doctor had warned him of the consequences that would follow his persistency in continuing to work, early

and late, as if he were still a young man. The result now is that he has been positively ordered to keep out of

his office for a year to come, at least, and to seek repose of body and relief of mind by altogether changing

his usual mode of life. The business is left, accordingly, to be carried on by his partner, and he is himself, at

this moment, away in Germany, visiting some relations who are settled there in mercantile pursuits. Thus

another true friend and trustworthy adviser is lost to uslost, I earnestly hope and trust, for a time only.

Poor Mrs. Vesey travelled with me as far as London. It was impossible to abandon her to solitude at

Limmeridge after Laura and I had both left the house, and we have arranged that she is to live with an

unmarried younger sister of hers, who keeps a school at Clapham. She is to come here this autumn to visit her

pupilI might almost say her adopted child. I saw the good old lady safe to her destination, and left her in

the care of her relative, quietly happy at the prospect of seeing Laura again in a few months' time.

As for Mr. Fairlie, I believe I am guilty of no injustice if I describe him as being unutterably relieved by

having the house clear of us women. The idea of his missing his niece is simply preposteroushe used to let

months pass in the old times without attempting to see herand in my case and Mrs. Vesey's, I take leave to

consider his telling us both that he was half heart broken at our departure, to be equivalent to a confession

that he was secretly rejoiced to get rid of us. His last caprice has led him to keep two photographers

incessantly employed in producing sunpictures of all the treasures and curiosities in his possession. One

complete copy of the collection of the photographs is to be presented to the Mechanics' Institution of Carlisle,

mounted on the finest cardboard, with ostentatious red letter inscriptions underneath, "Madonna and Child

by Raphael. In the possession of Frederick Fairlie, Esquire." "Copper coin of the period of Tiglath Pileser. In

the possession of Frederick Fairlie, Esquire." "Unique Rembrandt etching. Known all over Europe as THE

SMUDGE, from a printer's blot in the corner which exists in no other copy. Valued at three hundred guineas.

In the possession of Frederick Fairlie, Esq." Dozens of photographs of this sort, and all inscribed in this

manner, were completed before I left Cumberland, and hundreds more remain to be done. With this new

interest to occupy him, Mr. Fairlie will be a happy man for months and months to come, and the two

unfortunate photographers will share the social martyrdom which he has hitherto inflicted on his valet alone.

So much for the persons and events which hold the foremost place in my memory. What next of the one

person who holds the foremost place in my heart? Laura has been present to my thoughts all the while I have

been writing these lines. What can I recall of her during the past six months, before I close my journal for the

I have only her letters to guide me, and on the most important of all the questions which our correspondence

Does he treat her kindly? Is she happier now than she was when I parted with her on the weddingday? All

my letters have contained these two inquiries, put more or less directly, now in one form, and now in another,

and all, on that point only, have remained without reply, or have been answered as if my questions merely

related to the state of her health. She informs me, over and over again, that she is perfectly wellthat

travelling agrees with herthat she is getting through the winter, for the first time in her life, without

catching coldbut not a word can I find anywhere which tells me plainly that she is reconciled to her

marriage, and that she can now look back to the twentysecond of December without any bitter feelings of

repentance and regret. The name of her husband is only mentioned in her letters, as she might mention the

name of a friend who was travelling with them, and who had undertaken to make all the arrangements for the

journey. "Sir Percival" has settled that we leave on such a day "Sir Percival" has decided that we travel by

such a road. Sometimes she writes "Percival" only, but very seldomin nine cases out of ten she gives him

I cannot find that his habits and opinions have changed and coloured hers in any single particular. The usual

moral transformation which is insensibly wrought in a young, fresh, sensitive woman by her marriage, seems

never to have taken place in Laura. She writes of her own thoughts and impressions, amid all the wonders she

has seen, exactly as she might have written to some one else, if I had been travelling with her instead of her

husband. I see no betrayal anywhere of sympathy of any kind existing between them. Even when she wanders

from the subject of her travels, and occupies herself with the prospects that await her in England, her

speculations are busied with her future as my sister, and persistently neglect to notice her future as Sir

Percival's wife. In all this there is no undertone of complaint to warn me that she is absolutely unhappy in her

married life. The impression I have derived from our correspondence does not, thank God, lead me to any

such distressing conclusion as that. I only see a sad torpor, an unchangeable indifference, when I turn my

mind from her in the old character of a sister, and look at her, through the medium of her letters, in the new

character of a wife. In other words, it is always Laura Fairlie who has been writing to me for the last six

The strange silence which she maintains on the subject of her husband's character and conduct, she preserves

with almost equal resolution in the few references which her later letters contain to the name of her husband's

For some unexplained reason the Count and his wife appear to have changed their plans abruptly, at the end

of last autumn, and to have gone to Vienna instead of going to Rome, at which latter place Sir Percival had

expected to find them when he left England. They only quitted Vienna in the spring, and travelled as far as

the Tyrol to meet the bride and bridegroom on their homeward journey. Laura writes readily enough about

the meeting with Madame Fosco, and assures me that she has found her aunt so much changed for the

betterso much quieter, and so much more sensible as a wife than she was as a single womanthat I shall

hardly know her again when I see her here. But on the subject of Count Fosco (who interests me infinitely

more than his wife), Laura is provokingly circumspect and silent. She only says that he puzzles her, and that

she will not tell me what her impression of him is until I have seen him, and formed my own opinion first.

This, to my mind, looks ill for the Count. Laura has preserved, far more perfectly than most people do in later

life, the child's subtle faculty of knowing a friend by instinct, and if I am right in assuming that her first

impression of Count Fosco has not been favourable, I for one am in some danger of doubting and distrusting

that illustrious foreigner before I have so much as set eyes on him. But, patience, patiencethis uncertainty,

and many uncertainties more, cannot last much longer. Tomorrow will see all my doubts in a fair way of

Twelve o'clock has struck, and I have just come back to close these pages, after looking out at my open

It is a still, sultry, moonless night. The stars are dull and few. The trees that shut out the view on all sides

look dimly black and solid in the distance, like a great wall of rock. I hear the croaking of frogs, faint and far

off, and the echoes of the great clock hum in the airless calm long after the strokes have ceased. I wonder

how Blackwater Park will look in the daytime? I don't altogether like it by night.

12th.A day of investigations and discoveriesa more interesting day, for many reasons, than I had

The main body of the building is of the time of that highly overrated woman, Queen Elizabeth. On the

ground floor there are two hugely long galleries, with low ceilings lying parallel with each other, and

rendered additionally dark and dismal by hideous family portraitsevery one of which I should like to burn.

The rooms on the floor above the two galleries are kept in tolerable repair, but are very seldom used. The

civil housekeeper, who acted as my guide, offered to show me over them, but considerately added that she

feared I should find them rather out of order. My respect for the integrity of my own petticoats and stockings

infinitely exceeds my respect for all the Elizabethan bedrooms in the kingdom, so I positively declined

exploring the upper regions of dust and dirt at the risk of soiling my nice clean clothes. The housekeeper said,

"I am quite of your opinion, miss," and appeared to think me the most sensible woman she had met with for a

So much, then, for the main building. Two wings are added at either end of it. The halfruined wing on the

left (as you approach the house) was once a place of residence standing by itself, and was built in the

fourteenth century. One of Sir Percival's maternal ancestorsI don't remember, and don't care

whichtacked on the main building, at right angles to it, in the aforesaid Queen Elizabeth's time. The

housekeeper told me that the architecture of "the old wing," both outside and inside, was considered

remarkably fine by good judges. On further investigation I discovered that good judges could only exercise

their abilities on Sir Percival's piece of antiquity by previously dismissing from their minds all fear of damp,

darkness, and rats. Under these circumstances, I unhesitatingly acknowledged myself to be no judge at all,

and suggested that we should treat "the old wing" precisely as we had previously treated the Elizabethan

bedrooms. Once more the housekeeper said, "I am quite of your opinion, miss," and once more she looked at

We went next to the wing on the right, which was built, by way of completing the wonderful architectural

This is the habitable part of the house, which has been repaired and redecorated inside on Laura's account.

My two rooms, and all the good bedrooms besides, are on the first floor, and the basement contains a

drawingroom, a diningroom, a morningroom, a library, and a pretty little boudoir for Laura, all very

nicely ornamented in the bright modern way, and all very elegantly furnished with the delightful modern

luxuries. None of the rooms are anything like so large and airy as our rooms at Limmeridge, but they all look

pleasant to live in. I was terribly afraid, from what I had heard of Blackwater Park, of fatiguing antique

chairs, and dismal stained glass, and musty, frouzy hangings, and all the barbarous lumber which people born

without a sense of comfort accumulate about them, in defiance of the consideration due to the convenience of

their friends. It is an inexpressible relief to find that the nineteenth century has invaded this strange future

home of mine, and has swept the dirty "good old times" out of the way of our daily life.

I dawdled away the morningpart of the time in the rooms downstairs, and part out of doors in the great

square which is formed by the three sides of the house, and by the lofty iron railings and gates which protect

it in front. A large circular fishpond with stone sides, and an allegorical leaden monster in the middle,

occupies the centre of the square. The pond itself is full of gold and silver fish, and is encircled by a broad

belt of the softest turf I ever walked on. I loitered here on the shady side pleasantly enough till

luncheontime, and after that took my broad straw hat and wandered out alone in the warm lovely sunlight to

Daylight confirmed the impression which I had felt the night before, of there being too many trees at

Blackwater. The house is stifled by them. They are, for the most part, young, and planted far too thickly. I

suspect there must have been a ruinous cutting down of timber all over the estate before Sir Percival's time,

and an angry anxiety on the part of the next possessor to fill up all the gaps as thickly and rapidly as possible.

After looking about me in front of the house, I observed a flowergarden on my left hand, and walked

On a nearer view the garden proved to be small and poor and ill kept. I left it behind me, opened a little gate

A pretty winding path, artificially made, led me on among the trees, and my northcountry experience soon

informed me that I was approaching sandy, heathy ground. After a walk of more than half a mile, I should

think, among the firs, the path took a sharp turnthe trees abruptly ceased to appear on either side of me,

and I found myself standing suddenly on the margin of a vast open space, and looking down at the

The ground, shelving away below me, was all sand, with a few little heathy hillocks to break the monotony of

it in certain places. The lake itself had evidently once flowed to the spot on which I stood, and had been

gradually wasted and dried up to less than a third of its former size. I saw its still, stagnant waters, a quarter

of a mile away from me in the hollow, separated into pools and ponds by twining reeds and rushes, and little

knolls of earth. On the farther bank from me the trees rose thickly again, and shut out the view, and cast their

black shadows on the sluggish, shallow water. As I walked down to the lake, I saw that the ground on its

farther side was damp and marshy, overgrown with rank grass and dismal willows. The water, which was

clear enough on the open sandy side, where the sun shone, looked black and poisonous opposite to me, where

it lay deeper under the shade of the spongy banks, and the rank overhanging thickets and tangled trees. The

frogs were croaking, and the rats were slipping in and out of the shadowy water, like live shadows

themselves, as I got nearer to the marshy side of the lake. I saw here, lying half in and half out of the water,

the rotten wreck of an old overturned boat, with a sickly spot of sunlight glimmering through a gap in the

trees on its dry surface, and a snake basking in the midst of the spot, fantastically coiled and treacherously

still. Far and near the view suggested the same dreary impressions of solitude and decay, and the glorious

brightness of the summer sky overhead seemed only to deepen and harden the gloom and barrenness of the

wilderness on which it shone. I turned and retraced my steps to the high heathy ground, directing them a little

aside from my former path towards a shabby old wooden shed, which stood on the outer skirt of the fir

plantation, and which had hitherto been too unimportant to share my notice with the wide, wild prospect of

On approaching the shed I found that it had once been a boat house, and that an attempt had apparently been

made to convert it afterwards into a sort of rude arbour, by placing inside it a firwood seat, a few stools, and a

table. I entered the place, and sat down for a little while to rest and get my breath again.

I had not been in the boathouse more than a minute when it struck me that the sound of my own quick

breathing was very strangely echoed by something beneath me. I listened intently for a moment, and heard a

low, thick, sobbing breath that seemed to come from the ground under the seat which I was occupying. My

nerves are not easily shaken by trifles, but on this occasion I started to my feet in a frightcalled

outreceived no answersummoned back my recreant courage, and looked under the seat.

There, crouched up in the farthest corner, lay the forlorn cause of my terror, in the shape of a poor little

doga black and white spaniel. The creature moaned feebly when I looked at it and called to it, but never

stirred. I moved away the seat and looked closer. The poor little dog's eyes were glazing fast, and there were

spots of blood on its glossy white side. The misery of a weak, helpless, dumb creature is surely one of the

saddest of all the mournful sights which this world can show. I lifted the poor dog in my arms as gently as I

could, and contrived a sort of make shift hammock for him to lie in, by gathering up the front of my dress

all round him. In this way I took the creature, as painlessly as possible, and as fast as possible, back to the

Finding no one in the hall I went up at once to my own sitting room, made a bed for the dog with one of my

old shawls, and rang the bell. The largest and fattest of all possible housemaids answered it, in a state of

cheerful stupidity which would have provoked the patience of a saint. The girl's fat, shapeless face actually

"What do you see there to laugh at?" I asked, as angrily as if she had been a servant of my own. "Do you

"No, miss, that I certainly don't." She stooped, and looked down at the spaniel's injured sidebrightened

suddenly with the irradiation of a new ideaand pointing to the wound with a chuckle of satisfaction, said,

I was so exasperated that I could have boxed her ears. "Baxter?" I said. "Who is the brute you call Baxter?"

The girl grinned again more cheerfully than ever. "Bless you, miss! Baxter's the keeper, and when he finds

strange dogs hunting about, he takes and shoots 'em. It's keeper's dooty miss, I think that dog will die. Here's

where he's been shot, ain't it? That's Baxter's doings, that is. Baxter's doings, miss, and Baxter's dooty."

I was almost wicked enough to wish that Baxter had shot the housemaid instead of the dog. Seeing that it was

quite useless to expect this densely impenetrable personage to give me any help in relieving the suffering

creature at our feet, I told her to request the housekeeper's attendance with my compliments. She went out

exactly as she had come in, grinning from ear to ear. As the door closed on her she said to herself softly, "It's

The housekeeper, a person of some education and intelligence, thoughtfully brought upstairs with her some

milk and some warm water. The instant she saw the dog on the floor she started and changed colour.

"Why, Lord bless me," cried the housekeeper, "that must be Mrs. Catherick's dog!"

"Not personally, but I have heard of her. Does she live here? Has she had any news of her daughter?"

"Only yesterday. She said some one had reported that a stranger answering to the description of her daughter

had been seen in our neighbourhood. No such report has reached us here, and no such report was known in

the village, when I sent to make inquiries there on Mrs. Catherick's account. She certainly brought this poor

little dog with her when she came, and I saw it trot out after her when she went away. I suppose the creature

strayed into the plantations, and got shot. Where did you find it, Miss Halcombe?"

"Ah, yes, that is the plantation side, and the poor thing dragged itself, I suppose, to the nearest shelter, as dogs

will, to die. If you can moisten its lips with the milk, Miss Halcombe, I will wash the clotted hair from the

wound. I am very much afraid it is too late to do any good. However, we can but try."

Mrs. Catherick! The name still rang in my ears, as if the housekeeper had only that moment surprised me by

uttering it. While we were attending to the dog, the words of Walter Hartright's caution to me returned to my

memory: "If ever Anne Catherick crosses your path, make better use of the opportunity, Miss Halcombe, than

I made of it." The finding of the wounded spaniel had led me already to the discovery of Mrs. Catherick's

visit to Blackwater Park, and that event might lead in its turn, to something more. I determined to make the

most of the chance which was now offered to me, and to gain as much information as I could.

"Did you say that Mrs. Catherick lived anywhere in this neighbourhood?" I asked.

"Oh dear, no," said the housekeeper. "She lives at Welmingham, quite at the other end of the

"On the contrary, Miss Halcombe, I never saw her before she came here yesterday. I had heard of her, of

course, because I had heard of Sir Percival's kindness in putting her daughter under medical care. Mrs.

Catherick is rather a strange person in her manners, but extremely respectablelooking. She seemed sorely

put out when she found that there was no foundationnone, at least, that any of us could discoverfor the

"I am rather interested about Mrs. Catherick," I went on, continuing the conversation as long as possible. "I

wish I had arrived here soon enough to see her yesterday. Did she stay for any length of time?"

"Yes," said the housekeeper, "she stayed for some time; and I think she would have remained longer, if I had

not been called away to speak to a strange gentlemana gentleman who came to ask when Sir Percival was

expected back. Mrs. Catherick got up and left at once, when she heard the maid tell me what the visitor's

errand was. She said to me, at parting, that there was no need to tell Sir Percival of her coming here. I thought

that rather an odd remark to make, especially to a person in my responsible situation."

I thought it an odd remark too. Sir Percival had certainly led me to believe, at Limmeridge, that the most

perfect confidence existed between himself and Mrs. Catherick. If that was the case, why should she be

"Probably," I said, seeing that the housekeeper expected me to give my opinion on Mrs. Catherick's parting

words, "probably she thought the announcement of her visit might vex Sir Percival to no purpose, by

reminding him that her lost daughter was not found yet. Did she talk much on that subject?"

"Very little," replied the housekeeper. "She talked principally of Sir Percival, and asked a great many

questions about where he had been travelling, and what sort of lady his new wife was. She seemed to be more

soured and put out than distressed, by failing to find any traces of her daughter in these parts. 'I give her up,'

were the last words she said that I can remember; 'I give her up, ma'am, for lost.' And from that she passed at

once to her questions about Lady Glyde, wanting to know if she was a handsome, amiable lady, comely and

healthy and youngAh, dear! I thought how it would end. Look, Miss Halcombe, the poor thing is out of

The dog was dead. It had given a faint, sobbing cry, it had suffered an instant's convulsion of the limbs, just

as those last words, "comely and healthy and young," dropped from the housekeeper's lips. The change had

happened with startling suddennessin one moment the creature lay lifeless under our hands.

Eight o'clock. I have just returned from dining downstairs, in solitary state. The sunset is burning redly on the

wilderness of trees that I see from my window, and I am poring over my journal again, to calm my

impatience for the return of the travellers. They ought to have arrived, by my calculations, before this. How

still and lonely the house is in the drowsy evening quiet! Oh me! how many minutes more before I hear the

The poor little dog! I wish my first day at Blackwater Park had not been associated with death, though it is

WelminghamI see, on looking back through these private pages of mine, that Welmingham is the name of

the place where Mrs. Catherick lives. Her note is still in my possession, the note in answer to that letter about

her unhappy daughter which Sir Percival obliged me to write. One of these days, when I can find a safe

opportunity, I will take the note with me by way of introduction, and try what I can make of Mrs. Catherick at

a personal interview. I don't understand her wishing to conceal her visit to this place from Sir Percival's

knowledge, and I don't feel half so sure, as the housekeeper seems to do, that her daughter Anne is not in the

neighbourhood after all. What would Walter Hartright have said in this emergency? Poor, dear Hartright! I

am beginning to feel the want of his honest advice and his willing help already.

Surely I heard something. Was it a bustle of footsteps below stairs? Yes! I hear the horses' feetI hear the

June 15th.The confusion of their arrival has had time to subside. Two days have elapsed since the return of

the travellers, and that interval has sufficed to put the new machinery of our lives at Blackwater Park in fair

working order. I may now return to my journal, with some little chance of being able to continue the entries

I think I must begin by putting down an odd remark which has suggested itself to me since Laura came back.

When two members of a family or two intimate friends are separated, and one goes abroad and one remains

at home, the return of the relative or friend who has been travelling always seems to place the relative or

friend who has been staying at home at a painful disadvantage when the two first meet. The sudden encounter

of the new thoughts and new habits eagerly gained in the one case, with the old thoughts and old habits

passively preserved in the other, seems at first to part the sympathies of the most loving relatives and the

fondest friends, and to set a sudden strangeness, unexpected by both and uncontrollable by both, between

them on either side. After the first happiness of my meeting with Laura was over, after we had sat down

together hand in hand to recover breath enough and calmness enough to talk, I felt this strangeness instantly,

and I could see that she felt it too. It has partially worn away, now that we have fallen back into most of our

old habits, and it will probably disappear before long. But it has certainly had an influence over the first

impressions that I have formed of her, now that we are living together againfor which reason only I have

Changed in person, and in one respect changed in character. I cannot absolutely say that she is less beautiful

Others, who do not look at her with my eyes and my recollections, would probably think her improved. There

is more colour and more decision and roundness of outline in her face than there used to be, and her figure

seems more firmly set and more sure and easy in all its movements than it was in her maiden days. But I miss

something when I look at hersomething that once belonged to the happy, innocent life of Laura Fairlie, and

that I cannot find in Lady Glyde. There was in the old times a freshness, a softness, an evervarying and yet

everremaining tenderness of beauty in her face, the charm of which it is not possible to express in words, or,

as poor Hartright used often to say, in painting either. This is gone. I thought I saw the faint reflection of it for

a moment when she turned pale under the agitation of our sudden meeting on the evening of her return, but it

has never reappeared since. None of her letters had prepared me for a personal change in her. On the

contrary, they had led me to expect that her marriage had left her, in appearance at least, quite unaltered.

Perhaps I read her letters wrongly in the past, and am now reading her face wrongly in the present? No

matter! Whether her beauty has gained or whether it has lost in the last six months, the separation either way

has made her own dear self more precious to me than ever, and that is one good result of her marriage, at any

The second change, the change that I have observed in her character, has not surprised me, because I was

prepared for it in this case by the tone of her letters. Now that she is at home again, I find her just as

unwilling to enter into any details on the subject of her married life as I had previously found her all through

the time of our separation, when we could only communicate with each other by writing. At the first

approach I made to the forbidden topic she put her hand on my lips with a look and gesture which touchingly,

almost painfully, recalled to my memory the days of her girlhood and the happy bygone time when there

"Whenever you and I are together, Marian," she said, "we shall both be happier and easier with one another,

if we accept my married life for what it is, and say and think as little about it as possible. I would tell you

everything, darling, about myself," she went on, nervously buckling and unbuckling the ribbon round my

waist, "if my confidences could only end there. But they could notthey would lead me into confidences

about my husband too; and now I am married, I think I had better avoid them, for his sake, and for your sake,

and for mine. I don't say that they would distress you, or distress meI wouldn't have you think that for the

world. ButI want to be so happy, now I have got you back again, and I want you to be so happy too"

She broke off abruptly, and looked round the room, my own sittingroom, in which we were talking. "Ah!"

she cried, clapping her hands with a bright smile of recognition, "another old friend found already! Your

bookcase, Marianyour dearlittleshabbyoldsatinwood bookcasehow glad I am you brought it with

you from Limmeridge! And the horrid heavy man's umbrella, that you always would walk out with when it

rained! And first and foremost of all, your own dear, dark, clever, gipsyface, looking at me just as usual! It

is so like home again to be here. How can we make it more like home still? I will put my father's portrait in

your room instead of in mineand I will keep all my little treasures from Limmeridge hereand we will

pass hours and hours every day with these four friendly walls round us. Oh, Marian!" she said, suddenly

seating herself on a footstool at my knees, and looking up earnestly in my face, "promise you will never

marry, and leave me. It is selfish to say so, but you are so much better off as a single woman

unlessunless you are very fond of your husbandbut you won't be very fond of anybody but me, will

you?" She stopped again, crossed my hands on my lap, and laid her face on them. "Have you been writing

many letters, and receiving many letters lately?" she asked, in low, suddenlyaltered tones. I understood what

the question meant, but I thought it my duty not to encourage her by meeting her half way. "Have you heard

from him?" she went on, coaxing me to forgive the more direct appeal on which she now ventured, by kissing

my hands, upon which her face still rested. "Is he well and happy, and getting on in his profession? Has he

She should not have asked those questions. She should have remembered her own resolution, on the morning

when Sir Percival held her to her marriage engagement, and when she resigned the book of Hartright's

drawings into my hands for ever. But, ah me! where is the faultless human creature who can persevere in a

good resolution, without sometimes failing and falling back? Where is the woman who has ever really torn

from her heart the image that has been once fixed in it by a true love? Books tell us that such unearthly

I made no attempt to remonstrate with her: perhaps, because I sincerely appreciated the fearless candour

which let me see, what other women in her position might have had reasons for concealing even from their

dearest friendsperhaps, because I felt, in my own heart and conscience, that in her place I should have

asked the same questions and had the same thoughts. All I could honestly do was to reply that I had not

written to him or heard from him lately, and then to turn the conversation to less dangerous topics.

There has been much to sadden me in our interviewmy first confidential interview with her since her

return. The change which her marriage has produced in our relations towards each other, by placing a

forbidden subject between us, for the first time in our lives; the melancholy conviction of the dearth of all

warmth of feeling, of all close sympathy, between her husband and herself, which her own unwilling words

now force on my mind; the distressing discovery that the influence of that illfated attachment still remains

(no matter how innocently, how harmlessly) rooted as deeply as ever in her heartall these are disclosures to

sadden any woman who loves her as dearly, and feels for her as acutely, as I do.

There is only one consolation to set against thema consolation that ought to comfort me, and that does

comfort me. All the graces and gentleness of her characterall the frank affection of her natureall the

sweet, simple, womanly charms which used to make her the darling and delight of every one who approached

her, have come back to me with herself. Of my other impressions I am sometimes a little inclined to doubt.

Of this last, best, happiest of all impressions, I grow more and more certain every hour in the day.

Let me turn, now, from her to her travelling companions. Her husband must engage my attention first. What

have I observed in Sir Percival, since his return, to improve my opinion of him?

I can hardly say. Small vexations and annoyances seem to have beset him since he came back, and no man,

under those circumstances, is ever presented at his best. He looks, as I think, thinner than he was when he left

England. His wearisome cough and his comfortless restlessness have certainly increased. His mannerat

least his manner towards meis much more abrupt than it used to be. He greeted me, on the evening of his

return, with little or nothing of the ceremony and civility of former timesno polite speeches of

welcomeno appearance of extraordinary gratification at seeing menothing but a short shake of the hand,

and a sharp "Howd'yedo, Miss Halcombeglad to see you again." He seemed to accept me as one of the

necessary fixtures of Blackwater Park, to be satisfied at finding me established in my proper place, and then

Most men show something of their disposition in their own houses, which they have concealed elsewhere,

and Sir Percival has already displayed a mania for order and regularity, which is quite a new revelation of

him, so far as my previous knowledge of his character is concerned. If I take a book from the library and

leave it on the table, he follows me and puts it back again. If I rise from a chair, and let it remain where I have

been sitting, he carefully restores it to its proper place against the wall. He picks up stray flowerblossoms

from the carpet, and mutters to himself as discontentedly as if they were hot cinders burning holes in it, and

he storms at the servants if there is a crease in the tablecloth, or a knife missing from its place at the dinner

I have already referred to the small annoyances which appear to have troubled him since his return. Much of

the alteration for the worse which I have noticed in him may be due to these. I try to persuade myself that it is

so, because I am anxious not to be disheartened already about the future. It is certainly trying to any man's

temper to be met by a vexation the moment he sets foot in his own house again, after a long absence, and this

On the evening of their arrival the housekeeper followed me into the hall to receive her master and mistress

and their guests. The instant he saw her, Sir Percival asked if any one had called lately. The housekeeper

mentioned to him, in reply, what she had previously mentioned to me, the visit of the strange gentleman to

make inquiries about the time of her master's return. He asked immediately for the gentleman's name. No

name had been left. The gentleman's business? No business had been mentioned. What was the gentleman

like? The housekeeper tried to describe him, but failed to distinguish the nameless visitor by any personal

peculiarity which her master could recognise. Sir Percival frowned, stamped angrily on the floor, and walked

on into the house, taking no notice of anybody. Why he should have been so discomposed by a trifle I cannot

Upon the whole, it will be best, perhaps, if I abstain from forming a decisive opinion of his manners,

language, and conduct in his own house, until time has enabled him to shake off the anxieties, whatever they

may be, which now evidently troubled his mind in secret. I will turn over to a new page, and my pen shall let

The two gueststhe Count and Countess Foscocome next in my catalogue. I will dispose of the Countess

Laura was certainly not chargeable with any exaggeration, in writing me word that I should hardly recognise

her aunt again when we met. Never before have I beheld such a change produced in a woman by her marriage

As Eleanor Fairlie (aged sevenandthirty), she was always talking pretentious nonsense, and always

worrying the unfortunate men with every small exaction which a vain and foolish woman can impose on

longsuffering male humanity. As Madame Fosco (aged threeand forty), she sits for hours together

without saying a word, frozen up in the strangest manner in herself. The hideously ridiculous lovelocks

which used to hang on either side of her face are now replaced by stiff little rows of very short curls, of the

sort one sees in oldfashioned wigs. A plain, matronly cap covers her head, and makes her look, for the first

time in her life since I remember her, like a decent woman. Nobody (putting her husband out of the question,

of course) now sees in her, what everybody once sawI mean the structure of the female skeleton, in the

upper regions of the collarbones and the shoulderblades. Clad in quiet black or grey gowns, made high

round the throatdresses that she would have laughed at, or screamed at, as the whim of the moment

inclined her, in her maiden daysshe sits speechless in corners; her dry white hands (so dry that the pores of

her skin look chalky) incessantly engaged, either in monotonous embroidery work or in rolling up endless

cigarettes for the Count's own particular smoking. On the few occasions when her cold blue eyes are off her

work, they are generally turned on her husband, with the look of mute submissive inquiry which we are all

familiar with in the eyes of a faithful dog. The only approach to an inward thaw which I have yet detected

under her outer covering of icy constraint, has betrayed itself, once or twice, in the form of a suppressed

tigerish jealousy of any woman in the house (the maids included) to whom the Count speaks, or on whom he

looks with anything approaching to special interest or attention. Except in this one particular, she is always,

morning, noon, and night, indoors and out, fair weather or foul, as cold as a statue, and as impenetrable as the

stone out of which it is cut. For the common purposes of society the extraordinary change thus produced in

her is, beyond all doubt, a change for the better, seeing that it has transformed her into a civil, silent,

unobtrusive woman, who is never in the way. How far she is really reformed or deteriorated in her secret self,

is another question. I have once or twice seen sudden changes of expression on her pinched lips, and heard

sudden inflexions of tone in her calm voice, which have led me to suspect that her present state of

suppression may have sealed up something dangerous in her nature, which used to evaporate harmlessly in

the freedom of her former life. It is quite possible that I may be altogether wrong in this idea. My own

And the magician who has wrought this wonderful transformation the foreign husband who has tamed this

once wayward English woman till her own relations hardly know her againthe Count himself? What of the

This in two words: He looks like a man who could tame anything. If he had married a tigress, instead of a

woman, he would have tamed the tigress. If he had married me, I should have made his cigarettes, as his wife

I am almost afraid to confess it, even to these secret pages. The man has interested me, has attracted me, has

forced me to like him. In two short days he has made his way straight into my favourable estimation, and how

It absolutely startles me, now he is in my mind, to find how plainly I see him!how much more plainly than

I see Sir Percival, or Mr. Fairlie, or Walter Hartright, or any other absent person of whom I think, with the

one exception of Laura herself! I can hear his voice, as if he was speaking at this moment. I know what his

conversation was yesterday, as well as if I was hearing it now. How am I to describe him? There are

peculiarities in his personal appearance, his habits, and his amusements, which I should blame in the boldest

terms, or ridicule in the most merciless manner, if I had seen them in another man. What is it that makes me

For example, he is immensely fat. Before this time I have always especially disliked corpulent humanity. I

have always maintained that the popular notion of connecting excessive grossness of size and excessive

goodhumour as inseparable allies was equivalent to declaring, either that no people but amiable people ever

get fat, or that the accidental addition of so many pounds of flesh has a directly favourable influence over the

disposition of the person on whose body they accumulate. I have invariably combated both these absurd

assertions by quoting examples of fat people who were as mean, vicious, and cruel as the leanest and the

worst of their neighbours. I have asked whether Henry the Eighth was an amiable character? Whether Pope

Alexander the Sixth was a good man? Whether Mr. Murderer and Mrs. Murderess Manning were not both

unusually stout people? Whether hired nurses, proverbially as cruel a set of women as are to be found in all

England, were not, for the most part, also as fat a set of women as are to be found in all England?and so

on, through dozens of other examples, modern and ancient, native and foreign, high and low. Holding these

strong opinions on the subject with might and main as I do at this moment, here, nevertheless, is Count

Fosco, as fat as Henry the Eighth himself, established in my favour, at one day's notice, without let or

It may be his face. He is a most remarkable likeness, on a large scale, of the great Napoleon. His features

have Napoleon's magnificent regularityhis expression recalls the grandly calm, immovable power of the

Great Soldier's face. This striking resemblance certainly impressed me, to begin with; but there is something

in him besides the resemblance, which has impressed me more. I think the influence I am now trying to find

is in his eyes. They are the most unfathomable grey eyes I ever saw, and they have at times a cold, clear,

beautiful, irresistible glitter in them which forces me to look at him, and yet causes me sensations, when I do

look, which I would rather not feel. Other parts of his face and head have their strange peculiarities. His

complexion, for instance, has a singular sallowfairness, so much at variance with the darkbrown colour of

his hair, that I suspect the hair of being a wig, and his face, closely shaven all over, is smoother and freer

from all marks and wrinkles than mine, though (according to Sir Percival's account of him) he is close on

sixty years of age. But these are not the prominent personal characteristics which distinguish him, to my

mind, from all the other men I have ever seen. The marked peculiarity which singles him out from the rank

and file of humanity lies entirely, so far as I can tell at present, in the extraordinary expression and

His manner and his command of our language may also have assisted him, in some degree, to establish

himself in my good opinion. He has that quiet deference, that look of pleased, attentive interest in listening to

a woman, and that secret gentleness in his voice in speaking to a woman, which, say what we may, we can

none of us resist. Here, too, his unusual command of the English language necessarily helps him. I had often

heard of the extraordinary aptitude which many Italians show in mastering our strong, hard, Northern speech;

but, until I saw Count Fosco, I had never supposed it possible that any foreigner could have spoken English

as he speaks it. There are times when it is almost impossible to detect, by his accent that he is not a

countryman of our own, and as for fluency, there are very few born Englishmen who can talk with as few

stoppages and repetitions as the Count. He may construct his sentences more or less in the foreign way, but I

have never yet heard him use a wrong expression, or hesitate for a moment in his choice of a word.

All the smallest characteristics of this strange man have something strikingly original and perplexingly

contradictory in them. Fat as he is and old as he is, his movements are astonishingly light and easy. He is as

noiseless in a room as any of us women, and more than that, with all his look of unmistakable mental

firmness and power, he is as nervously sensitive as the weakest of us. He starts at chance noises as

inveterately as Laura herself. He winced and shuddered yesterday, when Sir Percival beat one of the spaniels,

so that I felt ashamed of my own want of tenderness and sensibility by comparison with the Count.

The relation of this last incident reminds me of one of his most curious peculiarities, which I have not yet

Some of these he has left on the Continent, but he has brought with him to this house a cockatoo, two

canarybirds, and a whole family of white mice. He attends to all the necessities of these strange favourites

himself, and he has taught the creatures to be surprisingly fond of him and familiar with him. The cockatoo, a

most vicious and treacherous bird towards every one else, absolutely seems to love him. When he lets it out

of its cage, it hops on to his knee, and claws its way up his great big body, and rubs its topknot against his

sallow double chin in the most caressing manner imaginable. He has only to set the doors of the canaries'

cages open, and to call them, and the pretty little cleverly trained creatures perch fearlessly on his hand,

mount his fat outstretched fingers one by one, when he tells them to "go upstairs," and sing together as if they

would burst their throats with delight when they get to the top finger. His white mice live in a little pagoda of

gailypainted wirework, designed and made by himself. They are almost as tame as the canaries, and they are

perpetually let out like the canaries. They crawl all over him, popping in and out of his waistcoat, and sitting

in couples, white as snow, on his capacious shoulders. He seems to be even fonder of his mice than of his

other pets, smiles at them, and kisses them, and calls them by all sorts of endearing names. If it be possible to

suppose an Englishman with any taste for such childish interests and amusements as these, that Englishman

would certainly feel rather ashamed of them, and would be anxious to apologise for them, in the company of

grownup people. But the Count, apparently, sees nothing ridiculous in the amazing contrast between his

colossal self and his frail little pets. He would blandly kiss his white mice and twitter to his canarybirds

amid an assembly of English foxhunters, and would only pity them as barbarians when they were all

It seems hardly credible while I am writing it down, but it is certainly true, that this same man, who has all

the fondness of an old maid for his cockatoo, and all the small dexterities of an organboy in managing his

white mice, can talk, when anything happens to rouse him, with a daring independence of thought, a

knowledge of books in every language, and an experience of society in half the capitals of Europe, which

would make him the prominent personage of any assembly in the civilised world. This trainer of

canarybirds, this architect of a pagoda for white mice, is (as Sir Percival himself has told me) one of the first

experimental chemists living, and has discovered, among other wonderful inventions, a means of petrifying

the body after death, so as to preserve it, as hard as marble, to the end of time. This fat, indolent, elderly man,

whose nerves are so finely strung that he starts at chance noises, and winces when he sees a housespaniel

get a whipping, went into the stableyard on the morning after his arrival, and put his hand on the head of a

chained bloodhounda beast so savage that the very groom who feeds him keeps out of his reach. His wife

and I were present, and I shall not forget the scene that followed, short as it was.

"Mind that dog, sir," said the groom; "he flies at everybody!" "He does that, my friend," replied the Count

quietly, "because everybody is afraid of him. Let us see if he flies at me." And he laid his plump,

yellowwhite fingers, on which the canarybirds had been perching ten minutes before, upon the formidable

brute's head, and looked him straight in the eyes. "You big dogs are all cowards," he said, addressing the

animal contemptuously, with his face and the dog's within an inch of each other. "You would kill a poor cat,

you infernal coward. You would fly at a starving beggar, you infernal coward. Anything that you can surprise

unawaresanything that is afraid of your big body, and your wicked white teeth, and your slobbering,

bloodthirsty mouth, is the thing you like to fly at. You could throttle me at this moment, you mean, miserable

bully, and you daren't so much as look me in the face, because I'm not afraid of you. Will you think better of

it, and try your teeth in my fat neck? Bah! not you!" He turned away, laughing at the astonishment of the men

in the yard, and the dog crept back meekly to his kennel. "Ah! my nice waistcoat!" he said pathetically. "I am

sorry I came here. Some of that brute's slobber has got on my pretty clean waistcoat." Those words express

another of his incomprehensible oddities. He is as fond of fine clothes as the veriest fool in existence, and has

appeared in four magnificent waistcoats alreadyall of light garish colours, and all immensely large even for

His tact and cleverness in small things are quite as noticeable as the singular inconsistencies in his character,

I can see already that he means to live on excellent terms with all of us during the period of his sojourn in this

place. He has evidently discovered that Laura secretly dislikes him (she confessed as much to me when I

pressed her on the subject)but he has also found out that she is extravagantly fond of flowers. Whenever

she wants a nosegay he has got one to give her, gathered and arranged by himself, and greatly to my

amusement, he is always cunningly provided with a duplicate, composed of exactly the same flowers,

grouped in exactly the same way, to appease his icily jealous wife before she can so much as think herself

aggrieved. His management of the Countess (in public) is a sight to see. He bows to her, he habitually

addresses her as "my angel," he carries his canaries to pay her little visits on his fingers and to sing to her, he

kisses her hand when she gives him his cigarettes; he presents her with sugarplums in return, which he puts

into her mouth playfully, from a box in his pocket. The rod of iron with which he rules her never appears in

His method of recommending himself to me is entirely different. He flatters my vanity by talking to me as

seriously and sensibly as if I was a man. Yes! I can find him out when I am away from himI know he

flatters my vanity, when I think of him up here in my own roomand yet, when I go downstairs, and get into

his company again, he will blind me again, and I shall be flattered again, just as if I had never found him out

at all! He can manage me as he manages his wife and Laura, as he managed the bloodhound in the

stableyard, as he manages Sir Percival himself, every hour in the day. "My good Percival! how I like your

rough English humour!""My good Percival! how I enjoy your solid English sense!" He puts the rudest

remarks Sir Percival can make on his effeminate tastes and amusements quietly away from him in that

manneralways calling the baronet by his Christian name, smiling at him with the calmest superiority,

patting him on the shoulder, and bearing with him benignantly, as a goodhumoured father bears with a

The interest which I really cannot help feeling in this strangely original man has led me to question Sir

Sir Percival either knows little, or will tell me little, about it. He and the Count first met many years ago, at

Rome, under the dangerous circumstances to which I have alluded elsewhere. Since that time they have been

perpetually together in London, in Paris, and in Viennabut never in Italy again; the Count having, oddly

enough, not crossed the frontiers of his native country for years past. Perhaps he has been made the victim of

some political persecution? At all events, he seems to be patriotically anxious not to lose sight of any of his

own countrymen who may happen to be in England. On the evening of his arrival he asked how far we were

from the nearest town, and whether we knew of any Italian gentlemen who might happen to be settled there.

He is certainly in correspondence with people on the Continent, for his letters have all sorts of odd stamps on

them, and I saw one for him this morning, waiting in his place at the breakfasttable, with a huge,

officiallooking seal on it. Perhaps he is in correspondence with his government? And yet, that is hardly to be

How much I seem to have written about Count Fosco! And what does it all amount to?as poor, dear Mr.

Gilmore would ask, in his impenetrable businesslike way I can only repeat that I do assuredly feel, even on

this short acquaintance, a strange, half willing, halfunwilling liking for the Count. He seems to have

established over me the same sort of ascendency which he has evidently gained over Sir Percival. Free, and

even rude, as he may occasionally be in his manner towards his fat friend, Sir Percival is nevertheless afraid,

as I can plainly see, of giving any serious offence to the Count. I wonder whether I am afraid too? I certainly

never saw a man, in all my experience, whom I should be so sorry to have for an enemy. Is this because I like

him, or because I am afraid of him? Chi sa?as Count Fosco might say in his own language. Who knows?

June 16th.Something to chronicle today besides my own ideas and impressions. A visitor has

arrivedquite unknown to Laura and to me, and apparently quite unexpected by Sir Percival.

We were all at lunch, in the room with the new French windows that open into the verandah, and the Count

(who devours pastry as I have never yet seen it devoured by any human beings but girls at boardingschools)

had just amused us by asking gravely for his fourth tartwhen the servant entered to announce the visitor.

"Mr. Merriman!" he repeated, as if he thought his own ears must have deceived him.

He left the table the instant the last answer was given, and hurried out of the room without saying a word to

The Count had finished his fourth tart, and had gone to a side table to look after his vicious cockatoo. He

Sir Percival's solicitor. It was a perfectly straightforward answer to Laura's question, and yet, under the

circumstances, it was not satisfactory. If Mr. Merriman had been specially sent for by his client, there would

have been nothing very wonderful in his leaving town to obey the summons. But when a lawyer travels from

London to Hampshire without being sent for, and when his arrival at a gentleman's house seriously startles

the gentleman himself, it may be safely taken for granted that the legal visitor is the bearer of some very

important and very unexpected newsnews which may be either very good or very bad, but which cannot,

Laura and I sat silent at the table for a quarter of an hour or more, wondering uneasily what had happened,

and waiting for the chance of Sir Percival's speedy return. There were no signs of his return, and we rose to

The Count, attentive as usual, advanced from the corner in which he had been feeding his cockatoo, with the

bird still perched on his shoulder, and opened the door for us. Laura and Madame Fosco went out first. Just as

I was on the point of following them he made a sign with his hand, and spoke to me, before I passed him, in

"Yes," he said, quietly answering the unexpressed idea at that moment in my mind, as if I had plainly

confided it to him in so many words" yes, Miss Halcombe, something HAS happened."

I was on the point of answering, "I never said so," but the vicious cockatoo ruffled his clipped wings and

gave a screech that set all my nerves on edge in an instant, and made me only too glad to get out of the room.

I joined Laura at the foot of the stairs. The thought in her mind was the same as the thought in mine, which

Count Fosco had surprised, and when she spoke her words were almost the echo of his. She, too, said to me

June 16th.I have a few lines more to add to this day's entry before I go to bed tonight.

About two hours after Sir Percival rose from the luncheontable to receive his solicitor, Mr. Merriman, in the

library, I left my room alone to take a walk in the plantations. Just as I was at the end of the landing the

library door opened and the two gentlemen came out. Thinking it best not to disturb them by appearing on the

stairs, I resolved to defer going down till they had crossed the hall. Although they spoke to each other in

guarded tones, their words were pronounced with sufficient distinctness of utterance to reach my ears.

"Make your mind easy, Sir Percival," I heard the lawyer say; "it all rests with Lady Glyde."

I had turned to go back to my own room for a minute or two, but the sound of Laura's name on the lips of a

stranger stopped me instantly. I daresay it was very wrong and very discreditable to listen, but where is the

woman, in the whole range of our sex, who can regulate her actions by the abstract principles of honour,

when those principles point one way, and when her affections, and the interests which grow out of them,

I listenedand under similar circumstances I would listen again yes! with my ear at the keyhole, if I could

"You quite understand, Sir Percival," the lawyer went on. "Lady Glyde is to sign her name in the presence of

a witnessor of two witnesses, if you wish to be particularly carefuland is then to put her finger on the

seal and say, 'I deliver this as my act and deed.' If that is done in a week's time the arrangement will be

"What do you mean by 'if not'?" asked Sir Percival angrily. "If the thing must be done it SHALL be done. I

"Just so, Sir Percivaljust so; but there are two alternatives in all transactions, and we lawyers like to look

both of them in the face boldly. If through any extraordinary circumstance the arrangement should not be

made, I think I may be able to get the parties to accept bills at three months. But how the money is to be

"Damn the bills! The money is only to be got in one way, and in that way, I tell you again, it SHALL be got.

"Much obliged, Sir Percival, I have not a moment to lose if I am to catch the uptrain. You will let me know

as soon as the arrangement is complete? and you will not forget the caution I recommended"

"Of course I won't. There's the dogcart at the door for you. My groom will get you to the station in no time.

Benjamin, drive like mad! Jump in. If Mr. Merriman misses the train you lose your place. Hold fast,

Merriman, and if you are upset trust to the devil to save his own." With that parting benediction the baronet

I had not heard much, but the little that had reached my ears was enough to make me feel uneasy. The

"something" that "had happened" was but too plainly a serious money embarrassment, and Sir Percival's

relief from it depended upon Laura. The prospect of seeing her involved in her husband's secret difficulties

filled me with dismay, exaggerated, no doubt, by my ignorance of business and my settled distrust of Sir

Percival. Instead of going out, as I proposed, I went back immediately to Laura's room to tell her what I had

She received my bad news so composedly as to surprise me. She evidently knows more of her husband's

character and her husband's embarrassments than I have suspected up to this time.

"I feared as much," she said, "when I heard of that strange gentleman who called, and declined to leave his

"Some person who has heavy claims on Sir Percival," she answered, "and who has been the cause of Mr.

"Certainly not, Marian. Whatever I can harmlessly and honestly do to help him I will dofor the sake of

making your life and mine, love, as easy and as happy as possible. But I will do nothing ignorantly, which we

might, one day, have reason to feel ashamed of. Let us say no more about it now. You have got your hat on

As we passed an open space among the trees in front of the house, there was Count Fosco, slowly walking

backwards and forwards on the grass, sunning himself in the full blaze of the hot June afternoon. He had a

broad straw hat on, with a violetcoloured ribbon round it. A blue blouse, with profuse white fancywork

over the bosom, covered his prodigious body, and was girt about the place where his waist might once have

been with a broad scarlet leather belt. Nankeen trousers, displaying more white fancywork over the ankles,

and purple morocco slippers, adorned his lower extremities. He was singing Figaro's famous song in the

Barber of Seville, with that crisply fluent vocalisation which is never heard from any other than an Italian

throat, accompanying himself on the concertina, which he played with ecstatic throwingsup of his arms, and

graceful twistings and turnings of his head, like a fat St. Cecilia masquerading in male attire. "Figaro qua!

Figaro la! Figaro su! Figaro giu!" sang the Count, jauntily tossing up the concertina at arm's length, and

bowing to us, on one side of the instrument, with the airy grace and elegance of Figaro himself at twenty

"Take my word for it, Laura, that man knows something of Sir Percival's embarrassments," I said, as we

"How should he have known, otherwise, that Mr. Merriman was Sir Percival's solicitor?" I rejoined. "Besides,

when I followed you out of the luncheonroom, he told me, without a single word of inquiry on my part, that

"You seem to dislike him, Laura, in a very determined manner. What has he said or done to justify you?"

"Nothing, Marian. On the contrary, he was all kindness and attention on our journey home, and he several

times checked Sir Percival's outbreaks of temper, in the most considerate manner towards me. Perhaps I

dislike him because he has so much more power over my husband than I have. Perhaps it hurts my pride to be

under any obligations to his interference. All I know is, that I DO dislike him."

The rest of the day and evening passed quietly enough. The Count and I played at chess. For the first two

games he politely allowed me to conquer him, and then, when he saw that I had found him out, begged my

pardon, and at the third game checkmated me in ten minutes. Sir Percival never once referred, all through the

evening, to the lawyer's visit. But either that event, or something else, had produced a singular alteration for

the better in him. He was as polite and agreeable to all of us, as he used to be in the days of his probation at

Limmeridge, and he was so amazingly attentive and kind to his wife, that even icy Madame Fosco was

roused into looking at him with a grave surprise. What does this mean? I think I can guessI am afraid

Laura can guess and I am sure Count Fosco knows. I caught Sir Percival looking at him for approval more

June 17th.A day of events. I most fervently hope I may not have to add, a day of disasters as well.

Sir Percival was as silent at breakfast as he had been the evening before, on the subject of the mysterious

"arrangement" (as the lawyer called it) which is hanging over our heads. An hour afterwards, however, he

suddenly entered the morningroom, where his wife and I were waiting, with our hats on, for Madame Fosco

"The fact is," Sir Percival went on, walking nervously about the room, "I want Fosco and his wife in the

library, for a mere business formality, and I want you there, Laura, for a minute too." He stopped, and

appeared to notice, for the first time, that we were in our walking costume. "Have you just come in?" he

"We were all thinking of going to the lake this morning," said Laura. "But if you have any other arrangement

"No, no," he answered hastily. "My arrangement can wait. After lunch will do as well for it as after breakfast.

All going to the lake, eh? A good idea. Let's have an idle morningI'll be one of the party."

There was no mistaking his manner, even if it had been possible to mistake the uncharacteristic readiness

which his words expressed, to submit his own plans and projects to the convenience of others. He was

evidently relieved at finding any excuse for delaying the business formality in the library, to which his own

The Count and his wife joined us at that moment. The lady had her husband's embroidered tobaccopouch,

and her store of paper in her hand, for the manufacture of the eternal cigarettes. The gentleman, dressed, as

usual, in his blouse and straw hat, carried the gay little pagodacage, with his darling white mice in it, and

smiled on them, and on us, with a bland amiability which it was impossible to resist.

"With your kind permission," said the Count, "I will take my small family heremy

poorlittleharmlessprettyMouseys, out for an airing along with us. There are dogs about the house, and

He chirruped paternally at his small white children through the bars of the pagoda, and we all left the house

In the plantation Sir Percival strayed away from us. It seems to be part of his restless disposition always to

separate himself from his companions on these occasions, and always to occupy himself when he is alone in

cutting new walkingsticks for his own use. The mere act of cutting and lopping at hazard appears to please

him. He has filled the house with walkingsticks of his own making, not one of which he ever takes up for a

second time. When they have been once used his interest in them is all exhausted, and he thinks of nothing

At the old boathouse he joined us again. I will put down the conversation that ensued when we were all

settled in our places exactly as it passed. It is an important conversation, so far as I am concerned, for it has

seriously disposed me to distrust the influence which Count Fosco has exercised over my thoughts and

The boathouse was large enough to hold us all, but Sir Percival remained outside trimming the last new

stick with his pocketaxe. We three women found plenty of room on the large seat. Laura took her work, and

Madame Fosco began her cigarettes. I, as usual, had nothing to do. My hands always were, and always will

be, as awkward as a man's. The Count goodhumouredly took a stool many sizes too small for him, and

balanced himself on it with his back against the side of the shed, which creaked and groaned under his

weight. He put the pagodacage on his lap, and let out the mice to crawl over him as usual. They are pretty,

innocentlooking little creatures, but the sight of them creeping about a man's body is for some reason not

pleasant to me. It excites a strange responsive creeping in my own nerves, and suggests hideous ideas of men

dying in prison with the crawling creatures of the dungeon preying on them undisturbed.

The morning was windy and cloudy, and the rapid alternations of shadow and sunlight over the waste of the

"Some people call that picturesque," said Sir Percival, pointing over the wide prospect with his halffinished

walkingstick. "I call it a blot on a gentleman's property. In my great grandfather's time the lake flowed to

this place. Look at it now! It is not four feet deep anywhere, and it is all puddles and pools. I wish I could

afford to drain it, and plant it all over. My bailiff (a superstitious idiot) says he is quite sure the lake has a

curse on it, like the Dead Sea. What do you think, Fosco? It looks just the place for a murder, doesn't it?"

"My good Percival," remonstrated the Count. "What is your solid English sense thinking of? The water is too

shallow to hide the body, and there is sand everywhere to print off the murderer's footsteps. It is, upon the

"Humbug!" said Sir Percival, cutting away fiercely at his stick. "You know what I mean. The dreary scenery,

the lonely situation. If you choose to understand me, you canif you don't choose, I am not going to trouble

"And why not," asked the Count, "when your meaning can be explained by anybody in two words? If a fool

was going to commit a murder, your lake is the first place he would choose for it. If a wise man was going to

commit a murder, your lake is the last place he would choose for it. Is that your meaning? If it is, there is

your explanation for you ready made. Take it, Percival, with your good Fosco's blessing."

Laura looked at the Count with her dislike for him appearing a little too plainly in her face. He was so busy

"I am sorry to hear the lakeview connected with anything so horrible as the idea of murder," she said. "And

if Count Fosco must divide murderers into classes, I think he has been very unfortunate in his choice of

expressions. To describe them as fools only seems like treating them with an indulgence to which they have

no claim. And to describe them as wise men sounds to me like a downright contradiction in terms. I have

always heard that truly wise men are truly good men, and have a horror of crime."

"My dear lady," said the Count, "those are admirable sentiments, and I have seen them stated at the tops of

copybooks." He lifted one of the white mice in the palm of his hand, and spoke to it in his whimsical way.

"My pretty little smooth white rascal," he said, "here is a moral lesson for you. A truly wise mouse is a truly

good mouse. Mention that, if you please, to your companions, and never gnaw at the bars of your cage again

"It is easy to turn everything into ridicule," said Laura resolutely; "but you will not find it quite so easy,

Count Fosco, to give me an instance of a wise man who has been a great criminal."

The Count shrugged his huge shoulders, and smiled on Laura in the friendliest manner.

"Most true!" he said. "The fool's crime is the crime that is found out, and the wise man's crime is the crime

that is NOT found out. If I could give you an instance, it would not be the instance of a wise man. Dear Lady

Glyde, your sound English common sense has been too much for me. It is checkmate for me this time, Miss

"Stand to your guns, Laura," sneered Sir Percival, who had been listening in his place at the door. "Tell him

next, that crimes cause their own detection. There's another bit of copybook morality for you, Fosco. Crimes

Sir Percival burst out laughing, so violently, so outrageously, that he quite startled us allthe Count more

Sir Percival, who had been unaccountably amused at his wife's remark, was just as unaccountably irritated by

"Poor dear Percival!" cried Count Fosco, looking after him gaily, "he is the victim of English spleen. But, my

dear Miss Halcombe, my dear Lady Glyde, do you really believe that crimes cause their own detection? And

you, my angel," he continued, turning to his wife, who had not uttered a word yet, "do you think so too?"

"I wait to be instructed," replied the Countess, in tones of freezing reproof, intended for Laura and me,

"Do you, indeed?" I said. "I remember the time, Countess, when you advocated the Rights of Women, and

"What is your view of the subject, Count?" asked Madame Fosco, calmly proceeding with her cigarettes, and

The Count stroked one of his white mice reflectively with his chubby little finger before he answered.

"It is truly wonderful," he said, "how easily Society can console itself for the worst of its shortcomings with a

little bit of claptrap. The machinery it has set up for the detection of crime is miserably ineffectiveand yet

only invent a moral epigram, saying that it works well, and you blind everybody to its blunders from that

moment. Crimes cause their own detection, do they? And murder will out (another moral epigram), will it?

Ask Coroners who sit at inquests in large towns if that is true, Lady Glyde. Ask secretaries of lifeassurance

companies if that is true, Miss Halcombe. Read your own public journals. In the few cases that get into the

newspapers, are there not instances of slain bodies found, and no murderers ever discovered? Multiply the

cases that are reported by the cases that are NOT reported, and the bodies that are found by the bodies that are

NOT found, and what conclusion do you come to? This. That there are foolish criminals who are discovered,

and wise criminals who escape. The hiding of a crime, or the detection of a crime, what is it? A trial of skill

between the police on one side, and the individual on the other. When the criminal is a brutal, ignorant fool,

the police in nine cases out of ten win. When the criminal is a resolute, educated, highlyintelligent man, the

police in nine cases out of ten lose. If the police win, you generally hear all about it. If the police lose, you

generally hear nothing. And on this tottering foundation you build up your comfortable moral maxim that

Crime causes its own detection! Yesall the crime you know of. And what of the rest?"

"Devilish true, and very well put," cried a voice at the entrance of the boathouse. Sir Percival had recovered

"Some of it may be true," I said, "and all of it may be very well put. But I don't see why Count Fosco should

celebrate the victory of the criminal over Society with so much exultation, or why you, Sir Percival, should

"Do you hear that, Fosco?" asked Sir Percival. "Take my advice, and make your peace with your audience.

The Count laughed inwardly and silently, and two of the white mice in his waistcoat, alarmed by the internal

convulsion going on beneath them, darted out in a violent hurry, and scrambled into their cage again.

"The ladies, my good Percival, shall tell me about virtue," he said. "They are better authorities than I am, for

"It is true," said the Count quietly. "I am a citizen of the world, and I have met, in my time, with so many

different sorts of virtue, that I am puzzled, in my old age, to say which is the right sort and which is the

wrong. Here, in England, there is one virtue. And there, in China, there is another virtue. And John

Englishman says my virtue is the genuine virtue. And John Chinaman says my virtue is the genuine virtue.

And I say Yes to one, or No to the other, and am just as much bewildered about it in the case of John with the

topboots as I am in the case of John with the pigtail. Ah, nice little Mousey! come, kiss me. What is your

own private notion of a virtuous man, my pretpretpretty? A man who keeps you warm, and gives you

"Stay a minute, Count," I interposed. "Accepting your illustration, surely we have one unquestionable virtue

in England which is wanting in China. The Chinese authorities kill thousands of innocent people on the most

frivolous pretexts. We in England are free from all guilt of that kindwe commit no such dreadful

"Pray allow the Count to proceed," said Madame Fosco, with stern civility. "You will find, young ladies, that

"Thank you, my angel," replied the Count. "Have a bonbon?" He took out of his pocket a pretty little inlaid

box, and placed it open on the table. "Chocolat a la Vanille," cried the impenetrable man, cheerfully rattling

the sweetmeats in the box, and bowing all round. "Offered by Fosco as an act of homage to the charming

"Be good enough to go on, Count," said his wife, with a spiteful reference to myself. "Oblige me by

"Miss Halcombe is unanswerable," replied the polite Italian; "that is to say, so far as she goes. Yes! I agree

with her. John Bull does abhor the crimes of John Chinaman. He is the quickest old gentleman at finding out

faults that are his neighbours', and the slowest old gentleman at finding out the faults that are his own, who

exists on the face of creation. Is he so very much better in this way than the people whom he condemns in

their way? English Society, Miss Halcombe, is as often the accomplice as it is the enemy of crime. Yes! yes!

Crime is in this country what crime is in other countriesa good friend to a man and to those about him as

often as it is an enemy. A great rascal provides for his wife and family. The worse he is the more he makes

them the objects for your sympathy. He often provides also for himself. A profligate spendthrift who is

always borrowing money will get more from his friends than the rigidly honest man who only borrows of

them once, under pressure of the direst want. In the one case the friends will not be at all surprised, and they

will give. In the other case they will be very much surprised, and they will hesitate. Is the prison that Mr.

Scoundrel lives in at the end of his career a more uncomfortable place than the workhouse that Mr. Honesty

lives in at the end of his career? When JohnHoward Philanthropist wants to relieve misery he goes to find

it in prisons, where crime is wretchednot in huts and hovels, where virtue is wretched too. Who is the

English poet who has won the most universal sympathywho makes the easiest of all subjects for pathetic

writing and pathetic painting? That nice young person who began life with a forgery, and ended it by a

suicideyour dear, romantic, interesting Chatterton. Which gets on best, do you think, of two poor starving

dressmakersthe woman who resists temptation and is honest, or the woman who falls under temptation and

steals? You all know that the stealing is the making of that second woman's fortuneit advertises her from

length to breadth of goodhumoured, charitable Englandand she is relieved, as the breaker of a

commandment, when she would have been left to starve, as the keeper of it. Come here, my jolly little

Mouse! Hey! presto! pass! I transform you, for the time being, into a respectable lady. Stop there, in the palm

of my great big hand, my dear, and listen. You marry the poor man whom you love, Mouse, and one half

your friends pity, and the other half blame you. And now, on the contrary, you sell yourself for gold to a man

you don't care for, and all your friends rejoice over you, and a minister of public worship sanctions the base

horror of the vilest of all human bargains, and smiles and smirks afterwards at your table, if you are polite

enough to ask him to breakfast. Hey! presto! pass! Be a mouse again, and squeak. If you continue to be a lady

much longer, I shall have you telling me that Society abhors crimeand then, Mouse, I shall doubt if your

own eyes and ears are really of any use to you. Ah! I am a bad man, Lady Glyde, am I not? I say what other

people only think, and when all the rest of the world is in a conspiracy to accept the mask for the true face,

mine is the rash hand that tears off the plump pasteboard, and shows the bare bones beneath. I will get up on

my big elephant's legs, before I do myself any more harm in your amiable estimationsI will get up and take

a little airy walk of my own. Dear ladies, as your excellent Sheridan said, I goand leave my character

He got up, put the cage on the table, and paused for a moment to count the mice in it. "One, two, three,

fourHa!" he cried, with a look of horror, "where, in the name of Heaven, is the fifththe youngest, the

Neither Laura nor I were in any favorable disposition to be amused. The Count's glib cynicism had revealed a

new aspect of his nature from which we both recoiled. But it was impossible to resist the comical distress of

so very large a man at the loss of so very small a mouse. We laughed in spite of ourselves; and when Madame

Fosco rose to set the example of leaving the boathouse empty, so that her husband might search it to its

Before we had taken three steps, the Count's quick eye discovered the lost mouse under the seat that we had

been occupying. He pulled aside the bench, took the little animal up in his hand, and then suddenly stopped,

on his knees, looking intently at a particular place on the ground just beneath him.

When he rose to his feet again, his hand shook so that he could hardly put the mouse back in the cage, and his

Sir Percival had paid no attention to any of us for the last ten minutes. He had been entirely absorbed in

writing figures on the sand, and then rubbing them out again with the point of his stick.

"Do you see nothing there?" said the Count, catching him nervously by the collar with one hand, and pointing

"I see plenty of dry sand," answered Sir Percival, "and a spot of dirt in the middle of it."

"Not dirt," whispered the Count, fastening the other hand suddenly on Sir Percival's collar, and shaking it in

Laura was near enough to hear the last word, softly as he whispered it. She turned to me with a look of terror.

"Nonsense, my dear," I said. "There is no need to be alarmed. It is only the blood of a poor little stray dog."

"I found the dog here, dying, on the day when you all returned from abroad," I replied. "The poor creature

"Did you try to save the poor thing?" asked Laura earnestly. "Surely you tried to save it, Marian?"

"Yes," I said, "the housekeeper and I both did our bestbut the dog was mortally wounded, and he died

"Whose dog was it?" persisted Sir Percival, repeating his question a little irritably. "One of mine?"

The housekeeper's report of Mrs. Catherick's desire to conceal her visit to Blackwater Park from Sir Percival's

knowledge recurred to my memory the moment he put that last question, and I half doubted the discretion of

answering it; but in my anxiety to quiet the general alarm, I had thoughtlessly advanced too far to draw back,

except at the risk of exciting suspicion, which might only make matters worse. There was nothing for it but to

Sir Percival had hitherto remained at the inner end of the boat house with Count Fosco, while I spoke to him

from the door. But the instant Mrs. Catherick's name passed my lips he pushed by the Count roughly, and

"How came the housekeeper to know it was Mrs. Catherick's dog?" he asked, fixing his eyes on mine with a

"She knew it," I said quietly, "because Mrs. Catherick brought the dog with her."

The manner in which he put the question was even more offensive than the language in which he expressed

it. I marked my sense of his want of common politeness by silently turning away from him.

Just as I moved the Count's persuasive hand was laid on his shoulder, and the Count's mellifluous voice

Sir Percival looked round in his angriest manner. The Count only smiled and repeated the soothing

Sir Percival hesitated, followed me a few steps, and, to my great surprise, offered me an apology.

"I beg your pardon, Miss Halcombe," he said. "I have been out of order lately, and I am afraid I am a little

irritable. But I should like to know what Mrs. Catherick could possibly want here. When did she come? Was

"In that case why not question the housekeeper?" he said. "Why not go, Percival, to the fountainhead of

"Quite right!" said Sir Percival. "Of course the housekeeper is the first person to question. Excessively stupid

of me not to see it myself." With those words he instantly left us to return to the house.

The motive of the Count's interference, which had puzzled me at first, betrayed itself when Sir Percival's back

was turned. He had a host of questions to put to me about Mrs. Catherick, and the cause of her visit to

Blackwater Park, which he could scarcely have asked in his friend's presence. I made my answers as short as

I civilly could, for I had already determined to check the least approach to any exchanging of confidences

between Count Fosco and myself. Laura, however, unconsciously helped him to extract all my information,

by making inquiries herself, which left me no alternative but to reply to her, or to appear in the very

unenviable and very false character of a depositary of Sir Percival's secrets. The end of it was, that, in about

ten minutes' time, the Count knew as much as I know of Mrs. Catherick, and of the events which have so

strangely connected us with her daughter, Anne, from the time when Cartright met with her to this day.

Intimately as he knows Sir Percival, and closely as he appears to be associated with Sir Percival's private

affairs in general, he is certainly as far as I am from knowing anything of the true story of Anne Catherick.

The unsolved mystery in connection with this unhappy woman is now rendered doubly suspicious, in my

eyes, by the absolute conviction which I feel, that the clue to it has been hidden by Sir Percival from the most

intimate friend he has in the world. It was impossible to mistake the eager curiosity of the Count's look and

manner while he drank in greedily every word that fell from my lips. There are many kinds of curiosity, I

knowbut there is no misinterpreting the curiosity of blank surprise: if I ever saw it in my life I saw it in the

While the questions and answers were going on, we had all been strolling quietly back through the plantation.

As soon as we reached the house the first object that we saw in front of it was Sir Percival's dogcart, with

the horse put to and the groom waiting by it in his stablejacket. If these unexpected appearances were to be

trusted, the examination of the house keeper had produced important results already.

"A fine horse, my friend," said the Count, addressing the groom with the most engaging familiarity of

"I am not going, sir," replied the man, looking at his stable jacket, and evidently wondering whether the

"Aha!" said the Count, "does he indeed? I wonder he gives himself the trouble when he has got you to drive

for him. Is he going to fatigue that nice, shining, pretty horse by taking him very far today?"

"I don't know, sir," answered the man. "The horse is a mare, if you please, sir. She's the highestcouraged

thing we've got in the stables. Her name's Brown Molly, sir, and she'll go till she drops. Sir Percival usually

"Logical inference, Miss Halcombe," continued the Count, wheeling round briskly, and addressing me. "Sir

I made no reply. I had my own inferences to draw, from what I knew through the housekeeper and from what

When Sir Percival was in Cumberland (I thought to myself), he walked away a long distance, on Anne's

account, to question the family at Todd's Corner. Now he is in Hampshire, is he going to drive away a long

We all entered the house. As we crossed the hall Sir Percival came out from the library to meet us. He looked

hurried and pale and anxiousbut for all that, he was in his most polite mood when he spoke to us.

"I am sorry to say I am obliged to leave you," he began"a long drivea matter that I can't very well put

off. I shall be back in good time tomorrowbut before I go I should like that little businessformality,

which I spoke of this morning, to be settled. Laura, will you come into the library? It won't take a minutea

mere formality. Countess, may I trouble you also? I want you and the Countess, Fosco, to be witnesses to a

He held the library door open until they had passed in, followed them, and shut it softly.

I remained, for a moment afterwards, standing alone in the hall, with my heart beating fast and my mind

misgiving me sadly. Then I went on to the staircase, and ascended slowly to my own room.

June 17th.Just as my hand was on the door of my room, I heard Sir Percival's voice calling to me from

"I must beg you to come downstairs again," he said. "It is Fosco's fault, Miss Halcombe, not mine. He has

started some nonsensical objection to his wife being one of the witnesses, and has obliged me to ask you to

I entered the room immediately with Sir Percival. Laura was waiting by the writingtable, twisting and

turning her garden hat uneasily in her hands. Madame Fosco sat near her, in an arm chair, imperturbably

admiring her husband, who stood by himself at the other end of the library, picking off the dead leaves from

The moment I appeared the Count advanced to meet me, and to offer his explanations.

"A thousand pardons, Miss Halcombe," he said. "You know the character which is given to my countrymen

by the English? We Italians are all wily and suspicious by nature, in the estimation of the good John Bull. Set

me down, if you please, as being no better than the rest of my race. I am a wily Italian and a suspicious

Italian. You have thought so yourself, dear lady, have you not? Well! it is part of my wiliness and part of my

suspicion to object to Madame Fosco being a witness to Lady Glyde's signature, when I am also a witness

"There is not the shadow of a reason for his objection," interposed Sir Percival. "I have explained to him that

the law of England allows Madame Fosco to witness a signature as well as her husband."

"I admit it," resumed the Count. "The law of England says, Yes, but the conscience of Fosco says, No." He

spread out his fat fingers on the bosom of his blouse, and bowed solemnly, as if he wished to introduce his

conscience to us all, in the character of an illustrious addition to the society. "What this document which

Lady Glyde is about to sign may be," he continued, "I neither know nor desire to know. I only say this,

circumstances may happen in the future which may oblige Percival, or his representatives, to appeal to the

two witnesses, in which case it is certainly desirable that those witnesses should represent two opinions

which are perfectly independent the one of the other. This cannot be if my wife signs as well as myself,

because we have but one opinion between us, and that opinion is mine. I will not have it cast in my teeth, at

some future day, that Madame Fosco acted under my coercion, and was, in plain fact, no witness at all. I

speak in Percival's interest, when I propose that my name shall appear (as the nearest friend of the husband),

and your name, Miss Halcombe (as the nearest friend of the wife). I am a Jesuit, if you please to think soa

splitter of strawsa man of trifles and crochets and scruplesbut you will humour me, I hope, in merciful

consideration for my suspicious Italian character, and my uneasy Italian conscience." He bowed again,

stepped back a few paces, and withdrew his conscience from our society as politely as he had introduced it.

The Count's scruples might have been honourable and reasonable enough, but there was something in his

manner of expressing them which increased my unwillingness to be concerned in the business of the

signature. No consideration of less importance than my consideration for Laura would have induced me to

consent to be a witness at all. One look, however, at her anxious face decided me to risk anything rather than

"I will readily remain in the room," I said. "And if I find no reason for starting any small scruples on my side,

Sir Percival looked at me sharply, as if he was about to say something. But at the same moment, Madame

Fosco attracted his attention by rising from her chair. She had caught her husband's eye, and had evidently

Madame Fosco looked for her orders again, got them again, said she would prefer leaving us to our business,

and resolutely walked out. The Count lit a cigarette, went back to the flowers in the window, and puffed little

jets of smoke at the leaves, in a state of the deepest anxiety about killing the insects.

Meanwhile Sir Percival unlocked a cupboard beneath one of the bookcases, and produced from it a piece of

parchment, folded longwise, many times over. He placed it on the table, opened the last fold only, and kept

his hand on the rest. The last fold displayed a strip of blank parchment with little wafers stuck on it at certain

places. Every line of the writing was hidden in the part which he still held folded up under his hand. Laura

and I looked at each other. Her face was pale, but it showed no indecision and no fear.

Sir Percival dipped a pen in ink, and handed it to his wife. "Sign your name there," he said, pointing to the

place. "You and Fosco are to sign afterwards, Miss Halcombe, opposite those two wafers. Come here, Fosco!

witnessing a signature is not to be done by mooning out of window and smoking into the flowers."

The Count threw away his cigarette, and joined us at the table, with his hands carelessly thrust into the scarlet

belt of his blouse, and his eyes steadily fixed on Sir Percival's face. Laura, who was on the other side of her

husband, with the pen in her hand, looked at him too. He stood between them holding the folded parchment

down firmly on the table, and glancing across at me, as I sat opposite to him, with such a sinister mixture of

suspicion and embarrassment on his face that he looked more like a prisoner at the bar than a gentleman in

"Sign there," he repeated, turning suddenly on Laura, and pointing once more to the place on the parchment.

"I have no time to explain," he answered. "The dogcart is at the door, and I must go directly. Besides, if I

had time, you wouldn't understand. It is a purely formal document, full of legal technicalities, and all that sort

of thing. Come! come! sign your name, and let us have done as soon as possible."

"I ought surely to know what I am signing, Sir Percival, before I write my name?"

"Nonsense! What have women to do with business? I tell you again, you can't understand it."

"At any rate, let me try to understand it. Whenever Mr. Gilmore had any business for me to do, he always

"I dare say he did. He was your servant, and was obliged to explain. I am your husband, and am NOT

obliged. How much longer do you mean to keep me here? I tell you again, there is no time for reading

anythingthe dogcart is waiting at the door. Once for all, will you sign or will you not?"

She still had the pen in her hand, but she made no approach to signing her name with it.

"If my signature pledges me to anything," she said, "surely I have some claim to know what that pledge is?"

"Speak out!" he said. "You were always famous for telling the truth. Never mind Miss Halcombe, never mind

The Count took one of his hands out of his belt and laid it on Sir Percival's shoulder. Sir Percival shook it off

"It is unjust and cruel to accuse me of distrusting you," said Laura. "Ask Marian if I am not justified in

"I won't have any appeals made to Miss Halcombe," retorted Sir Percival. "Miss Halcombe has nothing to do

I had not spoken hitherto, and I would much rather not have spoken now. But the expression of distress in

Laura's face when she turned it towards me, and the insolent injustice of her husband's conduct, left me no

other alternative than to give my opinion, for her sake, as soon as I was asked for it.

"Excuse me, Sir Percival," I said"but as one of the witnesses to the signature, I venture to think that I

HAVE something to do with the matter. Laura's objection seems to me a perfectly fair one, and speaking for

myself only, I cannot assume the responsibility of witnessing her signature, unless she first understands what

"A cool declaration, upon my soul!" cried Sir Percival. "The next time you invite yourself to a man's house,

Miss Halcombe, I recommend you not to repay his hospitality by taking his wife's side against him in a

I started to my feet as suddenly as if he had struck me. If I had been a man, I would have knocked him down

on the threshold of his own door, and have left his house, never on any earthly consideration to enter it again.

Thank God, that faithful love helped me, and I sat down again without saying a word. SHE knew what I had

suffered and what I had suppressed. She ran round to me, with the tears streaming from her eyes. "Oh,

Marian!" she whispered softly. "If my mother had been alive, she could have done no more for me!"

"No," I answered. "The right and the truth are with yousign nothing, unless you have read it first."

The Count, who had watched Laura and me with a close and silent attention, interposed for the second time.

"Percival!" he said. "I remember that I am in the presence of ladies. Be good enough, if you please, to

Sir Percival turned on him speechless with passion. The Count's firm hand slowly tightened its grasp on his

shoulder, and the Count's steady voice quietly repeated, "Be good enough, if you please, to remember it too."

They both looked at each other. Sir Percival slowly drew his shoulder from under the Count's hand, slowly

turned his face away from the Count's eyes, doggedly looked down for a little while at the parchment on the

table, and then spoke, with the sullen submission of a tamed animal, rather than the becoming resignation of a

"I don't want to offend anybody," he said, "but my wife's obstinacy is enough to try the patience of a saint. I

have told her this is merely a formal documentand what more can she want? You may say what you

please, but it is no part of a woman's duty to set her husband at defiance. Once more, Lady Glyde, and for the

"I will sign with pleasure," she said, "if you will only treat me as a responsible being. I care little what

sacrifice is required of me, if it will affect no one else, and lead to no ill results"

"Who talked of a sacrifice being required of You?" he broke in, with a halfsuppressed return of his former

"I only meant," she resumed, "that I would refuse no concession which I could honourably make. If I have a

scruple about signing my name to an engagement of which I know nothing, why should you visit it on me so

severely? It is rather hard, I think, to treat Count Fosco's scruples so much more indulgently than you have

This unfortunate, yet most natural, reference to the Count's extraordinary power over her husband, indirect as

"Scruples!" he repeated. "YOUR scruples! It is rather late in the day for you to be scrupulous. I should have

thought you had got over all weakness of that sort, when you made a virtue of necessity by marrying me."

The instant he spoke those words, Laura threw down the penlooked at him with an expression in her eyes

which, throughout all my experience of her, I had never seen in them before, and turned her back on him in

This strong expression of the most open and the most bitter contempt was so entirely unlike herself, so utterly

out of her character, that it silenced us all. There was something hidden, beyond a doubt, under the mere

surfacebrutality of the words which her husband had just addressed to her. There was some lurking insult

beneath them, of which I was wholly ignorant, but which had left the mark of its profanation so plainly on her

The Count, who was no stranger, saw it as distinctly as I did. When I left my chair to join Laura, I heard him

Laura walked before me to the door as I advanced, and at the same time her husband spoke to her once more.

"You positively refuse, then, to give me your signature?" he said, in the altered tone of a man who was

"After what you have just said to me," she replied firmly, "I refuse my signature until I have read every line

in that parchment from the first word to the last. Come away, Marian, we have remained here long enough."

"One moment!" interposed the Count before Sir Percival could speak again"one moment, Lady Glyde, I

"Don't make an enemy of the Count!" I whispered. "Whatever you do, don't make an enemy of the Count!"

She yielded to me. I closed the door again, and we stood near it waiting. Sir Percival sat down at the table,

with his elbow on the folded parchment, and his head resting on his clenched fist. The Count stood between

usmaster of the dreadful position in which we were placed, as he was master of everything else.

"Lady Glyde," he said, with a gentleness which seemed to address itself to our forlorn situation instead of to

ourselves, "pray pardon me if I venture to offer one suggestion, and pray believe that I speak out of my

profound respect and my friendly regard for the mistress of this house." He turned sharply towards Sir

Percival. "Is it absolutely necessary," he asked "that this thing here, under your elbow, should be signed

"It is necessary to my plans and wishes," returned the other sulkily. "But that consideration, as you may have

"Answer my plain question plainly. Can the business of the signature be put off till tomorrowYes or No?"

"Then what are you wasting your time for here? Let the signature wait till tomorrowlet it wait till you

"You are taking a tone with me that I don't like," he said. "A tone I won't bear from any man."

"I am advising you for your good," returned the Count, with a smile of quiet contempt. "Give yourself

timegive Lady Glyde time. Have you forgotten that your dogcart is waiting at the door? My tone

surprises youha? I dare say it doesit is the tone of a man who can keep his temper. How many doses of

good advice have I given you in my time? More than you can count. Have I ever been wrong? I defy you to

quote me an instance of it. Go! take your drive. The matter of the signature can wait till to morrow. Let it

Sir Percival hesitated and looked at his watch. His anxiety about the secret journey which he was to take that

day, revived by the Count's words, was now evidently disputing possession of his mind with his anxiety to

obtain Laura's signature. He considered for a little while, and then got up from his chair.

"It is easy to argue me down," he said, "when I have no time to answer you. I will take your advice,

Fosconot because I want it, or believe in it, but because I can't stop here any longer." He paused, and

looked round darkly at his wife. "If you don't give me your signature when I come back tomorrow!" The

rest was lost in the noise of his opening the bookcase cupboard again, and locking up the parchment once

more. He took his hat and gloves off the table, and made for the door. Laura and I drew back to let him pass.

We waited to give him time to cross the hall and drive away. The Count approached us while we were

"You have just seen Percival at his worst, Miss Halcombe," he said. "As his old friend, I am sorry for him

and ashamed of him. As his old friend, I promise you that he shall not break out to morrow in the same

Laura had taken my arm while he was speaking and she pressed it significantly when he had done. It would

have been a hard trial to any woman to stand by and see the office of apologist for her husband's misconduct

quietly assumed by his male friend in her own houseand it was a trial to HER. I thanked the Count civilly,

and let her out. Yes! I thanked him: for I felt already, with a sense of inexpressible helplessness and

humiliation, that it was either his interest or his caprice to make sure of my continuing to reside at Blackwater

Park, and I knew after Sir Percival's conduct to me, that without the support of the Count's influence, I could

not hope to remain there. His influence, the influence of all others that I dreaded most, was actually the one

We heard the wheels of the dogcart crashing on the gravel of the drive as we came into the hall. Sir Percival

"Where is he going to, Marian?" Laura whispered. "Every fresh thing he does seems to terrify me about the

After what she had undergone that morning, I was unwilling to tell her my suspicions.

"Did you not hear from the housekeeper that there was a report of Anne Catherick having been seen in this

"I would rather compose myself, Laura, by not thinking about it at all, and after what has happened, you had

better follow my example. Come into my room, and rest and quiet yourself a little."

We sat down together close to the window, and let the fragrant summer air breathe over our faces.

"I am ashamed to look at you, Marian," she said, "after what you submitted to downstairs, for my sake. Oh,

my own love, I am almost heartbroken when I think of it! But I will try to make it up to youI will indeed!"

"Hush! hush!" I replied; "don't talk so. What is the trifling mortification of my pride compared to the dreadful

"You heard what he said to me?" she went on quickly and vehemently. "You heard the wordsbut you don't

know what they meantyou don't know why I threw down the pen and turned my back on him." She rose in

sudden agitation, and walked about the room. "I have kept many things from your knowledge, Marian, for

fear of distressing you, and making you unhappy at the outset of our new lives. You don't know how he has

used me. And yet you ought to know, for you saw how he used me today. You heard him sneer at my

presuming to be scrupulousyou heard him say I had made a virtue of necessity in marrying him." She sat

down again, her face flushed deeply, and her hands twisted and twined together in her lap. "I can't tell you

about it now," she said; "I shall burst out crying if I tell you nowlater, Marian, when I am more sure of

myself. My poor head aches, darlingaches, aches, aches. Where is your smellingbottle? Let me talk to

you about yourself. I wish I had given him my signature, for your sake. Shall I give it to him tomorrow? I

would rather compromise myself than compromise you. After your taking my part against him, he will lay all

the blame on you if I refuse again. What shall we do? Oh, for a friend to help us and advise us!a friend we

She sighed bitterly. I saw in her face that she was thinking of Hartrightsaw it the more plainly because her

last words set me thinking of him too. In six months only from her marriage we wanted the faithful service he

had offered to us in his farewell words. How little I once thought that we should ever want it at all!

"We must do what we can to help ourselves," I said. "Let us try to talk it over calmly, Lauralet us do all in

Putting what she knew of her husband's embarrassments and what I had heard of his conversation with the

lawyer together, we arrived necessarily at the conclusion that the parchment in the library had been drawn up

for the purpose of borrowing money, and that Laura's signature was absolutely necessary to fit it for the

The second question, concerning the nature of the legal contract by which the money was to be obtained, and

the degree of personal responsibility to which Laura might subject herself if she signed it in the dark,

involved considerations which lay far beyond any knowledge and experience that either of us possessed. My

own convictions led me to believe that the hidden contents of the parchment concealed a transaction of the

I had not formed this conclusion in consequence of Sir Percival's refusal to show the writing or to explain it,

for that refusal might well have proceeded from his obstinate disposition and his domineering temper alone.

My sole motive for distrusting his honesty sprang from the change which I had observed in his language and

his manners at Blackwater Park, a change which convinced me that he had been acting a part throughout the

whole period of his probation at Limmeridge House. His elaborate delicacy, his ceremonious politeness

which harmonised so agreeably with Mr. Gilmore's oldfashioned notions, his modesty with Laura, his

candour with me, his moderation with Mr. Fairlieall these were the artifices of a mean, cunning, and brutal

man, who had dropped his disguise when his practised duplicity had gained its end, and had openly shown

himself in the library on that very day. I say nothing of the grief which this discovery caused me on Laura's

account, for it is not to be expressed by any words of mine. I only refer to it at all, because it decided me to

oppose her signing the parchment, whatever the consequences might be, unless she was first made acquainted

Under these circumstances, the one chance for us when tomorrow came was to be provided with an

objection to giving the signature, which might rest on sufficiently firm commercial or legal grounds to shake

Sir Percival's resolution, and to make him suspect that we two women understood the laws and obligations of

After some pondering, I determined to write to the only honest man within reach whom we could trust to help

us discreetly in our forlorn situation. That man was Mr. Gilmore's partner, Mr. Kyrle, who conducted the

business now that our old friend had been obliged to withdraw from it, and to leave London on account of his

health. I explained to Laura that I had Mr. Gilmore's own authority for placing implicit confidence in his

partner's integrity, discretion, and accurate knowledge of all her affairs, and with her full approval I sat down

at once to write the letter, I began by stating our position to Mr. Kyrle exactly as it was, and then asked for

his advice in return, expressed in plain, downright terms which he could comprehend without any danger of

misinterpretations and mistakes. My letter was as short as I could possibly make it, and was, I hope,

Just as I was about to put the address on the envelope an obstacle was discovered by Laura, which in the

"How are we to get the answer in time?" she asked. "Your letter will not be delivered in London before

tomorrow morning, and the post will not bring the reply here till the morning after."

The only way of overcoming this difficulty was to have the answer brought to us from the lawyer's office by

a special messenger. I wrote a postscript to that effect, begging that the messenger might be despatched with

the reply by the eleven o'clock morning train, which would bring him to our station at twenty minutes past

one, and so enable him to reach Blackwater Park by two o'clock at the latest. He was to be directed to ask for

me, to answer no questions addressed to him by any one else, and to deliver his letter into no hands but mine.

"In case Sir Percival should come back tomorrow before two o'clock," I said to Laura, "the wisest plan for

you to adopt is to be out in the grounds all the morning with your book or your work, and not to appear at the

house till the messenger has had time to arrive with the letter. I will wait here for him all the morning, to

guard against any misadventures or mistakes. By following this arrangement I hope and believe we shall

avoid being taken by surprise. Let us go down to the drawingroom now. We may excite suspicion if we

"Suspicion?" she repeated. "Whose suspicion can we excite, now that Sir Percival has left the house? Do you

"No, not to dislike him. Dislike is always more or less associated with contemptI can see nothing in the

"Yes. I am more afraid of his interference than I am of Sir Percival's violence. Remember what I said to you

We went downstairs. Laura entered the drawingroom, while I proceeded across the hall, with my letter in

my hand, to put it into the postbag, which hung against the wall opposite to me.

The house door was open, and as I crossed past it, I saw Count Fosco and his wife standing talking together

The Countess came into the hall rather hastily, and asked if I had leisure enough for five minutes' private

conversation. Feeling a little surprised by such an appeal from such a person, I put my letter into the bag, and

replied that I was quite at her disposal. She took my arm with unaccustomed friendliness and familiarity, and

instead of leading me into an empty room, drew me out with her to the belt of turf which surrounded the large

As we passed the Count on the steps he bowed and smiled, and then went at once into the house, pushing the

The Countess walked me gently round the fishpond. I expected to be made the depositary of some

extraordinary confidence, and I was astonished to find that Madame Fosco's communication for my private

ear was nothing more than a polite assurance of her sympathy for me, after what had happened in the library.

Her husband had told her of all that had passed, and of the insolent manner in which Sir Percival had spoken

to me. This information had so shocked and distressed her, on my account and on Laura's, that she had made

up her mind, if anything of the sort happened again, to mark her sense of Sir Percival's outrageous conduct by

leaving the house. The Count had approved of her idea, and she now hoped that I approved of it too.

I thought this a very strange proceeding on the part of such a remarkably reserved woman as Madame Fosco,

especially after the interchange of sharp speeches which had passed between us during the conversation in the

boathouse on that very morning. However, it was my plain duty to meet a polite and friendly advance on the

part of one of my elders with a polite and friendly reply. I answered the Countess accordingly in her own

tone, and then, thinking we had said all that was necessary on either side, made an attempt to get back to the

But Madame Fosco seemed resolved not to part with me, and to my unspeakable amazement, resolved also to

talk. Hitherto the most silent of women, she now persecuted me with fluent conventionalities on the subject

of married life, on the subject of Sir Percival and Laura, on the subject of her own happiness, on the subject

of the late Mr. Fairlie's conduct to her in the matter of her legacy, and on half a dozen other subjects besides,

until she had detained me walking round and round the fishpond for more than half an hour, and had quite

wearied me out. Whether she discovered this or not, I cannot say, but she stopped as abruptly as she had

begunlooked towards the house door, resumed her icy manner in a moment, and dropped my arm of her

own accord before I could think of an excuse for accomplishing my own release from her.

As I pushed open the door and entered the hall, I found myself suddenly face to face with the Count again. He

After he had dropped it in and had closed the bag, he asked me where I had left Madame Fosco. I told him,

and he went out at the hall door immediately to join his wife. His manner when he spoke to me was so

unusually quiet and subdued that I turned and looked after him, wondering if he were ill or out of spirits.

Why my next proceeding was to go straight up to the postbag and take out my own letter and look at it

again, with a vague distrust on me, and why the looking at it for the second time instantly suggested the idea

to my mind of sealing the envelope for its greater securityare mysteries which are either too deep or too

shallow for me to fathom. Women, as everybody knows, constantly act on impulses which they cannot

explain even to themselves, and I can only suppose that one of those impulses was the hidden cause of my

Whatever influence animated me, I found cause to congratulate myself on having obeyed it as soon as I

prepared to seal the letter in my own room. I had originally closed the envelope in the usual way by

moistening the adhesive point and pressing it on the paper beneath, and when I now tried it with my finger,

after a lapse of full threequarters of an hour, the envelope opened on the instant, without sticking or tearing.

Perhaps I had fastened it insufficiently? Perhaps there might have been some defect in the adhesive gum?

Or, perhapsNo! it is quite revolting enough to feel that third conjecture stirring in my mind. I would

I almost dread tomorrowso much depends on my discretion and selfcontrol. There are two precautions,

at all events, which I am sure not to forget. I must be careful to keep up friendly appearances with the Count,

and I must be well on my guard when the messenger from the office comes here with the answer to my letter.

June 17th.When the dinner hour brought us together again, Count Fosco was in his usual excellent spirits.

He exerted himself to interest and amuse us, as if he was determined to efface from our memories all

recollection of what had passed in the library that afternoon. Lively descriptions of his adventures in

travelling, amusing anecdotes of remarkable people whom he had met with abroad, quaint comparisons

between the social customs of various nations, illustrated by examples drawn from men and women

indiscriminately all over Europe, humorous confessions of the innocent follies of his own early life, when he

ruled the fashions of a secondrate Italian town, and wrote preposterous romances on the French model for a

secondrate Italian newspaperall flowed in succession so easily and so gaily from his lips, and all

addressed our various curiosities and various interests so directly and so delicately, that Laura and I listened

to him with as much attention and, inconsistent as it may seem, with as much admiration also, as Madame

Fosco herself. Women can resist a man's love, a man's fame, a man's personal appearance, and a man's

After dinner, while the favourable impression which he had produced on us was still vivid in our minds, the

Laura proposed a stroll in the grounds to enjoy the close of the long evening. It was necessary in common

politeness to ask Madame Fosco to join us, but this time she had apparently received her orders beforehand,

and she begged we would kindly excuse her. "The Count will probably want a fresh supply of cigarettes," she

remarked by way of apology, "and nobody can make them to his satisfaction but myself." Her cold blue eyes

almost warmed as she spoke the wordsshe looked actually proud of being the officiating medium through

It was a misty, heavy evening. There was a sense of blight in the air; the flowers were drooping in the garden,

and the ground was parched and dewless. The western heaven, as we saw it over the quiet trees, was of a pale

yellow hue, and the sun was setting faintly in a haze. Coming rain seemed nearit would fall probably with

"No, not of the lake but of the scenery about it. The sand and heath and the firtrees are the only objects I can

discover, in all this large place, to remind me of Limmeridge. But we will walk in some other direction if you

"I have no favourite walks at Blackwater Park, my love. One is the same as another to me. Let us go to the

We walked through the shadowy plantation in silence. The heaviness in the evening air oppressed us both,

A white fog hung low over the lake. The dense brown line of the trees on the opposite bank appeared above

it, like a dwarf forest floating in the sky. The sandy ground, shelving downward from where we sat, was lost

mysteriously in the outward layers of the fog. The silence was horrible. No rustling of the leavesno bird's

note in the woodno cry of waterfowl from the pools of the hidden lake. Even the croaking of the frogs

"It is very desolate and gloomy," said Laura. "But we can be more alone here than anywhere else."

She spoke quietly and looked at the wilderness of sand and mist with steady, thoughtful eyes. I could see that

her mind was too much occupied to feel the dreary impressions from without which had fastened themselves

"I promised, Marian, to tell you the truth about my married life, instead of leaving you any longer to guess it

for yourself," she began. "That secret is the first I have ever had from you, love, and I am determined it shall

be the last. I was silent, as you know, for your sakeand perhaps a little for my own sake as well. It is very

hard for a woman to confess that the man to whom she has given her whole life is the man of all others who

cares least for the gift. If you were married yourself, Marianand especially if you were happily

marriedyou would feel for me as no single woman CAN feel, however kind and true she may be."

What answer could I make? I could only take her hand and look at her with my whole heart as well as my

"How often," she went on, "I have heard you laughing over what you used to call your 'poverty!' how often

you have made me mock speeches of congratulation on my wealth! Oh, Marian, never laugh again. Thank

God for your povertyit has made you your own mistress, and has saved you from the lot that has fallen on

A sad beginning on the lips of a young wife!sad in its quiet plainspoken truth. The few days we had all

passed together at Blackwater Park had been many enough to show meto show any one what her

"You shall not be distressed," she said, "by hearing how soon my disappointments and my trials beganor

even by knowing what they were. It is bad enough to have them on my memory. If I tell you how he received

the first and last attempt at remonstrance that I ever made, you will know how he has always treated me, as

well as if I had described it in so many words. It was one day at Rome when we had ridden out together to the

tomb of Cecilia Metella. The sky was calm and lovely, and the grand old ruin looked beautiful, and the

remembrance that a husband's love had raised it in the old time to a wife's memory, made me feel more

tenderly and more anxiously towards my husband than I had ever felt yet. 'Would you build such a tomb for

ME, Percival?' I asked him. 'You said you loved me dearly before we were married, and yet, since that

time' I could get no farther. Marian! he was not even looking at me! I pulled down my veil, thinking it

best not to let him see that the tears were in my eyes. I fancied he had not paid any attention to me, but he

had. He said, 'Come away,' and laughed to himself as he helped me on to my horse. He mounted his own

horse and laughed again as we rode away. 'If I do build you a tomb,' he said, 'it will be done with your own

money. I wonder whether Cecilia Metella had a fortune and paid for hers.' I made no replyhow could I,

when I was crying behind my veil?' Ah, you lightcomplexioned women are all sulky,' he said. 'What do you

want? compliments and soft speeches? Well! I'm in a good humour this morning. Consider the compliments

paid and the speeches said.' Men little know when they say hard things to us how well we remember them,

and how much harm they do us. It would have been better for me if I had gone on crying, but his contempt

dried up my tears and hardened my heart. From that time, Marian, I never checked myself again in thinking

of Walter Hartright. I let the memory of those happy days, when we were so fond of each other in secret,

come back and comfort me. What else had I to look to for consolation? If we had been together you would

have helped me to better things. I know it was wrong, darling, but tell me if I was wrong without any

I was obliged to turn my face from her. "Don't ask me!" I said. "Have I suffered as you have suffered? What

"I used to think of him," she pursued, dropping her voice and moving closer to me, "I used to think of him

when Percival left me alone at night to go among the Opera people. I used to fancy what I might have been if

it had pleased God to bless me with poverty, and if I had been his wife. I used to see myself in my neat cheap

gown, sitting at home and waiting for him while he was earning our breadsitting at home and working for

him and loving him all the better because I had to work for himseeing him come in tired and taking off his

hat and coat for him, and, Marian, pleasing him with little dishes at dinner that I had learnt to make for his

sake. Oh! I hope he is never lonely enough and sad enough to think of me and see me as I have thought of

As she said those melancholy words, all the lost tenderness returned to her voice, and all the lost beauty

trembled back into her face. Her eyes rested as lovingly on the blighted, solitary, illomened view before us,

"Don't speak of Walter any more," I said, as soon as I could control myself. "Oh, Laura, spare us both the

"I would rather be silent about him for ever," she answered, "than cause you a moment's pain."

"It is in your interests," I pleaded; "it is for your sake that I speak. If your husband heard you"

She made that strange reply with a weary calmness and coldness. The change in her manner, when she gave

"Not surprise him!" I repeated. "Laura! remember what you are sayingyou frighten me!"

"It is true," she said; "it is what I wanted to tell you today, when we were talking in your room. My only

secret when I opened my heart to him at Limmeridge was a harmless secret, Marianyou said so yourself.

I heard her, but I could say nothing. Her last words had killed the little hope that still lived in me.

"It happened at Rome," she went on, as wearily calm and cold as ever. "We were at a little party given to the

English by some friends of Sir Percival'sMr. and Mrs. Markland. Mrs. Markland had the reputation of

sketching very beautifully, and some of the guests prevailed on her to show us her drawings. We all admired

them, but something I said attracted her attention particularly to me. 'Surely you draw yourself?' she asked. 'I

used to draw a little once,' I answered, 'but I have given it up.' 'If you have once drawn,' she said, 'you may

take to it again one of these days, and if you do, I wish you would let me recommend you a master.' I said

nothingyou know why, Marianand tried to change the conversation. But Mrs. Markland persisted. 'I

have had all sorts of teachers,' she went on, 'but the best of all, the most intelligent and the most attentive, was

a Mr. Hartright. If you ever take up your drawing again, do try him as a master. He is a young manmodest

and gentlemanlikeI am sure you will like him . 'Think of those words being spoken to me publicly, in the

presence of strangersstrangers who had been invited to meet the bride and bridegroom! I did all I could to

control myselfI said nothing, and looked down close at the drawings. When I ventured to raise my head

again, my eyes and my husband's eyes met, and I knew, by his look, that my face had betrayed me. 'We will

see about Mr. Hartright,' he said, looking at me all the time, 'when we get back to England. I agree with you,

Mrs. MarklandI think Lady Glyde is sure to like him.' He laid an emphasis on the last words which made

my cheeks burn, and set my heart beating as if it would stifle me. Nothing more was said. We came away

early. He was silent in the carriage driving back to the hotel. He helped me out, and followed me upstairs as

usual. But the moment we were in the drawingroom, he locked the door, pushed me down into a chair, and

stood over me with his hands on my shoulders. 'Ever since that morning when you made your audacious

confession to me at Limmeridge,' he said, 'I have wanted to find out the man, and I found him in your face

tonight. Your drawingmaster was the man, and his name is Hartright. You shall repent it, and he shall

repent it, to the last hour of your lives. Now go to bed and dream of him if you like, with the marks of my

horsewhip on his shoulders.' Whenever he is angry with me now he refers to what I acknowledged to him in

your presence with a sneer or a threat. I have no power to prevent him from putting his own horrible

construction on the confidence I placed in him. I have no influence to make him believe me, or to keep him

silent. You looked surprised today when you heard him tell me that I had made a virtue of necessity in

marrying him. You will not be surprised again when you hear him repeat it, the next time he is out of

I had caught her in my arms, and the sting and torment of my remorse had closed them round her like a vice.

Yes! my remorse. The white despair of Walter's face, when my cruel words struck him to the heart in the

summerhouse at Limmeridge, rose before me in mute, unendurable reproach. My hand had pointed the way

which led the man my sister loved, step by step, far from his country and his friends. Between those two

young hearts I had stood, to sunder them for ever, the one from the other, and his life and her life lay wasted

before me alike in witness of the deed. I had done this, and done it for Sir Percival Glyde.

I heard her speaking, and I knew by the tone of her voice that she was comforting meI, who deserved

nothing but the reproach of her silence! How long it was before I mastered the absorbing misery of my own

thoughts, I cannot tell. I was first conscious that she was kissing me, and then my eyes seemed to wake on a

sudden to their sense of outward things, and I knew that I was looking mechanically straight before me at the

"It is late," I heard her whisper. "It will be dark in the plantation." She shook my arm and repeated, "Marian!

I was afraid to trust myself to look at her yet, and I kept my eyes fixed on the view.

It WAS late. The dense brown line of trees in the sky had faded in the gathering darkness to the faint

resemblance of a long wreath of smoke. The mist over the lake below had stealthily enlarged, and advanced

on us. The silence was as breathless as ever, but the horror of it had gone, and the solemn mystery of its

She stopped suddenly, and turned her face from me towards the entrance of the boathouse.

A living figure was moving over the waste of heath in the distance. It crossed our range of view from the

boathouse, and passed darkly along the outer edge of the mist. It stopped far off, in front of

uswaitedand passed on; moving slowly, with the white cloud of mist behind it and above itslowly,

We were both unnerved by what had passed between us that evening. Some minutes elapsed before Laura

would venture into the plantation, and before I could make up my mind to lead her back to the house.

"Was it a man or a woman?" she asked in a whisper, as we moved at last into the dark dampness of the outer

"Wait, Marian! I'm frightenedI don't see the path. Suppose the figure should follow us?"

"Not at all likely, Laura. There is really nothing to be alarmed about. The shores of the lake are not far from

the village, and they are free to any one to walk on by day or night. It is only wonderful we have seen no

We were now in the plantation. It was very darkso dark, that we found some difficulty in keeping the path.

Before we were halfway through she stopped, and forced me to stop with her. She was listening.

"No matter who it is, or what it is," I said, "let us walk on. In another minute, if there is anything to alarm us,

We went on quicklyso quickly, that Laura was breathless by the time we were nearly through the

I waited a moment to give her breathingtime. Just as we were about to proceed she stopped me again, and

signed to me with her hand to listen once more. We both heard distinctly a long, heavy sigh behind us, in the

An instant of silence followed, and then we heard the light fall of the footsteps again, fainter and

faintersinking away into the darknesssinking, sinking, sinkingtill they were lost in the silence.

We hurried out from the trees to the open lawn beyond crossed it rapidly, and without another word passing

In the light of the halllamp Laura looked at me, with white cheeks and startled eyes.

"We will try to guess tomorrow," I replied. "In the meantime say nothing to any one of what we have heard

I sent Laura upstairs immediately, waited a minute to take off my hat and put my hair smooth, and then went

at once to make my first investigations in the library, on pretence of searching for a book.

There sat the Count, filling out the largest easychair in the house, smoking and reading calmly, with his feet

on an ottoman, his cravat across his knees, and his shirt collar wide open. And there sat Madame Fosco, like a

quiet child, on a stool by his side, making cigarettes. Neither husband nor wife could, by any possibility, have

been out late that evening, and have just got back to the house in a hurry. I felt that my object in visiting the

Count Fosco rose in polite confusion and tied his cravat on when I entered the room.

"All unfortunate men of my size suffer from the heat," said the Count, refreshing himself gravely with a large

green fan. "I wish I could change places with my excellent wife. She is as cool at this moment as a fish in the

The Countess allowed herself to thaw under the influence of her husband's quaint comparison. "I am never

warm, Miss Halcombe," she remarked, with the modest air of a woman who was confessing to one of her

"Have you and Lady Glyde been out this evening?" asked the Count, while I was taking a book from the

Under other circumstances I might have resented his curiosity. But tonight I hailed it as another proof that

neither he nor his wife were connected with the mysterious appearance at the lake.

"No more adventures, I suppose, this evening?" he went on . "No more discoveries, like your discovery of the

He fixed his unfathomable grey eyes on me, with that cold, clear, irresistible glitter in them which always

forces me to look at him, and always makes me uneasy while I do look. An unutterable suspicion that his

I tried to look away from him and leave the room. Strange as it seems, I hardly think I should have succeeded

in the attempt if Madame Fosco had not helped me by causing him to move and look away first.

The moment he turned round to get me a chair, I seized my opportunitythanked himmade my

An hour later, when Laura's maid happened to be in her mistress's room, I took occasion to refer to the

closeness of the night, with a view to ascertaining next how the servants had been passing their time.

"Some of us thought of going, miss. But cook said she should take her chair into the cool courtyard, outside

the kitchen door, and on second thoughts, all the rest of us took our chairs out there too."

"I should think not, miss," said the girl, smiling. "Mrs. Michelson is more likely to be getting up just now

"Why? What do you mean? Has Mrs. Michelson been taking to her bed in the daytime?"

"No, miss, not exactly, but the next thing to it. She's been asleep all the evening on the sofa in her own room."

Putting together what I observed for myself in the library, and what I have just heard from Laura's maid, one

conclusion seems inevitable. The figure we saw at the lake was not the figure of Madame Fosco, of her

husband, or of any of the servants. The footsteps we heard behind us were not the footsteps of any one

It seems useless to inquire. I cannot even decide whether the figure was a man's or a woman's. I can only say

June 18th.The misery of selfreproach which I suffered yesterday evening, on hearing what Laura told me

in the boathouse, returned in the loneliness of the night, and kept me waking and wretched for hours.

I lighted my candle at last, and searched through my old journals to see what my share in the fatal error of her

marriage had really been, and what I might have once done to save her from it. The result soothed me a little

for it showed that, however blindly and ignorantly I acted, I acted for the best. Crying generally does me

harm; but it was not so last nightI think it relieved me. I rose this morning with a settled resolution and a

quiet mind. Nothing Sir Percival can say or do shall ever irritate me again, or make me forget for one moment

that I am staying here in defiance of mortifications, insults, and threats, for Laura's service and for Laura's

The speculations in which we might have indulged this morning, on the subject of the figure at the lake and

the footsteps in the plantation, have been all suspended by a trifling accident which has caused Laura great

regret. She has lost the little brooch I gave her for a keepsake on the day before her marriage. As she wore it

when we went out yesterday evening we can only suppose that it must have dropped from her dress, either in

the boathouse or on our way back. The servants have been sent to search, and have returned unsuccessful.

And now Laura herself has gone to look for it. Whether she finds it or not the loss will help to excuse her

absence from the house. if Sir Percival returns before the letter from Mr. Gilmore's partner is placed in my

One o'clock has just struck. I am considering whether I had better wait here for the arrival of the messenger

My suspicion of everybody and everything in this house inclines me to think that the second plan may be the

best. The Count is safe in the breakfastroom. I heard him, through the door, as I ran upstairs ten minutes

since, exercising his canarybirds at their tricks:"Come out on my little finger, my pretpretpretties!

Come out, and hop upstairs! One, two, threeand up! Three, two, oneand down! One, two,

threetwittwittwittweet!" The birds burst into their usual ecstasy of singing, and the Count chirruped

and whistled at them in return, as if he was a bird himself. My room door is open, and I can hear the shrill

singing and whistling at this very moment. If I am really to slip out without being observed, now is my time.

FOUR O'CLOCK. The three hours that have passed since I made my last entry have turned the whole march

of events at Blackwater Park in a new direction. Whether for good or for evil, I cannot and dare not decide.

Let me get back first to the place at which I left off, or I shall lose myself in the confusion of my own

I went out, as I had proposed, to meet the messenger with my letter from London at the lodge gate. On the

stairs I saw no one. In the hall I heard the Count still exercising his birds. But on crossing the quadrangle

outside, I passed Madame Fosco, walking by herself in her favourite circle, round and round the great fish

pond. I at once slackened my pace, so as to avoid all appearance of being in a hurry, and even went the

length, for caution's sake, of inquiring if she thought of going out before lunch. She smiled at me in the

friendliest mannersaid she preferred remaining near the house, nodded pleasantly, and reentered the hall.

I looked back, and saw that she had closed the door before I had opened the wicket by the side of the carriage

The lane outside took a sudden turn to the left, ran on straight for a hundred yards or so, and then took

another sharp turn to the right to join the highroad. Between these two turns, hidden from the lodge on one

side, and from the way to the station on the other, I waited, walking backwards and forwards. High hedges

were on either side of me, and for twenty minutes, by my watch, I neither saw nor heard anything. At the end

of that time the sound of a carriage caught my ear, and I was met, as I advanced towards the second turning,

by a fly from the railway. I made a sign to the driver to stop. As he obeyed me a respectablelooking man put

"I beg your pardon," I said, "but am I right in supposing that you are going to Blackwater Park?"

The man touched his hat, got out of the fly immediately, and gave me the letter.

I opened it at once and read these lines. I copy them here, thinking it best to destroy the original for caution's

"DEAR MADAM,Your letter received this morning has caused me very great anxiety. I will reply to it as

"My careful consideration of the statement made by yourself, and my knowledge of Lady Glyde's position, as

defined in the settlement, lead me, I regret to say, to the conclusion that a loan of the trust money to Sir

Percival (or, in other words, a loan of some portion of the twenty thousand pounds of Lady Glyde's fortune)

is in contemplation, and that she is made a party to the deed, in order to secure her approval of a flagrant

breach of trust, and to have her signature produced against her if she should complain hereafter. It is

impossible, on any other supposition, to account, situated as she is, for her execution to a deed of any kind

"In the event of Lady Glyde's signing such a document, as I am compelled to suppose the deed in question to

be, her trustees would be at liberty to advance money to Sir Percival out of her twenty thousand pounds. If

the amount so lent should not he paid back, and if Lady Glyde should have children, their fortune will then be

diminished by the sum, large or small, so advanced. In plainer terms still, the transaction, for anything that

"Under these serious circumstances, I would recommend Lady Glyde to assign as a reason for withholding

her signature, that she wishes the deed to be first submitted to myself, as her family solicitor (in the absence

of my partner, Mr. Gilmore). No reasonable objection can be made to taking this coursefor, if the

transaction is an honourable one, there will necessarily be no difficulty in my giving my approval.

"Sincerely assuring you of my readiness to afford any additional help or advice that may be wanted, I beg to

I read this kind and sensible letter very thankfully. It supplied Laura with a reason for objecting to the

signature which was unanswerable, and which we could both of us understand. The messenger waited near

"Will you be good enough to say that I understand the letter, and that I am very much obliged?" I said. "There

Exactly at the moment when I was speaking those words, holding the letter open in my hand, Count Fosco

turned the corner of the lane from the highroad, and stood before me as if he had sprung up out of the earth.

The suddenness of his appearance, in the very last place under heaven in which I should have expected to see

him, took me completely by surprise. The messenger wished me goodmorning, and got into the fly again. I

could not say a word to himI was not even able to return his bow. The conviction that I was

"Are you going back to the house, Miss Halcombe?" he inquired, without showing the least surprise on his

side, and without even looking after the fly, which drove off while he was speaking to me.

"I am going back too," he said. "Pray allow me the pleasure of accompanying you. Will you take my arm?

I took his arm. The first of my scattered senses that came back was the sense that warned me to sacrifice

"I thought, Count, I heard you with your birds in the breakfast room," I answered, as quietly and firmly as I

"Surely. But my little feathered children, dear lady, are only too like other children. They have their days of

perversity, and this morning was one of them. My wife came in as I was putting them back in their cage, and

said she had left you going out alone for a walk. You told her so, did you not?"

"Well, Miss Halcombe, the pleasure of accompanying you was too great a temptation for me to resist. At my

age there is no harm in confessing so much as that, is there? I seized my hat, and set off to offer myself as

your escort. Even so fat an old man as Fosco is surely better than no escort at all? I took the wrong pathI

came back in despair, and here I am, arrived (may I say it?) at the height of my wishes."

He talked on in this complimentary strain with a fluency which left me no exertion to make beyond the effort

of maintaining my composure. He never referred in the most distant manner to what he had seen in the lane,

or to the letter which I still had in my hand. This ominous discretion helped to convince me that he must have

surprised, by the most dishonourable means, the secret of my application in Laura's interest to the lawyer; and

that, having now assured himself of the private manner in which I had received the answer, he had discovered

enough to suit his purposes, and was only bent on trying to quiet the suspicions which he knew he must have

aroused in my mind. I was wise enough, under these circumstances, not to attempt to deceive him by

plausible explanations, and woman enough, notwithstanding my dread of him, to feel as if my hand was

On the drive in front of the house we met the dogcart being taken round to the stables. Sir Percival had just

returned. He came out to meet us at the housedoor. Whatever other results his journey might have had, it

"Oh! here are two of you come back," he said, with a lowering face. "What is the meaning of the house being

I told him of the loss of the brooch, and said that Laura had gone into the plantation to look for it.

"Brooch or no brooch," he growled sulkily, "I recommend her not to forget her appointment in the library this

I took my hand from the Count's arm, and slowly ascended the steps. He honoured me with one of his

magnificent bows, and then addressed himself gaily to the scowling master of the house.

"Tell me, Percival," he said, "have you had a pleasant drive? And has your pretty shining Brown Molly come

"And I want five minutes' talk with you, Percival, first," returned the Count. "Five minutes' talk, my friend,

I lingered long enough in passing through the halldoor to hear this question and answer, and to see Sir

"If you want to badger me with any more of your infernal scruples," he said, "I for one won't hear them. I

"Come out here and speak to me," repeated the Count, still perfectly uninfluenced by the rudest speech that

Sir Percival descended the steps. The Count took him by the arm, and walked him away gently. The

"business," I was sure, referred to the question of the signature. They were speaking of Laura and of me

beyond a doubt. I felt heartsick and faint with anxiety. It might be of the last importance to both of us to

know what they were saying to each other at that moment, and not one word of it could by any possibility

I walked about the house, from room to room, with the lawyer's letter in my bosom (I was afraid by this time

even to trust it under lock and key), till the oppression of my suspense half maddened me. There were no

signs of Laura's return, and I thought of going out to look for her. But my strength was so exhausted by the

trials and anxieties of the morning that the heat of the day quite overpowered me, and after an attempt to get

to the door I was obliged to return to the drawingroom and lie down on the nearest sofa to recover.

I was just composing myself when the door opened softly and the Count looked in.

"A thousand pardons, Miss Halcombe," he said; "I only venture to disturb you because I am the bearer of

good news. Percivalwho is capricious in everything, as you knowhas seen fit to alter his mind at the last

moment, and the business of the signature is put off for the present. A great relief to all of us, Miss

Halcombe, as I see with pleasure in your face. Pray present my best respects and felicitations, when you

He left me before I had recovered my astonishment. There could be no doubt that this extraordinary alteration

of purpose in the matter of the signature was due to his influence, and that his discovery of my application to

London yesterday, and of my having received an answer to it today, had offered him the means of

I felt these impressions, but my mind seemed to share the exhaustion of my body, and I was in no condition

to dwell on them with any useful reference to the doubtful present or the threatening future. I tried a second

time to run out and find Laura, but my head was giddy and my knees trembled under me. There was no

The quiet in the house, and the low murmuring hum of summer insects outside the open window, soothed me.

My eyes closed of themselves, and I passed gradually into a strange condition, which was not wakingfor I

knew nothing of what was going on about me, and not sleepingfor I was conscious of my own repose. In

this state my fevered mind broke loose from me, while my weary body was at rest, and in a trance, or

daydream of my fancyI know not what to call itI saw Walter Hartright. I had not thought of him since

I rose that morningLaura had not said one word to me either directly or indirectly referring to himand

yet I saw him now as plainly as if the past time had returned, and we were both together again at Limmeridge

He appeared to me as one among many other men, none of whose faces I could plainly discern. They were all

lying on the steps of an immense ruined temple. Colossal tropical treeswith rank creepers twining

endlessly about their trunks, and hideous stone idols glimmering and grinning at intervals behind leaves and

stalks and branchessurrounded the temple and shut out the sky, and threw a dismal shadow over the forlorn

band of men on the steps. White exhalations twisted and curled up stealthily from the ground, approached the

men in wreaths like smoke, touched them, and stretched them out dead, one by one, in the places where they

lay. An agony of pity and fear for Walter loosened my tongue, and I implored him to escape. "Come back,

come back!" I said. "Remember your promise to HER and to ME. Come back to us before the Pestilence

He looked at me with an unearthly quiet in his face. "Wait," he said, "I shall come back. The night when I

met the lost Woman on the highway was the night which set my life apart to be the instrument of a Design

that is yet unseen. Here, lost in the wilderness, or there, welcomed back in the land of my birth, I am still

walking on the dark road which leads me, and you, and the sister of your love and mine, to the unknown

Retribution and the inevitable End. Wait and look. The Pestilence which touches the rest will pass ME."

I saw him again. He was still in the forest, and the numbers of his lost companions had dwindled to very few.

The temple was gone, and the idols were goneand in their place the figures of dark, dwarfish men lurked

murderously among the trees, with bows in their hands, and arrows fitted to the string. Once more I feared for

Walter, and cried out to warn him. Once more he turned to me, with the immovable quiet in his face.

"Another step," he said, "on the dark road. Wait and look. The arrows that strike the rest will spare me."

I saw him for the third time in a wrecked ship, stranded on a wild, sandy shore. The overloaded boats were

making away from him for the land, and he alone was left to sink with the ship. I cried to him to hail the

hindmost boat, and to make a last effort for his life. The quiet face looked at me in return, and the unmoved

voice gave me back the changeless reply. "Another step on the journey. Wait and look. The Sea which

I saw him for the last time. He was kneeling by a tomb of white marble, and the shadow of a veiled woman

rose out of the grave beneath and waited by his side. The unearthly quiet of his face had changed to an

unearthly sorrow. But the terrible certainty of his words remained the same. "Darker and darker," he said;

"farther and farther yet. Death takes the good, the beautiful, and the youngand spares me. The Pestilence

that wastes, the Arrow that strikes, the Sea that drowns, the Grave that closes over Love and Hope, are steps

My heart sank under a dread beyond words, under a grief beyond tears. The darkness closed round the

pilgrim at the marble tomb closed round the veiled woman from the graveclosed round the dreamer who

She had dropped on her knees by the side of the sofa. Her face was flushed and agitated, and her eyes met

She looked round at the halfopen door, put her lips close to my ear, and answered in a whisper

"Marian!the figure at the lakethe footsteps last nightI've just seen her! I've just spoken to her!"

I was so startled by the disturbance in Laura's face and manner, and so dismayed by the first waking

impressions of my dream, that I was not fit to bear the revelation which burst upon me when that name

passed her lips. I could only stand rooted to the floor, looking at her in breathless silence.

She was too much absorbed by what had happened to notice the effect which her reply had produced on me.

"I have seen Anne Catherick! I have spoken to Anne Catherick!" she repeated as if I had not heard her. "Oh,

Marian, I have such things to tell you! Come awaywe may be interrupted herecome at once into my

With those eager words she caught me by the hand, and led me through the library, to the end room on the

ground floor, which had been fitted up for her own especial use. No third person, except her maid, could have

any excuse for surprising us here. She pushed me in before her, locked the door, and drew the chintz curtains

The strange, stunned feeling which had taken possession of me still remained. But a growing conviction that

the complications which had long threatened to gather about her, and to gather about me, had suddenly closed

fast round us both, was now beginning to penetrate my mind. I could not express it in wordsI could hardly

even realise it dimly in my own thoughts. "Anne Catherick!" I whispered to myself, with useless, helpless

Laura drew me to the nearest seat, an ottoman in the middle of the room. "Look!" she said, "look

I saw, for the first time, that the lost brooch was pinned in its place again. There was something real in the

sight of it, something real in the touching of it afterwards, which seemed to steady the whirl and confusion in

"Where did you find your brooch?" The first words I could say to her were the words which put that trivial

"On the floor of the boathouse. Oh, how shall I beginhow shall I tell you about it! She talked to me so

Her voice rose as the tumult of her recollections pressed upon her mind. The inveterate distrust which weighs,

night and day, on my spirits in this house, instantly roused me to warn herjust as the sight of the brooch

"Speak low," I said. "The window is open, and the garden path runs beneath it. Begin at the beginning, Laura.

"No, only speak lowonly remember that Anne Catherick is a dangerous subject under your husband's roof.

"At the boathouse, Marian. I went out, as you know, to find my brooch, and I walked along the path through

the plantation, looking down on the ground carefully at every step. In that way I got on, after a long time, to

the boathouse, and as soon as I was inside it, I went on my knees to hunt over the floor. I was still searching

with my back to the doorway, when I heard a soft, strange voice behind me say, 'Miss Fairlie.'"

"Yes, my old namethe dear, familiar name that I thought I had parted from for ever. I started upnot

frightened, the voice was too kind and gentle to frighten anybodybut very much surprised. There, looking

at me from the doorway, stood a woman, whose face I never remembered to have seen before"

"She had a neat, pretty white gown on, and over it a poor worn thin dark shawl. Her bonnet was of brown

straw, as poor and worn as the shawl. I was struck by the difference between her gown and the rest of her

dress, and she saw that I noticed it. 'Don't look at my bonnet and shawl,' she said, speaking in a quick,

breathless, sudden way; 'if I mustn't wear white, I don't care what I wear. Look at my gown as much as you

pleaseI'm not ashamed of that.' Very strange, was it not? Before I could say anything to soothe her, she

held out one of her hands, and I saw my brooch in it. I was so pleased and so grateful, that I went quite close

to her to say what I really felt. 'Are you thankful enough to do me one little kindness?' she asked. 'Yes,

indeed,' I answered, 'any kindness in my power I shall be glad to show you.' 'Then let me pin your brooch on

for you, now I have found it.' Her request was so unexpected, Marian, and she made it with such

extraordinary eagerness, that I drew back a step or two, not well knowing what to do. 'Ah!' she said, 'your

mother would have let me pin on the brooch.' There was something in her voice and her look, as well as in

her mentioning my mother in that reproachful manner, which made me ashamed of my distrust. I took her

hand with the brooch in it, and put it up gently on the bosom of my dress. 'You knew my mother?' I said.

'Was it very long ago? have I ever seen you before?' Her hands were busy fastening the brooch: she stopped

and pressed them against my breast. 'You don't remember a fine spring day at Limmeridge,' she said, 'and

your mother walking down the path that led to the school, with a little girl on each side of her? I have had

nothing else to think of since, and I remember it. You were one of the little girls, and I was the other. Pretty,

clever Miss Fairlie, and poor dazed Anne Catherick were nearer to each other then than they are now!'"

"Yes, I remembered your asking me about Anne Catherick at Limmeridge, and your saying that she had once

"SHE reminded me. While I was looking at her, while she was very close to me, it came over my mind

suddenly that we were like each other! Her face was pale and thin and wearybut the sight of it startled me,

as if it had been the sight of my own face in the glass after a long illness. The discoveryI don't know

whygave me such a shock, that I was perfectly incapable of speaking to her for the moment."

"I am afraid she was hurt by it. 'You have not got your mother's face,' she said, 'or your mother's heart. Your

mother's face was dark, and your mother's heart, Miss Fairlie, was the heart of an angel.' 'I am sure I feel

kindly towards you,' I said, 'though I may not be able to express it as I ought. Why do you call me Miss

Fairlie?' 'Because I love the name of Fairlie and hate the name of Glyde,' she broke out violently. I had

seen nothing like madness in her before this, but I fancied I saw it now in her eyes. 'I only thought you might

not know I was married,' I said, remembering the wild letter she wrote to me at Limmeridge, and trying to

quiet her. She sighed bitterly, and turned away from me. 'Not know you were married?' she repeated. 'I am

here BECAUSE you are married. I am here to make atonement to you, before I meet your mother in the

world beyond the grave.' She drew farther and farther away from me, till she was out of the boat house, and

then she watched and listened for a little while. When she turned round to speak again, instead of coming

back, she stopped where she was, looking in at me, with a hand on each side of the entrance. 'Did you see me

at the lake last night?' she said. 'Did you hear me following you in the wood? I have been waiting for days

together to speak to you aloneI have left the only friend I have in the world, anxious and frightened about

me I have risked being shut up again in the madhouseand all for your sake, Miss Fairlie, all for your

sake.' Her words alarmed me, Marian, and yet there was something in the way she spoke that made me pity

her with all my heart. I am sure my pity must have been sincere, for it made me bold enough to ask the poor

"No. She shook her head, and told me she must stop where she was, to watch and listen, and see that no third

person surprised us. And from first to last, there she waited at the entrance, with a hand on each side of it,

sometimes bending in suddenly to speak to me, sometimes drawing back suddenly to look about her. 'I was

here yesterday,' she said, 'before it came dark, and I heard you, and the lady with you, talking together. I

heard you tell her about your husband. I heard you say you had no influence to make him believe you, and no

influence to keep him silent. Ah! I knew what those words meantmy conscience told me while I was

listening. Why did I ever let you marry him! Oh, my fearmy mad, miserable, wicked fear!'She covered

up her face in her poor worn shawl, and moaned and murmured to herself behind it. I began to be afraid she

might break out into some terrible despair which neither she nor I could master. 'Try to quiet yourself,' I said;

'try to tell me how you might have prevented my marriage.' She took the shawl from her face, and looked at

me vacantly. 'I ought to have had heart enough to stop at Limmeridge,' she answered. 'I ought never to have

let the news of his coming there frighten me away. I ought to have warned you and saved you before it was

too late. Why did I only have courage enough to write you that letter? Why did I only do harm, when I

wanted and meant to do good? Oh, my fearmy mad, miserable, wicked fear! 'She repeated those words

again, and hid her face again in the end of her poor worn shawl. It was dreadful to see her, and dreadful to

"She asked me in return, if I should not be afraid of a man who had shut me up in a madhouse, and who

would shut me up again, if he could? I said, 'Are you afraid still? Surely you would not be here if you were

afraid now?' 'No,' she said, 'I am not afraid now.' I asked why not. She suddenly bent forward into the boat

house, and said, 'Can't you guess why?' I shook my head. 'Look at me,' she went on. I told her I was grieved

to see that she looked very sorrowful and very ill. She smiled for the first time. 'Ill?' she repeated; 'I'm dying.

You know why I'm not afraid of him now. Do you think I shall meet your mother in heaven? Will she forgive

me if I do?' I was so shocked and so startled, that I could make no reply. 'I have been thinking of it,' she went

on, 'all the time I have been in hiding from your husband, all the time I lay ill. My thoughts have driven me

hereI want to make atonementI want to undo all I can of the harm I once did.' I begged her as earnestly

as I could to tell me what she meant. She still looked at me with fixed vacant eyes. 'SHALL I undo the harm?'

she said to herself doubtfully. 'You have friends to take your part. If YOU know his Secret, he will be afraid

of you, he won't dare use you as he used me. He must treat you mercifully for his own sake, if he is afraid of

you and your friends. And if he treats you mercifully, and if I can say it was my doing' I listened eagerly

"I tried, but she only drew herself away from me again, and leaned her face and arms against the side of the

boathouse. 'Oh!' I heard her say, with a dreadful, distracted tenderness in her voice, '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!'Marian! I trembled from head to footit was horrible to hear her.

'But there is no hope of that,' she said, moving a little, so as to look at me again, 'no hope for a poor stranger

like me. I shall not rest under the marble cross that I washed with my own hands, and made so white and pure

for her sake. Oh no! oh no! God's mercy, not man's, will take me to her, where the wicked cease from

troubling and the weary are at rest.' She spoke those words quietly and sorrowfully, with a heavy, hopeless

sigh, and then waited a little. Her face was confused and troubled, she seemed to be thinking, or trying to

think. 'What was it I said just now?' she asked after a while. 'When your mother is in my mind, everything

else goes out of it. What was I saying? what was I saying?' I reminded the poor creature, as kindly and

delicately as I could. 'Ah, yes, yes,' she said, still in a vacant, perplexed manner. 'You are helpless with your

wicked husband. Yes. And I must do what I have come to do hereI must make it up to you for having been

afraid to speak out at a better time.' 'What IS it you have to tell me?' I asked. 'The Secret that your cruel

husband is afraid of,' she answered. 'I once threatened him with the Secret, and frightened him. You shall

threaten him with the Secret, and frighten him too.' Her face darkened, and a hard, angry stare fixed itself in

her eyes. She began waving her hand at me in a vacant, unmeaning manner. 'My mother knows the Secret,'

she said. 'My mother has wasted under the Secret half her lifetime. One day, when I was grown up, she said

"And listened eagerly. 'Hush!' she whispered, still waving her hand at me. 'Hush!' She moved aside out of the

doorway, moved slowly and stealthily, step by step, till I lost her past the edge of the boathouse."

"Yes, my anxiety made me bold enough to rise and follow her. Just as I reached the entrance, she appeared

again suddenly, round the side of the boathouse. 'The Secret,' I whispered to her'wait and tell me the

Secret!' She caught hold of my arm, and looked at me with wild frightened eyes. 'Not now,' she said, 'we are

not alonewe are watched. Come here tomorrow at this timeby yourselfmindby yourself.' She

"Oh, Laura, Laura, another chance lost! If I had only been near you she should not have escaped us. On

I waited for a moment to consider. Was this third person, supposed to have been secretly present at the

interview, a reality, or the creature of Anne Catherick's excited fancy? It was impossible to determine. The

one thing certain was, that we had failed again on the very brink of discoveryfailed utterly and

irretrievably, unless Anne Catherick kept her appointment at the boathouse for the next day.

"Are you quite sure you have told me everything that passed? Every word that was said?" I inquired.

"I think so," she answered. "My powers of memory, Marian, are not like yours. But I was so strongly

impressed, so deeply interested, that nothing of any importance can possibly have escaped me."

"My dear Laura, the merest trifles are of importance where Anne Catherick is concerned. Think again. Did no

chance reference escape her as to the place in which she is living at the present time?"

"Oh yes! yes! I forgot that. She told me Mrs. Clements wanted sadly to go with her to the lake and take care

of her, and begged and prayed that she would not venture into this neighbourhood alone."

"She told you nothing about the place in which she took refuge after leaving Todd's Corner?"

"No, Marian, not a word. Tell me, pray tell me, what you think about it. I don't know what to think, or what

"You must do this, my love: You must carefully keep the appointment at the boathouse tomorrow. It is

impossible to say what interests may not depend on your seeing that woman again. You shall not be left to

yourself a second time. I will follow you at a safe distance. Nobody shall see me, but I will keep within

hearing of your voice, if anything happens. Anne Catherick has escaped Walter Hartright, and has escaped

"You believe," she said, "in this secret that my husband is afraid of? Suppose, Marian, it should only exist

after all in Anne Catherick's fancy? Suppose she only wanted to see me and to speak to me, for the sake of

old remembrances? Her manner was so strangeI almost doubted her. Would you trust her in other things?"

"I trust nothing, Laura, but my own observation of your husband's conduct. I judge Anne Catherick's words

I said no more, and got up to leave the room Thoughts were troubling me which I might have told her if we

had spoken together longer, and which it might have been dangerous for her to know. The influence of the

terrible dream from which she had awakened me hung darkly and heavily over every fresh impression which

the progress of her narrative produced on my mind. I felt the ominous future coming close, chilling me with

an unutterable awe, forcing on me the conviction of an unseen design in the long series of complications

which had now fastened round us. I thought of Hartrightas I saw him in the body when he said farewell; as

I saw him in the spirit in my dreamand I too began to doubt now whether we were not advancing blindfold

Leaving Laura to go upstairs alone, I went out to look about me in the walks near the house. The

circumstances under which Anne Catherick had parted from her had made me secretly anxious to know how

Count Fosco was passing the afternoon, and had rendered me secretly distrustful of the results of that solitary

After looking for them in every direction and discovering nothing, I returned to the house, and entered the

different rooms on the ground floor one after another. They were all empty. I came out again into the hall,

and went upstairs to return to Laura. Madame Fosco opened her door as I passed it in my way along the

passage, and I stopped to see if she could inform me of the whereabouts of her husband and Sir Percival. Yes,

she had seen them both from her window more than an hour since. The Count had looked up with his

customary kindness, and had mentioned with his habitual attention to her in the smallest trifles, that he and

For a long walk! They had never yet been in each other's company with that object in my experience of them.

Sir Percival cared for no exercise but riding, and the Count (except when he was polite enough to be my

When I joined Laura again, I found that she had called to mind in my absence the impending question of the

signature to the deed, which, in the interest of discussing her interview with Anne Catherick, we had hitherto

overlooked. Her first words when I saw her expressed her surprise at the absence of the expected summons to

"You may make your mind easy on that subject," I said. "For the present, at least, neither your resolution nor

mine will be exposed to any further trial. Sir Percival has altered his plans the business of the signature is

"My authority is Count Fosco. I believe it is to his interference that we are indebted for your husband's

"It seems impossible, Marian. If the object of my signing was, as we suppose, to obtain money for Sir

"I think, Laura, we have the means at hand of setting that doubt at rest. Have you forgotten the conversation

that I heard between Sir Percival and the lawyer as they were crossing the hall?"

"I do. There were two alternatives proposed. One was to obtain your signature to the parchment. The other

was to gain time by giving bills at three months. The last resource is evidently the resource now adopted, and

we may fairly hope to be relieved from our share in Sir Percival's embarrassments for some time to come."

"Does it, my love? You complimented me on my ready memory not long since, but you seem to doubt it now.

On looking back to the entry referring to the lawyer's visit, we found that my recollection of the two

alternatives presented was accurately correct. It was almost as great a relief to my mind as to Laura's, to find

that my memory had served me, on this occasion, as faithfully as usual. In the perilous uncertainty of our

present situation, it is hard to say what future interests may not depend upon the regularity of the entries in

my journal, and upon the reliability of my recollection at the time when I make them.

Laura's face and manner suggested to me that this last consideration had occurred to her as well as to myself.

Anyway, it is only a trifling matter, and I am almost ashamed to put it down here in writingit seems to set

the forlornness of our situation in such a miserably vivid light. We must have little indeed to depend on,

when the discovery that my memory can still be trusted to serve us is hailed as if it was the discovery of a

The first bell for dinner separated us. Just as it had done ringing, Sir Percival and the Count returned from

their walk. We heard the master of the house storming at the servants for being five minutes late, and the

master's guest interposing, as usual, in the interests of propriety, patience, and peace.

The evening has come and gone. No extraordinary event has happened. But I have noticed certain

peculiarities in the conduct of Sir Percival and the Count, which have sent me to my bed feeling very anxious

and uneasy about Anne Catherick, and about the results which tomorrow may produce.

I know enough by this time, to be sure, that the aspect of Sir Percival which is the most false, and which,

therefore, means the worst, is his polite aspect. That long walk with his friend had ended in improving his

manners, especially towards his wife. To Laura's secret surprise and to my secret alarm, he called her by her

Christian name, asked if she had heard lately from her uncle. inquired when Mrs. Vesey was to receive her

invitation to Blackwater, and showed her so many other little attentions that he almost recalled the days of his

hateful courtship at Limmeridge House. This was a bad sign to begin with, and I thought it more ominous

still that he should pretend after dinner to fall asleep in the drawingroom, and that his eyes should cunningly

follow Laura and me when he thought we neither of us suspected him. I have never had any doubt that his

sudden journey by himself took him to Welmingham to question Mrs. Catherickbut the experience of

tonight has made me fear that the expedition was not undertaken in vain, and that he has got the information

which he unquestionably left us to collect. If I knew where Anne Catherick was to be found, I would be up

While the aspect under which Sir Percival presented himself to night was unhappily but too familiar to me,

the aspect under which the Count appeared was, on the other hand, entirely new in my experience of him. He

permitted me, this evening, to make his acquaintance, for the first time, in the character of a Man of

For instance, he was quiet and subduedhis eyes and his voice expressed a restrained sensibility. He wore

(as if there was some hidden connection between his showiest finery and his deepest feeling) the most

magnificent waistcoat he has yet appeared init was made of pale seagreen silk, and delicately trimmed

with fine silver braid. His voice sank into the tenderest inflections, his smile expressed a thoughtful, fatherly

admiration, whenever he spoke to Laura or to me. He pressed his wife's hand under the table when she

thanked him for trifling little attentions at dinner. He took wine with her. "Your health and happiness, my

angel!" he said, with fond glistening eyes. He ate little or nothing, and sighed, and said "Good Percival!"

when his friend laughed at him. After dinner, he took Laura by the hand, and asked her if she would be "so

sweet as to play to him." She complied, through sheer astonishment. He sat by the piano, with his

watchchain resting in folds, like a golden serpent, on the seagreen protuberance of his waistcoat. His

immense head lay languidly on one side, and he gently beat time with two of his yellowwhite fingers. He

highly approved of the music, and tenderly admired Laura's manner of playingnot as poor Hartright used

to praise it, with an innocent enjoyment of the sweet sounds, but with a clear, cultivated, practical knowledge

of the merits of the composition, in the first place, and of the merits of the player's touch in the second. As the

evening closed in, he begged that the lovely dying light might not be profaned, just yet, by the appearance of

the lamps. He came, with his horribly silent tread, to the distant window at which I was standing, to be out of

his way and to avoid the very sight of himhe came to ask me to support his protest against the lamps. If

any one of them could only have burnt him up at that moment, I would have gone down to the kitchen and

"Surely you like this modest, trembling English twilight?" he said softly. "Ah! I love it. I feel my inborn

admiration of all that is noble, and great, and good, purified by the breath of heaven on an evening like this.

Nature has such imperishable charms, such inextinguishable tenderness for me!I am an old, fat mantalk

which would become your lips, Miss Halcombe, sounds like a derision and a mockery on mine. It is hard to

be laughed at in my moments of sentiment, as if my soul was like myself, old and overgrown. Observe, dear

lady, what a light is dying on the trees! Does it penetrate your heart, as it penetrates mine?"

He paused, looked at me, and repeated the famous lines of Dante on the Eveningtime, with a melody and

tenderness which added a charm of their own to the matchless beauty of the poetry itself.

"Bah!" he cried suddenly, as the last cadence of those noble Italian words died away on his lips; "I make an

old fool of myself, and only weary you all! Let us shut up the window in our bosoms and get back to the

matteroffact world. Percival! I sanction the admission of the lamps. Lady GlydeMiss Halcombe

She had learnt to feel my dread of offending him, and she accepted his proposal. It was more than I could

have done at that moment. I could not have sat down at the same table with him for any consideration. His

eyes seemed to reach my inmost soul through the thickening obscurity of the twilight. His voice trembled

along every nerve in my body, and turned me hot and cold alternately. The mystery and terror of my dream,

which had haunted me at intervals all through the evening, now oppressed my mind with an unendurable

foreboding and an unutterable awe. I saw the white tomb again, and the veiled woman rising out of it by

Hartright's side. The thought of Laura welled up like a spring in the depths of my heart, and filled it with

waters of bitterness, never, never known to it before. I caught her by the hand as she passed me on her way to

the table, and kissed her as if that night was to part us for ever. While they were all gazing at me in

astonishment, I ran out through the low window which was open before me to the groundran out to hide

We separated that evening later than usual. Towards midnight the summer silence was broken by the

shuddering of a low, melancholy wind among the trees. We all felt the sudden chill in the atmosphere, but the

Count was the first to notice the stealthy rising of the wind. He stopped while he was lighting my candle for

June 19th.The events of yesterday warned me to be ready, sooner or later, to meet the worst. Today is not

Judging by the closest calculation of time that Laura and I could make, we arrived at the conclusion that

Anne Catherick must have appeared at the boathouse at halfpast two o'clock on the afternoon of yesterday.

I accordingly arranged that Laura should just show herself at the luncheontable today, and should then slip

out at the first opportunity, leaving me behind to preserve appearances, and to follow her as soon as I could

safely do so. This mode of proceeding, if no obstacles occurred to thwart us, would enable her to be at the

boathouse before halfpast two, and (when I left the table, in my turn) would take me to a safe position in

The change in the weather, which last night's wind warned us to expect, came with the morning. It was

raining heavily when I got up, and it continued to rain until twelve o'clockwhen the clouds dispersed, the

blue sky appeared, and the sun shone again with the bright promise of a fine afternoon.

My anxiety to know how Sir Percival and the Count would occupy the early part of the day was by no means

set at rest, so far as Sir Percival was concerned, by his leaving us immediately after breakfast, and going out

by himself, in spite of the rain. He neither told us where he was going nor when we might expect him back.

We saw him pass the breakfastroom window hastily, with his high boots and his waterproof coat onand

The Count passed the morning quietly indoors, some part of it in the library, some part in the drawingroom,

playing odds and ends of music on the piano, and humming to himself. Judging by appearances, the

sentimental side of his character was persistently inclined to betray itself still. He was silent and sensitive,

and ready to sigh and languish ponderously (as only fat men CAN sigh and languish) on the smallest

Luncheontime came and Sir Percival did not return. The Count took his friend's place at the table,

plaintively devoured the greater part of a fruit tart, submerged under a whole jugful of cream, and explained

the full merit of the achievement to us as soon as he had done. "A taste for sweets," he said in his softest

tones and his tenderest manner, "is the innocent taste of women and children. I love to share it with themit

Laura left the table in ten minutes' time. I was sorely tempted to accompany her. But if we had both gone out

together we must have excited suspicion, and worse still, if we allowed Anne Catherick to see Laura,

accompanied by a second person who was a stranger to her, we should in all probability forfeit her

I waited, therefore, as patiently as I could, until the servant came in to clear the table. When I quitted the

room, there were no signs, in the house or out of it, of Sir Percival's return. I left the Count with a piece of

sugar between his lips, and the vicious cockatoo scrambling up his waistcoat to get at it, while Madame

Fosco, sitting opposite to her husband, watched the proceedings of his bird and himself as attentively as if she

had never seen anything of the sort before in her life. On my way to the plantation I kept carefully beyond the

range of view from the luncheonroom window. Nobody saw me and nobody followed me. It was then a

Once among the trees I walked rapidly, until I had advanced more than halfway through the plantation. At

that point I slackened my pace and proceeded cautiously, but I saw no one, and heard no voices. By little and

little I came within view of the back of the boathousestopped and listenedthen went on, till I was close

behind it, and must have heard any persons who were talking inside. Still the silence was unbrokenstill far

After skirting round by the back of the building, first on one side and then on the other, and making no

discoveries, I ventured in front of it, and fairly looked in. The place was empty.

I called, "Laura!"at first softly, then louder and louder. No one answered and no one appeared. For all that

I could see and hear, the only human creature in the neighbourhood of the lake and the plantation was myself.

My heart began to beat violently, but I kept my resolution, and searched, first the boathouse and then the

ground in front of it, for any signs which might show me whether Laura had really reached the place or not.

No mark of her presence appeared inside the building, but I found traces of her outside it, in footsteps on the

I detected the footsteps of two personslarge footsteps like a man's, and small footsteps, which, by putting

my own feet into them and testing their size in that manner, I felt certain were Laura's. The ground was

confusedly marked in this way just before the boathouse. Close against one side of it, under shelter of the

projecting roof, I discovered a little hole in the sanda hole artificially made, beyond a doubt. I just noticed

it, and then turned away immediately to trace the footsteps as far as I could, and to follow the direction in

They led me, starting from the lefthand side of the boathouse, along the edge of the trees, a distance, I

should think, of between two and three hundred yards, and then the sandy ground showed no further trace of

them. Feeling that the persons whose course I was tracking must necessarily have entered the plantation at

this point, I entered it too. At first I could find no path, but I discovered one afterwards, just faintly traced

among the trees, and followed it. It took me, for some distance, in the direction of the village, until I stopped

at a point where another foottrack crossed it. The brambles grew thickly on either side of this second path. I

stood looking down it, uncertain which way to take next, and while I looked I saw on one thorny branch some

fragments of fringe from a woman's shawl. A closer examination of the fringe satisfied me that it had been

torn from a shawl of Laura's, and I instantly followed the second path. It brought me out at last, to my great

relief, at the back of the house. I say to my great relief, because I inferred that Laura must, for some unknown

reason, have returned before me by this roundabout way. I went in by the courtyard and the offices. The first

person whom I met in crossing the servants' hall was Mrs. Michelson, the housekeeper.

"My lady came in a little while ago with Sir Percival," answered the housekeeper. "I am afraid, Miss

"No, nothank God, no accident. But my lady ran upstairs to her own room in tears, and Sir Percival has

Fanny was Laura's maida good affectionate girl who had been with her for yearsthe only person in the

"In my room, Miss Halcombe. The young woman is quite overcome, and I told her to sit down and try to

I went to Mrs. Michelson's room, and found Fanny in a corner, with her box by her side, crying bitterly.

She could give me no explanation whatever of her sudden dismissal. Sir Percival had ordered that she should

have a month's wages, in place of a month's warning, and go. No reason had been assigned no objection

had been made to her conduct. She had been forbidden to appeal to her mistress, forbidden even to see her for

a moment to say goodbye. She was to go without explanations or farewells, and to go at once.

After soothing the poor girl by a few friendly words, I asked where she proposed to sleep that night. She

replied that she thought of going to the little inn in the village, the landlady of which was a respectable

woman, known to the servants at Blackwater Park. The next morning, by leaving early, she might get back to

her friends in Cumberland without stopping in London, where she was a total stranger.

I felt directly that Fanny's departure offered us a safe means of communication with London and with

Limmeridge House, of which it might be very important to avail ourselves. Accordingly, I told her that she

might expect to hear from her mistress or from me in the course of the evening, and that she might depend on

our both doing all that lay in our power to help her, under the trial of leaving us for the present. Those words

The door which led to Laura's room was the door of an antechamber opening on to the passage. When I

I knocked, and the door was opened by the same heavy, overgrown housemaid whose lumpish insensibility

I had, since that time, discovered that her name was Margaret Porcher, and that she was the most awkward,

On opening the door she instantly stepped out to the threshold, and stood grinning at me in stolid silence.

"Ah, but you mustn't come in," was the answer, with another and a broader grin still.

She stretched out a great red hand and arm on each side of her, so as to bar the doorway, and slowly nodded

I had need of all my selfcontrol to warn me against contesting the matter with HER, and to remind me that

the next words I had to say must be addressed to her master. I turned my back on her, and instantly went

downstairs to find him. My resolution to keep my temper under all the irritations that Sir Percival could offer

was, by this time, as completely forgottenI say so to my shame as if I had never made it. It did me good,

after all I had suffered and suppressed in that houseit actually did me good to feel how angry I was.

The drawingroom and the breakfastroom were both empty. I went on to the library, and there I found Sir

Percival, the Count, and Madame Fosco. They were all three standing up, close together, and Sir Percival had

a little slip of paper in his hand. As I opened the door I heard the Count say to him, "Noa thousand times

"Am I to understand, Sir Percival, that your wife's room is a prison, and that your housemaid is the gaoler

"Yes, that is what you are to understand," he answered. "Take care my gaoler hasn't got double duty to

"Take YOU care how you treat your wife, and how you threaten ME," I broke out in the heat of my anger.

"There are laws in England to protect women from cruelty and outrage. If you hurt a hair of Laura's head, if

you dare to interfere with my freedom, come what may, to those laws I will appeal."

Even in the vehemence of my anger I felt his calm, cold, grey eyes on my face. They turned away from me as

soon as he had spoken, and looked significantly at his wife. Madame Fosco immediately moved close to my

side, and in that position addressed Sir Percival before either of us could speak again.

"Favour me with your attention for one moment," she said, in her clear icilysuppressed tones. "I have to

thank you, Sir Percival, for your hospitality, and to decline taking advantage of it any longer. I remain in no

house in which ladies are treated as your wife and Miss Halcombe have been treated here today!"

Sir Percival drew back a step, and stared at her in dead silence. The declaration he had just hearda

declaration which he well knew, as I well knew, Madame Fosco would not have ventured to make without

her husband's permissionseemed to petrify him with surprise. The Count stood by, and looked at his wife

"She is sublime!" he said to himself. He approached her while he spoke, and drew her hand through his arm.

"I am at your service, Eleanor," he went on, with a quiet dignity that I had never noticed in him before. "And

at Miss Halcombe's service, if she will honour me by accepting all the assistance I can offer her."

"Damn it! what do you mean?" cried Sir Percival, as the Count quietly moved away with his wife to the door.

"At other times I mean what I say, but at this time I mean what my wife says," replied the impenetrable

Italian. "We have changed places, Percival, for once, and Madame Fosco's opinion ismine."

Sir Percival crumpled up the paper in his hand, and pushing past the Count, with another oath, stood between

"Have your own way," he said, with baffled rage in his low, half whispering tones. "Have your own

Madame Fosco glanced inquiringly at her husband. "He has gone away very suddenly," she said. "What does

"It means that you and I together have brought the worsttempered man in all England to his senses,"

answered the Count. "It means, Miss Halcombe, that Lady Glyde is relieved from a gross indignity, and you

from the repetition of an unpardonable insult. Suffer me to express my admiration of your conduct and your

I had no longer the strength of my first angry resistance to outrage and injury to support me. My heartsick

anxiety to see Laura, my sense of my own helpless ignorance of what had happened at the boathouse,

pressed on me with an intolerable weight. I tried to keep up appearances by speaking to the Count and his

wife in the tone which they had chosen to adopt in speaking to me, but the words failed on my lipsmy

breath came short and thickmy eyes looked longingly, in silence, at the door. The Count, understanding

my anxiety, opened it, went out, and pulled it to after him. At the same time Sir Percival's heavy step

descended the stairs. I heard them whispering together outside, while Madame Fosco was assuring me, in her

calmest and most conventional manner, that she rejoiced, for all our sakes, that Sir Percival's conduct had not

obliged her husband and herself to leave Blackwater Park. Before she had done speaking the whispering

"Miss Halcombe," he said, "I am happy to inform you that Lady Glyde is mistress again in her own house. I

thought it might be more agreeable to you to hear of this change for the better from me than from Sir

"Admirable delicacy!" said Madame Fosco, paying back her husband's tribute of admiration with the Count's

own coin, in the Count's own manner. He smiled and bowed as if he had received a formal compliment from

Sir Percival was standing in the hall. As I hurried to the stairs I heard him call impatiently to the Count to

"And I want to think a little by myself," replied the other. "Wait till later, Percival, wait till later."

Neither he nor his friend said any more. I gained the top of the stairs and ran along the passage. In my haste

and my agitation I left the door of the antechamber open, but I closed the door of the bedroom the moment I

Laura was sitting alone at the far end of the room, her arms resting wearily on a table, and her face hidden in

In my overpowering anxiety to hear what she had to tell me, I could not answer herI could only put

questions on my side. Laura's eagerness to know what had passed downstairs proved, however, too strong to

"Don't speak of him," she cried. "The Count is the vilest creature breathing! The Count is a miserable

Before we could either of us say another word we were alarmed by a soft knocking at the door of the

I had not yet sat down, and I went first to see who it was. When I opened the door Madame Fosco confronted

"You dropped this downstairs, Miss Halcombe," she said, "and I thought I could bring it to you, as I was

Her face, naturally pale, had turned to such a ghastly whiteness that I started at the sight of it. Her hands, so

sure and steady at all other times, trembled violently, and her eyes looked wolfishly past me through the open

She had been listening before she knocked! I saw it in her white face, I saw it in her trembling hands, I saw it

I closed the door again. "Oh, Laura! Laura! We shall both rue the day when you called the Count a Spy!"

"You would have called him so yourself, Marian, if you had known what I know. Anne Catherick was right.

There was a third person watching us in the plantation yesterday, and that third person"

"I am absolutely certain. He was Sir Percival's spyhe was Sir Percival's informerhe set Sir Percival

"No. She has saved herself by keeping away from the place. When I got to the boathouse no one was there."

"I went in and sat waiting for a few minutes. But my restlessness made me get up again, to walk about a little.

As I passed out I saw some marks on the sand, close under the front of the boat house. I stooped down to

examine them, and discovered a word written in large letters on the sand. The word wasLOOK.

"I saw the hollow place myself when I followed you to the boat house. Go ongo on!"

"Yes, I scraped away the sand on the surface, and in a little while I came to a strip of paper hidden beneath,

"In substance I can, Marian. It was very short. You would have remembered it, word for word."

She complied. I write the lines down here exactly as she repeated them to me. They ran thus

"I was seen with you, yesterday, by a tall, stout old man, and had to run to save myself. He was not quick

enough on his feet to follow me, and he lost me among the trees. I dare not risk coming back here today at

the same time. I write this, and hide it in the sand, at six in the morning, to tell you so. When we speak next

of your wicked husband's Secret we must speak safely, or not at all. Try to have patience. I promise you shall

The reference to the "tall, stout old man" (the terms of which Laura was certain that she had repeated to me

correctly) left no doubt as to who the intruder had been. I called to mind that I had told Sir Percival, in the

Count's presence the day before, that Laura had gone to the boathouse to look for her brooch. In all

probability he had followed her there, in his officious way, to relieve her mind about the matter of the

signature, immediately after he had mentioned the change in Sir Percival's plans to me in the drawingroom.

In this case he could only have got to the neighbourhood of the boathouse at the very moment when Anne

Catherick discovered him. The suspiciously hurried manner in which she parted from Laura had no doubt

prompted his useless attempt to follow her. Of the conversation which had previously taken place between

them he could have heard nothing. The distance between the house and the lake, and the time at which he left

me in the drawingroom, as compared with the time at which Laura and Anne Catherick had been speaking

Having arrived at something like a conclusion so far, my next great interest was to know what discoveries Sir

"How came you to lose possession of the letter?" I asked. "What did you do with it when you found it in the

"After reading it once through," she replied, "I took it into the boathouse with me to sit down and look over

it a second time. While I was reading a shadow fell across the paper. I looked up, and saw Sir Percival

"I tried, but he stopped me. 'You needn't trouble to hide that,' he said. 'I happen to have read it.' I could only

look at him helplesslyI could say nothing. 'You understand?' he went on; 'I have read it. I dug it up out of

the sand two hours since, and buried it again, and wrote the word above it again, and left it ready to your

hands. You can't lie yourself out of the scrape now. You saw Anne Catherick in secret yesterday, and you

have got her letter in your hand at this moment. I have not caught HER yet, but I have caught YOU. Give me

the letter.' He stepped close up to meI was alone with him, Marianwhat could I do?I gave him the

"At first he said nothing. He took me by the arm, and led me out of the boathouse, and looked about him on

all sides, as if he was afraid of our being seen or heard. Then he clasped his hand fast round my arm, and

whispered to me, 'What did Anne Catherick say to you yesterday? I insist on hearing every word, from first to

"I was alone with him, Marianhis cruel hand was bruising my arm what could I do?"

"I want to see it, Laura, because our endurance must end, and our resistance must begin today. That mark is

a weapon to strike him with. Let me see it nowI may have to swear to it at some future time."

She showed me the marks. I was past grieving over them, past crying over them, past shuddering over them.

They say we are either better than men, or worse. If the temptation that has fallen in some women's way, and

made them worse, had fallen in mine at that moment Thank God! my face betrayed nothing that his wife

could read. The gentle, innocent, affectionate creature thought I was frightened for her and sorry for her, and

"Don't think too seriously of it, Marian," she said simply, as she pulled her sleeve down again. "It doesn't hurt

"I will try to think quietly of it, my love, for your sake.Well! well! And you told him all that Anne

"He looked at me, and laughed to himself in a mocking, bitter way. 'I mean to have the rest out of you,' he

said, 'do you hear?the rest.' I declared to him solemnly that I had told him everything I knew. 'Not you,' he

answered, 'you know more than you choose to tell. Won't you tell it? You shall! I'll wring it out of you at

home if I can't wring it out of you here.' He led me away by a strange path through the plantationa path

where there was no hope of our meeting youand he spoke no more till we came within sight of the house.

Then he stopped again, and said, 'Will you take a second chance, if I give it to you? Will you think better of

it, and tell me the rest?' I could only repeat the same words I had spoken before. He cursed my obstinacy, and

went on, and took me with him to the house. 'You can't deceive me,' he said, 'you know more than you choose

to tell. I'll have your secret out of you, and I'll have it out of that sister of yours as well. There shall be no

more plotting and whispering between you. Neither you nor she shall see each other again till you have

confessed the truth. I'll have you watched morning, noon, and night, till you confess the truth.' He was deaf to

everything I could say. He took me straight upstairs into my own room. Fanny was sitting there, doing some

work for me, and he instantly ordered her out. 'I'll take good care YOU'RE not mixed up in the conspiracy,'

he said. 'You shall leave this house today. If your mistress wants a maid, she shall have one of my

choosing.' He pushed me into the room, and locked the door on me. He set that senseless woman to watch me

outside, Marian! He looked and spoke like a madman. You may hardly understand ithe did indeed."

"I do understand it, Laura. He is madmad with the terrors of a guilty conscience. Every word you have said

makes me positively certain that when Anne Catherick left you yesterday you were on the eve of discovering

a secret which might have been your vile husband's ruin, and he thinks you HAVE discovered it. Nothing you

can say or do will quiet that guilty distrust, and convince his false nature of your truth. I don't say this, my

love, to alarm you. I say it to open your eyes to your position, and to convince you of the urgent necessity of

letting me act, as I best can, for your protection while the chance is our own. Count Fosco's interference has

secured me access to you today, but he may withdraw that interference tomorrow. Sir Percival has already

dismissed Fanny because she is a quickwitted girl, and devotedly attached to you, and has chosen a woman

to take her place who cares nothing for your interests, and whose dull intelligence lowers her to the level of

the watchdog in the yard. It is impossible to say what violent measures he may take next, unless we make

"What can we do, Marian? Oh, if we could only leave this house, never to see it again!"

"Listen to me, my love, and try to think that you are not quite helpless so long as I am here with you."

"I will think soI do think so. Don't altogether forget poor Fanny in thinking of me. She wants help and

"I will not forget her. I saw her before I came up here, and I have arranged to communicate with her tonight.

Letters are not safe in the postbag at Blackwater Park, and I shall have two to write today, in your

"I mean to write first, Laura, to Mr. Gilmore's partner, who has offered to help us in any fresh emergency.

Little as I know of the law, I am certain that it can protect a woman from such treatment as that ruffian has

inflicted on you today. I will go into no details about Anne Catherick, because I have no certain information

to give. But the lawyer shall know of those bruises on your arm, and of the violence offered to you in this

"I am calculating on the exposure. Sir Percival has more to dread from it than you have. The prospect of an

I rose as I spoke, but Laura entreated me not to leave her. "You will drive him to desperation," she said, "and

I felt the truththe disheartening truthof those words. But I could not bring myself plainly to

acknowledge it to her. In our dreadful position there was no help and no hope for us but in risking the worst. I

said so in guarded terms. She sighed bitterly, but did not contest the matter. She only asked about the second

"To Mr. Fairlie," I said. "Your uncle is your nearest male relative, and the head of the family. He must and

"Yes, yes," I went on, "your uncle is a weak, selfish, worldly man, I know, but he is not Sir Percival Glyde,

and he has no such friend about him as Count Fosco. I expect nothing from his kindness or his tenderness of

feeling towards you or towards me, but he will do anything to pamper his own indolence, and to secure his

own quiet. Let me only persuade him that his interference at this moment will save him inevitable trouble and

wretchedness and responsibility hereafter, and he will bestir himself for his own sake. I know how to deal

"If you could only prevail on him to let me go back to Limmeridge for a little while and stay there quietly

with you, Marian, I could be almost as happy again as I was before I was married!"

Those words set me thinking in a new direction. Would it be possible to place Sir Percival between the two

alternatives of either exposing himself to the scandal of legal interference on his wife's behalf, or of allowing

her to be quietly separated from him for a time under pretext of a visit to her uncle's house? And could he, in

that case, be reckoned on as likely to accept the last resource? It was doubtfulmore than doubtful. And yet,

hopeless as the experiment seemed, surely it was worth trying. I resolved to try it in sheer despair of knowing

"Your uncle shall know the wish you have just expressed," I said, "and I will ask the lawyer's advice on the

"Don't leave me," she said uneasily. "My desk is on that table. You can write here."

It tried me to the quick to refuse her, even in her own interests. But we had been too long shut up alone

together already. Our chance of seeing each other again might entirely depend on our not exciting any fresh

suspicions. It was full time to show myself, quietly and unconcernedly, among the wretches who were at that

very moment, perhaps, thinking of us and talking of us downstairs. I explained the miserable necessity to

"I will come back again, love, in an hour or less," I said. "The worst is over for today. Keep yourself quiet

"Yes, here is the key. Lock the door, and open it to nobody until I come upstairs again."

I kissed her and left her. It was a relief to me as I walked away to hear the key turned in the lock, and to know

June 19th.I had only got as far as the top of the stairs when the locking of Laura's door suggested to me the

precaution of also locking my own door, and keeping the key safely about me while I was out of the room.

My journal was already secured with other papers in the table drawer, but my writing materials were left out.

These included a seal bearing the common device of two doves drinking out of the same cup, and some

sheets of blottingpaper, which had the impression on them of the closing lines of my writing in these pages

traced during the past night. Distorted by the suspicion which had now become a part of myself, even such

trifles as these looked too dangerous to be trusted without a guardeven the locked table drawer seemed to

be not sufficiently protected in my absence until the means of access to it had been carefully secured as well.

I found no appearance of any one having entered the room while I had been talking with Laura. My writing

materials (which I had given the servant instructions never to meddle with) were scattered over the table

much as usual. The only circumstance in connection with them that at all struck me was that the seal lay

tidily in the tray with the pencils and the wax. It was not in my careless habits (I am sorry to say) to put it

there, neither did I remember putting it there. But as I could not call to mind, on the other hand, where else I

had thrown it down, and as I was also doubtful whether I might not for once have laid it mechanically in the

right place, I abstained from adding to the perplexity with which the day's events had filled my mind by

troubling it afresh about a trifle. I locked the door, put the key in my pocket, and went downstairs.

Her face was composed again to its customary expression and its customary colour. But the hand with which

Could she have told her husband already that she had overheard Laura reviling him, in my company, as a "

spy?" My strong suspicion that she must have told him, my irresistible dread (all the more overpowering from

its very vagueness) of the consequences which might follow, my fixed conviction, derived from various little

selfbetrayals which women notice in each other, that Madame Fosco, in spite of her wellassumed external

civility, had not forgiven her niece for innocently standing between her and the legacy of ten thousand

poundsall rushed upon my mind together, all impelled me to speak in the vain hope of using my own

"May I trust to your kindness to excuse me, Madame Fosco, if I venture to speak to you on an exceedingly

She crossed her hands in front of her and bowed her head solemnly, without uttering a word, and without

"When you were so good as to bring me back my handkerchief," I went on, "I am very, very much afraid you

must have accidentally heard Laura say something which I am unwilling to repeat, and which I will not

attempt to defend. I will only venture to hope that you have not thought it of sufficient importance to be

"I think it of no importance whatever," said Madame Fosco sharply and suddenly. "But," she added, resuming

her icy manner in a moment, "I have no secrets from my husband even in trifles. When he noticed just now

that I looked distressed, it was my painful duty to tell him why I was distressed, and I frankly acknowledge to

I was prepared to hear it, and yet she turned me cold all over when she said those words.

"Let me earnestly entreat you, Madame Foscolet me earnestly entreat the Countto make some

allowances for the sad position in which my sister is placed. She spoke while she was smarting under the

insult and injustice inflicted on her by her husband, and she was not herself when she said those rash words.

"Most assuredly," said the Count's quiet voice behind me. He had stolen on us with his noiseless tread and his

"When Lady Glyde said those hasty words," he went on, "she did me an injustice which I lamentand

forgive. Let us never return to the subject, Miss Halcombe; let us all comfortably combine to forget it from

I tried to continue, but his eyes were on me; his deadly smile that hides everything was set, hard, and

unwavering on his broad, smooth face. My distrust of his unfathomable falseness, my sense of my own

degradation in stooping to conciliate his wife and himself, so disturbed and confused me, that the next words

"I beg you on my knees to say no more, Miss HalcombeI am truly shocked that you should have thought it

necessary to say so much." With that polite speech he took my handoh, how I despise myself! oh, how

little comfort there is even in knowing that I submitted to it for Laura's sake!he took my hand and put it to

his poisonous lips. Never did I know all my horror of him till then. That innocent familiarity turned my blood

as if it had been the vilest insult that a man could offer me. Yet I hid my disgust from himI tried to

smileI, who once mercilessly despised deceit in other women, was as false as the worst of them, as false as

I could not have maintained my degrading selfcontrolit is all that redeems me in my own estimation to

know that I could notif he had still continued to keep his eyes on my face. His wife's tigerish jealousy

came to my rescue and forced his attention away from me the moment he possessed himself of my hand. Her

cold blue eyes caught light, her dull white cheeks flushed into bright colour, she looked years younger than

"Count!" she said. "Your foreign forms of politeness are not understood by Englishwomen."

"Pardon me, my angel! The best and dearest Englishwoman in the world understands them." With those

words he dropped my hand and quietly raised his wife's hand to his lips in place of it.

I ran back up the stairs to take refuge in my own room. If there had been time to think, my thoughts, when I

was alone again, would have caused me bitter suffering. But there was no time to think. Happily for the

preservation of my calmness and my courage there was time for nothing but action.

The letters to the lawyer and to Mr. Fairlie were still to be written, and I sat down at once without a moment's

There was no multitude of resources to perplex methere was absolutely no one to depend on, in the first

instance, but myself. Sir Percival had neither friends nor relatives in the neighbourhood whose intercession I

could attempt to employ. He was on the coldest termsin some cases on the worst terms with the families of

his own rank and station who lived near him. We two women had neither father nor brother to come to the

house and take our parts. There was no choice but to write those two doubtful letters, or to put Laura in the

wrong and myself in the wrong, and to make all peaceable negotiation in the future impossible by secretly

escaping from Blackwater Park. Nothing but the most imminent personal peril could justify our taking that

I said nothing to the lawyer about Anne Catherick, because (as I had already hinted to Laura) that topic was

connected with a mystery which we could not yet explain, and which it would therefore be useless to write

about to a professional man. I left my correspondent to attribute Sir Percival's disgraceful conduct, if he

pleased, to fresh disputes about money matters, and simply consulted him on the possibility of taking legal

proceedings for Laura's protection in the event of her husband's refusal to allow her to leave Blackwater Park

for a time and return with me to Limmeridge. I referred him to Mr. Fairlie for the details of this last

arrangementI assured him that I wrote with Laura's authorityand I ended by entreating him to act in her

name to the utmost extent of his power and with the least possible loss of time.

The letter to Mr. Fairlie occupied me next. I appealed to him on the terms which I had mentioned to Laura as

the most likely to make him bestir himself; I enclosed a copy of my letter to the lawyer to show him how

serious the case was, and I represented our removal to Limmeridge as the only compromise which would

prevent the danger and distress of Laura's present position from inevitably affecting her uncle as well as

When I had done, and had sealed and directed the two envelopes, I went back with the letters to Laura's

Madame Fosco had evidently been watching outside. The mischief she might do by herself was little to be

feared. But the mischief she might do, as a willing instrument in her husband's hands, was too formidable to

"What became of the rustling of the gown when you no longer heard it in the anteroom?" I inquired. "Did

I considered again. The sound had not caught my ears. But I was then deeply absorbed in my letters, and I

write with a heavy hand and a quill pen, scraping and scratching noisily over the paper. It was more likely

that Madame Fosco would hear the scraping of my pen than that I should hear the rustling of her dress.

Another reason (if I had wanted one) for not trusting my letters to the postbag in the hall.

Laura saw me thinking. "More difficulties!" she said wearily; "more difficulties and more dangers!"

"No dangers," I replied. "Some little difficulty, perhaps. I am thinking of the safest way of putting my two

"You have really written them, then? Oh, Marian, run no risks pray, pray run no risks!"

It was a quarter to six. There would be time for me to get to the village inn, and to come back again before

dinner. If I waited till the evening I might find no second opportunity of safely leaving the house.

"Keep the key turned in the lock. Laura," I said, "and don't be afraid about me. If you hear any inquiries

"Before dinner, without fail. Courage, my love. By this time to morrow you will have a clearheaded,

trustworthy man acting for your good. Mr. Gilmore's partner is our next best friend to Mr. Gilmore himself."

A moment's reflection, as soon as I was alone, convinced me that I had better not appear in my walkingdress

until I had first discovered what was going on in the lower part of the house. I had not ascertained yet

The singing of the canaries in the library, and the smell of tobaccosmoke that came through the door, which

was not closed, told me at once where the Count was. I looked over my shoulder as I passed the doorway, and

saw to my surprise that he was exhibiting the docility of the birds in his most engagingly polite manner to the

housekeeper. He must have specially invited her to see themfor she would never have thought of going

into the library of her own accord. The man's slightest actions had a purpose of some kind at the bottom of

It was no time then to inquire into his motives. I looked about for Madame Fosco next, and found her

I was a little doubtful how she would meet me, after the outbreak of jealousy of which I had been the cause so

short a time since. But her husband had tamed her in the interval, and she now spoke to me with the same

civility as usual. My only object in addressing myself to her was to ascertain if she knew what had become of

Sir Percival. I contrived to refer to him indirectly, and after a little fencing on either side she at last mentioned

"None of them," she replied. "He went away two hours since on foot. As I understood it, his object was to

make fresh inquiries about the woman named Anne Catherick. He appears to be unreasonably anxious about

We entered the house together. Madame Fosco strolled into the library, and closed the door. I went at once to

fetch my hat and shawl. Every moment was of importance, if I was to get to Fanny at the inn and be back

When I crossed the hall again no one was there, and the singing of the birds in the library had ceased. I could

not stop to make any fresh investigations. I could only assure myself that the way was clear, and then leave

On my way to the village I prepared myself for the possibility of meeting Sir Percival. As long as I had him

to deal with alone I felt certain of not losing my presence of mind. Any woman who is sure of her own wits is

a match at any time for a man who is not sure of his own temper. I had no such fear of Sir Percival as I had of

the Count. Instead of fluttering, it had composed me, to hear of the errand on which he had gone out. While

the tracing of Anne Catherick was the great anxiety that occupied him, Laura and I might hope for some

cessation of any active persecution at his hands. For our sakes now, as well as for Anne's, I hoped and prayed

I walked on as briskly as the heat would let me till I reached the crossroad which led to the village, looking

Nothing was behind me all the way but an empty country waggon. The noise made by the lumbering wheels

annoyed me, and when I found that the waggon took the road to the village, as well as myself, I stopped to let

it go by and pass out of hearing. As I looked toward it, more attentively than before, I thought I detected at

intervals the feet of a man walking close behind it, the carter being in front, by the side of his horses. The part

of the crossroad which I had just passed over was so narrow that the waggon coming after me brushed the

trees and thickets on either side, and I had to wait until it went by before I could test the correctness of my

impression. Apparently that impression was wrong, for when the waggon had passed me the road behind it

I reached the inn without meeting Sir Percival, and without noticing anything more, and was glad to find that

the landlady had received Fanny with all possible kindness. The girl had a little parlour to sit in, away from

the noise of the taproom, and a clean bedchamber at the top of the house. She began crying again at the sight

of me, and said, poor soul, truly enough, that it was dreadful to feel herself turned out into the world as if she

had committed some unpardonable fault, when no blame could be laid at her door by anybodynot even by

"Try to make the best of it, Fanny," I said. "Your mistress and I will stand your friends, and will take care that

your character shall not suffer. Now, listen to me. I have very little time to spare, and I am going to put a

great trust in your hands. I wish you to take care of these two letters. The one with the stamp on it you are to

put into the post when you reach London tomorrow. The other, directed to Mr. Fairlie, you are to deliver to

him yourself as soon as you get home. Keep both the letters about you and give them up to no one. They are

Fanny put the letters into the bosom of her dress. "There they shall stop, miss," she said, "till I have done

"Mind you are at the station in good time tomorrow morning," I continued. "And when you see the

housekeeper at Limmeridge give her my compliments, and say that you are in my service until Lady Glyde is

able to take you back. We may meet again sooner than you think. So keep a good heart, and don't miss the

"Thank you, missthank you kindly. It gives one courage to hear your voice again. Please to offer my duty

to my lady, and say I left all the things as tidy as I could in the time. Oh, dear! dear! who will dress her for

When I got back to the house I had only a quarter of an hour to spare to put myself in order for dinner, and to

"The letters are in Fanny's hands," I whispered to her at the door. "Do you mean to join us at dinner?"

"No, he frightened me by a thump on the door outside. I said, 'Who's there?' 'You know,' he answered. 'Will

you alter your mind, and tell me the rest? You shall! Sooner or later I'll wring it out of you. You know where

Anne Catherick is at this moment.' 'Indeed, indeed,' I said, 'I don't.' 'You do!' he called back. 'I'll crush your

obstinacymind that!I'll wring it out of you!' He went away with those wordswent away, Marian,

"Yes, yes. Don't be uneasy if I am a little lateI must be careful not to give offence by leaving them too

Sir Percival took Madame Fosco into the diningroom, and the Count gave me his arm. He was hot and

flushed, and was not dressed with his customary care and completeness. Had he, too, been out before dinner,

and been late in getting back? or was he only suffering from the heat a little more severely than usual?

However this might be, he was unquestionably troubled by some secret annoyance or anxiety, which, with all

his powers of deception, he was not able entirely to conceal. Through the whole of dinner he was almost as

silent as Sir Percival himself, and he, every now and then, looked at his wife with an expression of furtive

uneasiness which was quite new in my experience of him. The one social obligation which he seemed to be

selfpossessed enough to perform as carefully as ever was the obligation of being persistently civil and

attentive to me. What vile object he has in view I cannot still discover, but be the design what it may,

invariable politeness towards myself, invariable humility towards Laura, and invariable suppression (at any

cost) of Sir Percival's clumsy violence, have been the means he has resolutely and impenetrably used to get to

his end ever since he set foot in this house. I suspected it when he first interfered in our favour, on the day

When Madame Fosco and I rose to leave the table, the Count rose also to accompany us back to the

"I am going away because I have had dinner enough, and wine enough," answered the Count. "Be so kind,

Percival, as to make allowances for my foreign habit of going out with the ladies, as well as coming in with

"Nonsense! Another glass of claret won't hurt you. Sit down again like an Englishman. I want half an hour's

"A quiet talk, Percival, with all my heart, but not now, and not over the wine. Later in the evening, if you

"Civil!" said Sir Percival savagely. "Civil behaviour, upon my soul, to a man in his own house!"

I had more than once seen him look at the Count uneasily during dinnertime, and had observed that the

Count carefully abstained from looking at him in return. This circumstance, coupled with the host's anxiety

for a little quiet talk over the wine, and the guest's obstinate resolution not to sit down again at the table,

revived in my memory the request which Sir Percival had vainly addressed to his friend earlier in the day to

come out of the library and speak to him. The Count had deferred granting that private interview, when it was

first asked for in the afternoon, and had again deferred granting it, when it was a second time asked for at the

dinnertable. Whatever the coming subject of discussion between them might be, it was clearly an important

subject in Sir Percival's estimationand perhaps (judging from his evident reluctance to approach it) a

These considerations occurred to me while we were passing from the diningroom to the drawingroom. Sir

Percival's angry commentary on his friend's desertion of him had not produced the slightest effect. The Count

obstinately accompanied us to the teatable waited a minute or two in the roomwent out into the

halland returned with the postbag in his hands. It was then eight o'clockthe hour at which the letters

"Have you any letter for the post, Miss Halcombe?" he asked, approaching me with the bag.

I saw Madame Fosco, who was making the tea, pause, with the sugar tongs in her hand, to listen for my

He gave the bag to the servant, who was then in the room; sat down at the piano, and played the air of the

lively Neapolitan street song, "La mia Carolina," twice over. His wife, who was usually the most deliberate

of women in all her movements, made the tea as quickly as I could have made it myselffinished her own

I rose to follow her examplepartly because I suspected her of attempting some treachery upstairs with

Laura, partly because I was resolved not to remain alone in the same room with her husband.

Before I could get to the door the Count stopped me, by a request for a cup of tea. I gave him the cup of tea,

and tried a second time to get away. He stopped me againthis time by going back to the piano, and

suddenly appealing to me on a musical question in which he declared that the honour of his country was

I vainly pleaded my own total ignorance of music, and total want of taste in that direction. He only appealed

to me again with a vehemence which set all further protest on my part at defiance. "The English and the

Germans (he indignantly declared) were always reviling the Italians for their inability to cultivate the higher

kinds of music. We were perpetually talking of our Oratorios, and they were perpetually talking of their

Symphonies. Did we forget and did they forget his immortal friend and countryman, Rossini? What was

Moses in Egypt but a sublime oratorio, which was acted on the stage instead of being coldly sung in a

concertroom? What was the overture to Guillaume Tell but a symphony under another name? Had I heard

Moses in Egypt? Would I listen to this, and this, and this, and say if anything more sublimely sacred and

grand had ever been composed by mortal man?"And without waiting for a word of assent or dissent on my

part, looking me hard in the face all the time, he began thundering on the piano, and singing to it with loud

and lofty enthusiasmonly interrupting himself, at intervals, to announce to me fiercely the titles of the

different pieces of music: "Chorus of Egyptians in the Plague of Darkness, Miss Halcombe!""Recitativo of

Moses with the tables of the Law.""Prayer of Israelites, at the passage of the Red Sea. Aha! Aha! Is that

sacred? is that sublime?" The piano trembled under his powerful hands, and the teacups on the table rattled,

as his big bass voice thundered out the notes, and his heavy foot beat time on the floor.

There was something horriblesomething fierce and devilishin the outburst of his delight at his own

singing and playing, and in the triumph with which he watched its effect upon me as I shrank nearer and

nearer to the door. I was released at last, not by my own efforts, but by Sir Percival's interposition. He opened

the diningroom door, and called out angrily to know what "that infernal noise" meant. The Count instantly

got up from the piano. "Ah! if Percival is coming," he said, "harmony and melody are both at an end. The

Muse of Music, Miss Halcombe, deserts us in dismay, and I, the fat old minstrel, exhale the rest of my

enthusiasm in the open air!" He stalked out into the verandah, put his hands in his pockets, and resumed the

I heard Sir Percival call after him from the diningroom window. But he took no noticehe seemed

determined not to hear. That longdeferred quiet talk between them was still to be put off, was still to wait

He had detained me in the drawingroom nearly half an hour from the time when his wife left us. Where had

I went upstairs to ascertain, but I made no discoveries, and when I questioned Laura, I found that she had not

heard anything. Nobody had disturbed her, no faint rustling of the silk dress had been audible, either in the

It was then twenty minutes to nine. After going to my room to get my journal, I returned, and sat with Laura,

sometimes writing, sometimes stopping to talk with her. Nobody came near us, and nothing happened. We

remained together till ten o'clock. I then rose, said my last cheering words, and wished her goodnight. She

locked her door again after we had arranged that I should come in and see her the first thing in the morning.

I had a few sentences more to add to my diary before going to bed myself, and as I went down again to the

drawingroom after leaving Laura for the last time that weary day, I resolved merely to show myself there, to

Sir Percival, and the Count and his wife, were sitting together. Sir Percival was yawning in an easychair, the

Count was reading, Madame Fosco was fanning herself. Strange to say, HER face was flushed now. She, who

"The very remark I was about to make to you," she replied. "You are looking pale, my dear."

My dear! It was the first time she had ever addressed me with that familiarity! There was an insolent smile

"Ah, indeed? Want of exercise, I suppose? A walk before dinner would have been just the thing for you." She

referred to the "walk" with a strange emphasis. Had she seen me go out? No matter if she had. The letters

"Come and have a smoke, Fosco," said Sir Percival, rising, with another uneasy look at his friend.

"Excuse me, Countess, if I set you the example of retiring," I said. "The only remedy for such a headache as

I took my leave. There was the same insolent smile on the woman's face when I shook hands with her. Sir

Percival paid no attention to me. He was looking impatiently at Madame Fosco, who showed no signs of

leaving the room with me. The Count smiled to himself behind his book. There was yet another delay to that

June 19th.Once safely shut into my own room, I opened these pages, and prepared to go on with that part

For ten minutes or more I sat idle, with the pen in my hand, thinking over the events of the last twelve hours.

When I at last addressed myself to my task, I found a difficulty in proceeding with it which I had never

experienced before. In spite of my efforts to fix my thoughts on the matter in hand, they wandered away with

the strangest persistency in the one direction of Sir Percival and the Count, and all the interest which I tried to

concentrate on my journal centred instead in that private interview between them which had been put off all

through the day, and which was now to take place in the silence and solitude of the night.

In this perverse state of my mind, the recollection of what had passed since the morning would not come back

to me, and there was no resource but to close my journal and to get away from it for a little while.

I opened the door which led from my bedroom into my sittingroom, and having passed through, pulled it to

again, to prevent any accident in case of draught with the candle left on the dressing table. My sittingroom

It was dark and quiet. Neither moon nor stars were visible. There was a smell like rain in the still, heavy air,

and I put my hand out of window. No. The rain was only threatening, it had not come yet.

I remained leaning on the windowsill for nearly a quarter of an hour, looking out absently into the black

darkness, and hearing nothing, except now and then the voices of the servants, or the distant sound of a

Just as I was turning away wearily from the window to go back to the bedroom and make a second attempt to

complete the unfinished entry in my journal, I smelt the odour of tobaccosmoke stealing towards me on the

heavy night air. The next moment I saw a tiny red spark advancing from the farther end of the house in the

pitch darkness. I heard no footsteps, and I could see nothing but the spark. It travelled along in the night,

passed the window at which I was standing, and stopped opposite my bedroom window, inside which I had

The spark remained stationary for a moment, then moved back again in the direction from which it had

advanced. As I followed its progress I saw a second red spark, larger than the first, approaching from the

distance. The two met together in the darkness. Remembering who smoked cigarettes and who smoked

cigars, I inferred immediately that the Count had come out first to look and listen under my window, and that

Sir Percival had afterwards joined him. They must both have been walking on the lawnor I should

certainly have heard Sir Percival's heavy footfall, though the Count's soft step might have escaped me, even

I waited quietly at the window, certain that they could neither of them see me in the darkness of the room.

"What's the matter?" I heard Sir Percival say in a low voice. "Why don't you come in and sit down?"

"It shows she is not in bed yet. She is sharp enough to suspect something, and bold enough to come

"I shall talk of something else presently. My good friend, you are on the edge of your domestic precipice, and

if I let you give the women one other chance, on my sacred word of honour they will push you over it!"

"We will come to our explanations, Percival, when the light is out of that window, and when I have had one

little look at the rooms on each side of the library, and a peep at the staircase as well."

They slowly moved away, and the rest of the conversation between them (which had been conducted

throughout in the same low tones) ceased to be audible. It was no matter. I had heard enough to determine me

on justifying the Count's opinion of my sharpness and my courage. Before the red sparks were out of sight in

the darkness I had made up my mind that there should be a listener when those two men sat down to their

talkand that the listener, in spite of all the Count's precautions to the contrary, should be myself. I wanted

but one motive to sanction the act to my own conscience, and to give me courage enough for performing

itand that motive I had. Laura's honour, Laura's happinessLaura's life itselfmight depend on my quick

I had heard the Count say that he meant to examine the rooms on each side of the library, and the staircase as

well, before he entered on any explanation with Sir Percival. This expression of his intentions was necessarily

sufficient to inform me that the library was the room in which he proposed that the conversation should take

place. The one moment of time which was long enough to bring me to that conclusion was also the moment

which showed me a means of baffling his precautionsor, in other words, of hearing what he and Sir

Percival said to each other, without the risk of descending at all into the lower regions of the house.

In speaking of the rooms on the ground floor I have mentioned incidentally the verandah outside them, on

which they all opened by means of French windows, extending from the cornice to the floor. The top of this

verandah was flat, the rainwater being carried off from it by pipes into tanks which helped to supply the

house. On the narrow leaden roof, which ran along past the bedrooms, and which was rather less, I should

think, than three feet below the sills of the window, a row of flowerpots was ranged, with wide intervals

between each potthe whole being protected from falling in high winds by an ornamental iron railing along

The plan which had now occurred to me was to get out at my sittingroom window on to this roof, to creep

along noiselessly till I reached that part of it which was immediately over the library window, and to crouch

down between the flowerpots, with my ear against the outer railing. If Sir Percival and the Count sat and

smoked tonight, as I had seen them sitting and smoking many nights before, with their chairs close at the

open window, and their feet stretched on the zinc garden seats which were placed under the verandah, every

word they said to each other above a whisper (and no long conversation, as we all know by experience, can

be carried on IN a whisper) must inevitably reach my ears. If, on the other hand, they chose tonight to sit far

back inside the room, then the chances were that I should hear little or nothingand in that case, I must run

Strongly as I was fortified in my resolution by the desperate nature of our situation, I hoped most fervently

that I might escape this last emergency. My courage was only a woman's courage after all, and it was very

near to failing me when I thought of trusting myself on the ground floor, at the dead of night, within reach of

I went softly back to my bedroom to try the safer experiment of the verandah roof first.

A complete change in my dress was imperatively necessary for many reasons. I took off my silk gown to

begin with, because the slightest noise from it on that still night might have betrayed me. I next removed the

white and cumbersome parts of my underclothing, and replaced them by a petticoat of dark flannel. Over this

I put my black travelling cloak, and pulled the hood on to my head. In my ordinary evening costume I took

up the room of three men at least. In my present dress, when it was held close about me, no man could have

passed through the narrowest spaces more easily than I. The little breadth left on the roof of the verandah,

between the flowerpots on one side and the wall and the windows of the house on the other, made this a

serious consideration. If I knocked anything down, if I made the least noise, who could say what the

I only waited to put the matches near the candle before I extinguished it, and groped my way back into the

sittingroom, I locked that door, as I had locked my bedroom doorthen quietly got out of the window, and

My two rooms were at the inner extremity of the new wing of the house in which we all lived, and I had five

windows to pass before I could reach the position it was necessary to take up immediately over the library.

The first window belonged to a spare room which was empty. The second and third windows belonged to

Laura's room. The fourth window belonged to Sir Percival's room. The fifth belonged to the Countess's room.

The others, by which it was not necessary for me to pass, were the windows of the Count's dressingroom, of

No sound reached my earsthe black blinding darkness of the night was all round me when I first stood on

the verandah, except at that part of it which Madame Fosco's window overlooked. There, at the very place

above the library to which my course was directedthere I saw a gleam of light! The Countess was not yet

It was too late to draw backit was no time to wait. I determined to go on at all hazards, and trust for

security to my own caution and to the darkness of the night. "For Laura's sake!" I thought to myself, as I took

the first step forward on the roof, with one hand holding my cloak close round me, and the other groping

against the wall of the house. It was better to brush close by the wall than to risk striking my feet against the

I passed the dark window of the spare room, trying the leaden roof at each step with my foot before I risked

resting my weight on it. I passed the dark windows of Laura's room ("God bless her and keep her tonight!").

I passed the dark window of Sir Percival's room. Then I waited a moment, knelt down with my hands to

support me, and so crept to my position, under the protection of the low wall between the bottom of the

When I ventured to look up at the window itself I found that the top of it only was open, and that the blind

inside was drawn down. While I was looking I saw the shadow of Madame Fosco pass across the white field

of the blindthen pass slowly back again. Thus far she could not have heard me, or the shadow would surely

have stopped at the blind, even if she had wanted courage enough to open the window and look out?

I placed myself sideways against the railing of the verandah first ascertaining, by touching them, the

position of the flower pots on either side of me. There was room enough for me to sit between them and no

more. The sweetscented leaves of the flower on my left hand just brushed my cheek as I lightly rested my

The first sounds that reached me from below were caused by the opening or closing (most probably the latter)

of three doors in successionthe doors, no doubt, leading into the hall and into the rooms on each side of the

library, which the Count had pledged himself to examine. The first object that I saw was the red spark again

travelling out into the night from under the verandah, moving away towards my window, waiting a moment,

"The devil take your restlessness! When do you mean to sit down?" growled Sir Percival's voice beneath me.

His exclamation was followed by the scraping of the garden chairs on the tiled pavement under the

verandahthe welcome sound which told me they were going to sit close at the window as usual. So far the

chance was mine. The clock in the turret struck the quarter to twelve as they settled themselves in their chairs.

I heard Madame Fosco through the open window yawning, and saw her shadow pass once more across the

Meanwhile, Sir Percival and the Count began talking together below, now and then dropping their voices a

little lower than usual, but never sinking them to a whisper. The strangeness and peril of my situation, the

dread, which I could not master, of Madame Fosco's lighted window, made it difficult, almost impossible, for

me, at first, to keep my presence of mind, and to fix my attention solely on the conversation beneath. For

some minutes I could only succeed in gathering the general substance of it. I understood the Count to say that

the one window alight was his wife's, that the ground floor of the house was quite clear, and that they might

now speak to each other without fear of accidents. Sir Percival merely answered by upbraiding his friend with

having unjustifiably slighted his wishes and neglected his interests all through the day. The Count thereupon

defended himself by declaring that he had been beset by certain troubles and anxieties which had absorbed all

his attention, and that the only safe time to come to an explanation was a time when they could feel certain of

being neither interrupted nor overheard. "We are at a serious crisis in our affairs, Percival," he said, "and if

That sentence of the Count's was the first which my attention was ready enough to master exactly as it was

spoken. From this point, with certain breaks and interruptions, my whole interest fixed breathlessly on the

"Crisis?" repeated Sir Percival. "It's a worse crisis than you think for, I can tell you."

"So I should suppose, from your behaviour for the last day or two," returned the other coolly. "But wait a

little. Before we advance to what I do NOT know, let us be quite certain of what I DO know. Let us first see

if I am right about the time that is past, before I make any proposal to you for the time that is to come."

"Thank you, Percival. The cold water with pleasure, a spoon, and the basin of sugar. Eau sucree, my

"Sugarandwater for a man of your age!There! mix your sickly mess. You foreigners are all alike."

"Now listen, Percival. I will put our position plainly before you, as I understand it, and you shall say if I am

right or wrong. You and I both came back to this house from the Continent with our affairs very seriously

"Cut it short! I wanted some thousands and you some hundreds, and without the money we were both in a fair

way to go to the dogs together. There's the situation. Make what you can of it. Go on."

"Well, Percival, in your own solid English words, you wanted some thousands and I wanted some hundreds,

and the only way of getting them was for you to raise the money for your own necessity (with a small margin

beyond for my poor little hundreds) by the help of your wife. What did I tell you about your wife on our way

to England?and what did I tell you again when we had come here, and when I had seen for myself the sort

"How should I know? You talked nineteen to the dozen, I suppose, just as usual."

"I said this: Human ingenuity, my friend, has hitherto only discovered two ways in which a man can manage

a woman. One way is to knock her downa method largely adopted by the brutal lower orders of the people,

but utterly abhorrent to the refined and educated classes above them. The other way (much longer, much

more difficult, but in the end not less certain) is never to accept a provocation at a woman's hands. It holds

with animals, it holds with children, and it holds with women, who are nothing but children grown up. Quiet

resolution is the one quality the animals, the children, and the women all fail in. If they can once shake this

superior quality in their master, they get the better of HIM. If they can never succeed in disturbing it, he gets

the better of THEM. I said to you, Remember that plain truth when you want your wife to help you to the

money. I said, Remember it doubly and trebly in the presence of your wife's sister, Miss Halcombe. Have you

remembered it? Not once in all the implications that have twisted themselves about us in this house. Every

provocation that your wife and her sister could offer to you, you instantly accepted from them. Your mad

temper lost the signature to the deed, lost the ready money, set Miss Halcombe writing to the lawyer for the

A chair fell on the pavement of the verandahfell with a crash, as if it had been kicked down.

It was well for me that the Count's revelation roused Sir Pemival's anger as it did. On hearing that I had been

once more discovered I started so that the railing against which I leaned cracked again. Had he followed me

to the inn? Did he infer that I must have given my letters to Fanny when I told him I had none for the

postbag. Even if it was so, how could he have examined the letters when they had gone straight from my

"Thank your lucky star," I heard the Count say next, "that you have me in the house to undo the harm as fast

as you do it. Thank your lucky star that I said No when you were mad enough to talk of turning the key

today on Miss Halcombe, as you turned it in your mischievous folly on your wife. Where are your eves?

Can you look at Miss Halcombe and not see that she has the foresight and the resolution of a man? With that

woman for my friend I would snap these fingers of mine at the world. With that woman for my enemy, I,

with all my brains and experienceI, Fosco, cunning as the devil himself, as you have told me a hundred

timesI walk, in your English phrase, upon eggshells! And this grand creatureI drink her health in my

sugarandwaterthis grand creature, who stands in the strength of her love and her courage, firm as a rock,

between us two and that poor, flimsy, pretty blonde wife of yoursthis magnificent woman, whom I admire

with all my soul, though I oppose her in your interests and in mine, you drive to extremities as if she was no

sharper and no bolder than the rest of her sex. Percival! Percival! you deserve to fail, and you HAVE failed."

There was a pause. I write the villain's words about myself because I mean to remember thembecause I

hope yet for the day when I may speak out once for all in his presence, and cast them back one by one in his

"Yes, yes, bully and bluster as much as you like," he said sulkily; "the difficulty about the money is not the

only difficulty. You would be for taking strong measures with the women yourselfif you knew as much as

"We will come to that second difficulty all in good time," rejoined the Count. "You may confuse yourself,

Percival, as much as you please, but you shall not confuse me. Let the question of the money be settled first.

Have I convinced your obstinacy? have I shown you that your temper will not let you help yourself?Or

must I go back, and (as you put it in your dear straightforward English) bully and bluster a little more?"

"Pooh! It's easy enough to grumble at ME. Say what is to be done that's a little harder."

"Is it? Bah! This is what is to be done: You give up all direction in the business from tonightyou leave it

for the future in my hands only. I am talking to a Practical British manha? Well, Practical, will that do for

"A few questions, Percival, to begin with. I must wait a little yet, to let circumstances guide me, and I must

know, in every possible way, what those circumstances are likely to be. There is no time to lose. I have told

you already that Miss Halcombe has written to the lawyer today for the second time."

"If I told you, Percival, we should only come back at the end to where we are now. Enough that I have found

it outand the finding has caused that trouble and anxiety which made me so inaccessible to you all through

today. Now, to refresh my memory about your affairsit is some time since I talked them over with you.

The money has been raised, in the absence of your wife's signature, by means of bills at three monthsraised

at a cost that makes my povertystricken foreign hair stand on end to think of it! When the bills are due, is

there really and truly no earthly way of paying them but by the help of your wife?"

"Nothing but the interest of her twenty thousand poundsbarely enough to pay our daily expenses."

"A goodtempered, freelyliving man? Married? NoI think my wife told me, not married."

"Of course not. If he was married, and had a son, Lady Glyde would not be next heir to the property. I'll tell

you what he is. He's a maudlin, twaddling, selfish fool, and bores everybody who comes near him about the

"Men of that sort, Percival, live long, and marry malevolently when you least expect it. I don't give you

much, my friend, for your chance of the three thousand a year. Is there nothing more that comes to you from

There was another pause. The Count moved from the verandah to the gravel walk outside. I knew that he had

moved by his voice. "The rain has come at last," I heard him say. It had come. The state of my cloak showed

The Count went back under the verandahI heard the chair creak beneath his weight as he sat down in it

"Well, Percival," he said, "and in the case of Lady Glyde's death, what do you get then?"

They were silent once more. As their voices ceased Madame Fosco's shadow darkened the blind again.

Instead of passing this time, it remained, for a moment, quite still. I saw her fingers steal round the corner of

the blind, and draw it on one side. The dim white outline of her face, looking out straight over me, appeared

behind the window. I kept still, shrouded from head to foot in my black cloak. The rain, which was fast

wetting me, dripped over the glass, blurred it, and prevented her from seeing anything. "More rain!" I heard

"You won't answer me? Well, then, let us say your wife dies before the summer is out"

"The REMOTE chance, Percivalthe remote chance only. And you want money, at once. In your position

"Speak for yourself as well as for me. Some of the money I want has been borrowed for you. And if you

come to gain, my wife's death would be ten thousand pounds in your wife's pocket. Sharp as you are, you

seem to have conveniently forgotten Madame Fosco's legacy. Don't look at me in that way! I won't have it!

What with your looks and your questions, upon my soul, you make my flesh creep!"

"Your flesh? Does flesh mean conscience in English? speak of your wife's death as I speak of a possibility.

Why not? The respectable lawyers who scribblescrabble your deeds and your wills look the deaths of living

people in the face. Do lawyers make your flesh creep? Why should I? It is my business tonight to clear up

your position beyond the possibility of mistake, and I have now done it. Here is your position. If your wife

lives, you pay those bills with her signature to the parchment. If your wife dies, you pay them with her

As he spoke the light in Madame Fosco's room was extinguished, and the whole second floor of the house

"Talk! talk!" grumbled Sir Percival. "One would think, to hear you, that my wife's signature to the deed was

"You have left the matter in my hands," retorted the Count, "and I have more than two months before me to

turn round in. Say no more about it, if you please, for the present. When the bills are due, you will see for

yourself if my 'talk! talk!' is worth something, or if it is not. And now, Percival, having done with the money

matters for tonight, I can place my attention at your disposal, if you wish to consult me on that second

difficulty which has mixed itself up with our little embarrassments, and which has so altered you for the

worse, that I hardly know you again. Speak, my friendand pardon me if I shock your fiery national tastes

"It's very well to say speak," replied Sir Percival, in a far more quiet and more polite tone than he had yet

"Shall I help you?" suggested the Count. "Shall I give this private difficulty of yours a name? What if I call

"Look here, Fosco, you and I have known each other for a long time, and if you have helped me out of one or

two scrapes before this, I have done the best I could to help you in return, as far as money would go. We have

made as many friendly sacrifices, on both sides, as men could, but we have had our secrets from each other,

"You have had a secret from me, Percival. There is a skeleton in your cupboard here at Blackwater Park that

"Well, suppose it has. If it doesn't concern you, you needn't be curious about it, need you?"

"So! so! my face speaks the truth, then? What an immense foundation of good there must be in the nature of a

man who arrives at my age, and whose face has not yet lost the habit of speaking the truth!Come, Glyde!

let us be candid one with the other. This secret of yours has sought me: I have not sought it. Let us say I am

curiousdo you ask me, as your old friend, to respect your secret, and to leave it, once for all, in your own

"I have had some experience, Fosco, of your roundabout ways, and I am not so sure that you won't worm it

The chair below suddenly creaked againI felt the trelliswork pillar under me shake from top to bottom.

The Count had started to his feet, and had struck it with his hand in indignation.

"Percival! Percival!" he cried passionately, "do you know me no better than that? Has all your experience

shown you nothing of my character yet? I am a man of the antique type! I am capable of the most exalted acts

of virtuewhen I have the chance of performing them. It has been the misfortune of my life that I have had

few chances. My conception of friendship is sublime! Is it my fault that your skeleton has peeped out at me?

Why do I confess my curiosity? You poor superficial Englishman, it is to magnify my own selfcontrol. I

could draw your secret out of you, if I liked, as I draw this finger out of the palm of my handyou know I

could! But you have appealed to my friendship, and the duties of friendship are sacred to me. See! I trample

my base curiosity under my feet. My exalted sentiments lift me above it. Recognise them, Percival! imitate

His voice faltered over the last wordsfaltered, as if he were actually shedding tears!

Sir Percival confusedly attempted to excuse himself, but the Count was too magnanimous to listen to him.

"No!" he said. "When my friend has wounded me, I can pardon him without apologies. Tell me, in plain

"Well, this is how it stands:I told you today that I had done my best to find Anne Catherick, and failed."

A little stream of light travelled out under the verandah, and fell over the gravelwalk. The Count had taken

the lamp from the inner part of the room to see his friend clearly by the light of it.

"Yes!" he said. "Your face speaks the truth this time. Serious, indeedas serious as the money matters

"I showed you the letter to my wife that Anne Catherick hid in the sand," Sir Percival continued. "There's no

"Say as little as possible, Percival, in my presence, of the Secret. Does she know it from you?"

"Two women in possession of your private mindbad, bad, bad, my friend! One question here, before we go

any farther. The motive of your shutting up the daughter in the asylum is now plain enough to me, but the

manner of her escape is not quite so clear. Do you suspect the people in charge of her of closing their eyes

purposely, at the instance of some enemy who could afford to make it worth their while?"

"No, she was the bestbehaved patient they hadand, like fools, they trusted her. She's just mad enough to

be shut up, and just sane enough to ruin me when she's at largeif you understand that?"

"I do understand it. Now, Percival, come at once to the point, and then I shall know what to do. Where is the

"Anne Catherick is in this neighbourhood, and in communication with Lady Glydethere's the danger, plain

enough. Who can read the letter she hid in the sand, and not see that my wife is in possession of the Secret,

"One moment, Percival. If Lady Glyde does know the Secret, she must know also that it is a compromising

"Is it? I'm coming to that. It might be her interest if she cared two straws about me. But I happen to be an

encumbrance in the way of another man. She was in love with him before she married me she's in love

"My dear friend! what is there extraordinary in that? They are all in love with some other man. Who gets the

first of a woman's heart? In all my experience I have never yet met with the man who was Number One.

Number Two, sometimes. Number Three, Four, Five, often. Number One, never! He exists, of coursebut I

"Wait! I haven't done yet. Who do you think helped Anne Catherick to get the start, when the people from the

madhouse were after her? Hartright. Who do you think saw her again in Cumberland? Hartright. Both times

he spoke to her alone. Stop! don't interrupt me. The scoundrel's as sweet on my wife as she is on him. He

knows the Secret, and she knows the Secret. Once let them both get together again, and it's her interest and

"That for the virtue of Lady Glyde! I believe in nothing about her but her money. Don't you see how the case

stands? She might be harmless enough by herself; but if she and that vagabond Hartright"

"Out of the country. If he means to keep a whole skin on his bones, I recommend him not to come back in a

"Certain. I had him watched from the time he left Cumberland to the time he sailed. Oh, I've been careful, I

can tell you! Anne Catherick lived with some people at a farmhouse near Limmeridge. I went there myself,

after she had given me the slip, and made sure that they knew nothing. I gave her mother a form of letter to

write to Miss Halcombe, exonerating me from any bad motive in putting her under restraint. I've spent, I'm

afraid to say how much, in trying to trace her, and in spite of it all, she turns up here and escapes me on my

own property! How do I know who else may see her, who else may speak to her? That prying scoundrel,

Hartright, may come back without my knowing it, and may make use of her tomorrow"

"Not he, Percival! While I am on the spot, and while that woman is in the neighbourhood, I will answer for

our laying hands on her before Mr. Hartrighteven if he does come back. I see! yes, yes, I see! The finding

of Anne Catherick is the first necessitymake your mind easy about the rest. Your wife is here, under your

thumbMiss Halcombe is inseparable from her, and is, therefore, under your thumb alsoand Mr.

Hartright is out of the country. This invisible Anne of yours is all we have to think of for the present. You

"Yes. I have been to her mother, I have ransacked the village and all to no purpose."

"I am glad to hear it, Percival, for your sake. Don't be discouraged, my friend. Our money matters, as I told

you, leave me plenty of time to turn round in, and I may search for Anne Catherick tomorrow to better

"It is this. When I went to the boathouse to tell Lady Glyde that the little difficulty of her signature was put

off, accident took me there in time to see a strange woman parting in a very suspicious manner from your

wife. But accident did not bring me near enough to see this same woman's face plainly. I must know how to

The chair creaked, and the pillar shook once more. The Count was on his feet againthis time in

"Fancy my wife, after a bad illness, with a touch of something wrong in her headand there is Anne

There was no answer, and no sound of any kind. The Count was laughing in his smooth silent internal way.

"Perhaps at my own fancies, my good friend. Allow me my Italian humourdo I not come of the illustrious

nation which invented the exhibition of Punch? Well, well, well, I shall know Anne Catherick when I see

herand so enough for tonight. Make your mind easy, Percival. Sleep, my son, the sleep of the just, and

see what I will do for you when daylight comes to help us both. I have my projects and my plans here in my

big head. You shall pay those bills and find Anne Catherickmy sacred word of honour on it, but you shall!

Am I a friend to be treasured in the best corner of your heart, or am I not? Am I worth those loans of money

which you so delicately reminded me of a little while since? Whatever you do, never wound me in my

sentiments any more. Recognise them, Percival! imitate them, Percival! I forgive you againI shake hands

Not another word was spoken. I heard the Count close the library door. I heard Sir Percival barring up the

windowshutters. It had been raining, raining all the time. I was cramped by my position and chilled to the

bones. When I first tried to move, the effort was so painful to me that I was obliged to desist. I tried a second

As I crept to the wall, and raised myself against it, I looked back, and saw the window of the Count's

dressingroom gleam into light. My sinking courage flickered up in me again, and kept my eyes fixed on his

The clock struck the quarter after one, when I laid my hands on the windowsill of my own room. I had seen

nothing and heard nothing which could lead me to suppose that my retreat had been discovered.

June 20th.Eight o'clock. The sun is shining in a clear sky. I have not been near my bedI have not once

closed my weary wakeful eyes. From the same window at which I looked out into the darkness of last night, I

I count the hours that have passed since I escaped to the shelter of this room by my own sensationsand

How short a time, and yet how long to MEsince I sank down in the darkness, here, on the floordrenched

to the skin, cramped in every limb, cold to the bones, a useless, helpless, panicstricken creature.

I hardly know when I roused myself. I hardly know when I groped my way back to the bedroom, and lighted

the candle, and searched (with a strange ignorance, at first, of where to look for them) for dry clothes to warm

me. The doing of these things is in my mind, but not the time when they were done.

Can I even remember when the chilled, cramped feeling left me, and the throbbing heat came in its place?

Surely it was before the sun rose? Yes, I heard the clock strike three. I remember the time by the sudden

brightness and clearness, the feverish strain and excitement of all my faculties which came with it. I

remember my resolution to control myself, to wait patiently hour after hour, till the chance offered of

removing Laura from this horrible place, without the danger of immediate discovery and pursuit. I remember

the persuasion settling itself in my mind that the words those two men had said to each other would furnish

us, not only with our justification for leaving the house, but with our weapons of defence against them as

well. I recall the impulse that awakened in me to preserve those words in writing, exactly as they were

spoken, while the time was my own, and while my memory vividly retained them. All this I remember

plainly: there is no confusion in my head yet. The coming in here from the bedroom, with my pen and ink

and paper, before sunrisethe sitting down at the widely opened window to get all the air I could to cool

methe ceaseless writing, faster and faster, hotter and hotter, driving on more and more wakefully, all

through the dreadful interval before the house was astir againhow clearly I recall it, from the beginning by

candlelight, to the end on the page before this, in the sunshine of the new day!

Why do I sit here still? Why do I weary my hot eyes and my burning head by writing more? Why not lie

I dare not attempt it. A fear beyond all other fears has got possession of me. I am afraid of this heat that

parches my skin. I am afraid of the creeping and throbbing that I feel in my head. If I lie down now, how do I

Nine o'clock. Was it nine struck, or eight? Nine, surely? I am shivering againshivering, from head to foot,

in the summer air. Have I been sitting here asleep? I don't know what I have been doing.

My headI am sadly afraid of my head. I can write, but the lines all run together. I see the words. LauraI

So cold, so coldoh, that rain last night!and the strokes of the clock, the strokes I can't count, keep

Note [At this place the entry in the Diary ceases to be legible. The two or three lines which follow contain

fragments of words only, mingled with blots and scratches of the pen. The last marks on the paper bear some

On the next page of the Diary, another entry appears. It is in a man's handwriting, large, bold, and firmly

The illness of our excellent Miss Halcombe has afforded me the opportunity of enjoying an unexpected

There are many hundred pages here. I can lay my hand on my heart, and declare that every page has charmed,

Yes! these pages are amazing. The tact which I find here, the discretion, the rare courage, the wonderful

power of memory, the accurate observation of character, the easy grace of style, the charming outbursts of

womanly feeling, have all inexpressibly increased my admiration of this sublime creature, of this magnificent

Marian. The presentation of my own character is masterly in the extreme. I certify, with my whole heart, to

the fidelity of the portrait. I feel how vivid an impression I must have produced to have been painted in such

strong, such rich, such massive colours as these. I lament afresh the cruel necessity which sets our interests at

variance, and opposes us to each other. Under happier circumstances how worthy I should have been of Miss

The sentiments which animate my heart assure me that the lines I have just written express a Profound Truth.

Those sentiments exalt me above all merely personal considerations. I bear witness, in the most disinterested

manner, to the excellence of the stratagem by which this unparalleled woman surprised the private interview

between Percival and myself also to the marvellous accuracy of her report of the whole conversation from

Those sentiments have induced me to offer to the unimpressionable doctor who attends on her my vast

knowledge of chemistry, and my luminous experience of the more subtle resources which medical and

magnetic science have placed at the disposal of mankind. He has hitherto declined to avail himself of my

Finally, those sentiments dictate the linesgrateful, sympathetic, paternal lineswhich appear in this place.

I close the book. My strict sense of propriety restores it (by the hands of my wife) to its place on the writer's

table. Events are hurrying me away. Circumstances are guiding me to serious issues. Vast perspectives of

success unroll themselves before my eyes. I accomplish my destiny with a calmness which is terrible to

myself. Nothing but the homage of my admiration is my own. I deposit it with respectful tenderness at the

I condole with her on the inevitable failure of every plan that she has formed for her sister's benefit. At the

same time, I entreat her to believe that the information which I have derived from her Diary will in no respect

help me to contribute to that failure. It simply confirms the plan of conduct which I had previously arranged. I

have to thank these pages for awakening the finest sensibilities in my naturenothing more.

To a person of similar sensibility this simple assertion will explain and excuse everything.

[2] The manner in which Mr. Fairlie's Narrative and other Narratives that are shortly to follow it, were

originally obtained, forms the subject of an explanation which will appear at a later period.

WhyI ask everybodywhy worry ME? Nobody answers that question, and nobody lets me alone.

Relatives, friends, and strangers all combine to annoy me. What have I done? I ask myself, I ask my servant,

Louis, fifty times a daywhat have I done? Neither of us can tell. Most extraordinary!

The last annoyance that has assailed me is the annoyance of being called upon to write this Narrative. Is a

man in my state of nervous wretchedness capable of writing narratives? When I put this extremely reasonable

objection, I am told that certain very serious events relating to my niece have happened within my

experience, and that I am the fit person to describe them on that account. I am threatened if I fail to exert

myself in the manner required, with consequences which I cannot so much as think of without perfect

prostration. There is really no need to threaten me. Shattered by my miserable health and my family troubles,

I am incapable of resistance. If you insist, you take your unjust advantage of me, and I give way immediately.

I will endeavour to remember what I can (under protest), and to write what I can (also under protest), and

what I can't remember and can't write, Louis must remember and write for me. He is an ass, and I am an

invalid, and we are likely to make all sorts of mistakes between us. How humiliating!

I am told to remember dates. Good heavens! I never did such a thing in my lifehow am I to begin now?

I have asked Louis. He is not quite such an ass as I have hitherto supposed. He remembers the date of the

event, within a week or twoand I remember the name of the person. The date was towards the end of June,

or the beginning of July, and the name (in my opinion a remarkably vulgar one) was Fanny.

At the end of June, or the beginning of July, then, I was reclining in my customary state, surrounded by the

various objects of Art which I have collected about me to improve the taste of the barbarous people in my

neighbourhood. That is to say, I had the photographs of my pictures, and prints, and coins, and so forth, all

about me, which I intend, one of these days, to present (the photographs, I mean, if the clumsy English

language will let me mean anything) to present to the institution at Carlisle (horrid place!), with a view to

improving the tastes of the members (Goths and Vandals to a man). It might be supposed that a gentleman

who was in course of conferring a great national benefit on his countrymen was the last gentleman in the

world to be unfeelingly worried about private difficulties and family affairs. Quite a mistake, I assure you, in

However, there I was, reclining, with my arttreasures about me, and wanting a quiet morning. Because I

wanted a quiet morning, of course Louis came in. It was perfectly natural that I should inquire what the deuce

he meant by making his appearance when I had not rung my bell. I seldom swearit is such an

ungentlemanlike habitbut when Louis answered by a grin, I think it was also perfectly natural that I should

This rigorous mode of treatment, I have observed, invariably brings persons in the lower class of life to their

senses. It brought Louis to HIS senses. He was so obliging as to leave off grinning, and inform me that a

Young Person was outside wanting to see me. He added (with the odious talkativeness of servants), that her

The moment I heard Miss Halcombe's name I gave up. It is a habit of mine always to give up to Miss

Halcombe. I find, by experience, that it saves noise. I gave up on this occasion. Dear Marian!

I was obliged to ask the question. Creaking shoes invariably upset me for the day. I was resigned to see the

Young Person, but I was NOT resigned to let the Young Person's shoes upset me. There is a limit even to my

Louis affirmed distinctly that her shoes were to be depended upon. I waved my hand. He introduced her. Is it

necessary to say that she expressed her sense of embarrassment by shutting up her mouth and breathing

through her nose? To the student of female human nature in the lower orders, surely not.

Let me do the girl justice. Her shoes did NOT creak. But why do Young Persons in service all perspire at the

hands? Why have they all got fat noses and hard cheeks? And why are their faces so sadly unfinished,

especially about the corners of the eyelids? I am not strong enough to think deeply myself on any subject, but

I appeal to professional men, who are. Why have we no variety in our breed of Young Persons?

"You have a letter for me, from Miss Halcombe? Put it down on the table, please, and don't upset anything.

I received no answer. The Young Person's face became more unfinished than ever, and I think she began to

cry. I certainly saw something moist about her eyes. Tears or perspiration? Louis (whom I have just

consulted) is inclined to think, tears. He is in her class of life, and he ought to know best. Let us say, tears.

Except when the refining process of Art judiciously removes from them all resemblance to Nature, I

distinctly object to tears. Tears are scientifically described as a Secretion. I can understand that a secretion

may be healthy or unhealthy, but I cannot see the interest of a secretion from a sentimental point of view.

Perhaps my own secretions being all wrong together, I am a little prejudiced on the subject. No matter. I

behaved, on this occasion, with all possible propriety and feeling. I closed my eyes and said to Louis

Louis endeavoured, and the Young Person endeavoured. They succeeded in confusing each other to such an

extent that I am bound in common gratitude to say, they really amused me. I think I shall send for them again

when I am in low spirits. I have just mentioned this idea to Louis. Strange to say, it seems to make him

Surely I am not expected to repeat my niece's maid's explanation of her tears, interpreted in the English of my

Swiss valet? The thing is manifestly impossible. I can give my own impressions and feelings perhaps. Will

My idea is that she began by telling me (through Louis) that her master had dismissed her from her mistress's

service. (Observe, throughout, the strange irrelevancy of the Young Person. Was it my fault that she had lost

her place?) On her dismissal, she had gone to the inn to sleep. (I don't keep the innwhy mention it to ME?)

Between six o'clock and seven Miss Halcombe had come to say goodbye, and had given her two letters, one

for me, and one for a gentleman in London. (I am not a gentleman in Londonhang the gentleman in

London!) She had carefully put the two letters into her bosom (what have I to do with her bosom?); she had

been very unhappy, when Miss Halcombe had gone away again; she had not had the heart to put bit or drop

between her lips till it was near bedtime, and then, when it was close on nine o'clock, she had thought she

should like a cup of tea. (Am I responsible for any of these vulgar fluctuations, which begin with unhappiness

and end with tea?) Just as she was WARMING THE POT (I give the words on the authority of Louis, who

says he knows what they mean, and wishes to explain, but I snub him on principle)just as she was

warming the pot the door opened, and she was STRUCK OF A HEAP (her own words again, and perfectly

unintelligible this time to Louis, as well as to myself) by the appearance in the inn parlour of her ladyship the

Countess. I give my niece's maid's description of my sister's title with a sense of the highest relish. My poor

dear sister is a tiresome woman who married a foreigner. To resume: the door opened, her ladyship the

Countess appeared in the parlour, and the Young Person was struck of a heap. Most remarkable!

I must really rest a little before I can get on any farther. When I have reclined for a few minutes, with my

eyes closed, and when Louis has refreshed my poor aching temples with a little eaude Cologne, I may be

No. I am able to proceed, but not to sit up. I will recline and dictate. Louis has a horrid accent, but he knows

Her ladyship, the Countess, explained her unexpected appearance at the inn by telling Fanny that she had

come to bring one or two little messages which Miss Halcombe in her hurry had forgotten. The Young Person

thereupon waited anxiously to hear what the messages were, but the Countess seemed disinclined to mention

them (so like my sister's tiresome way!) until Fanny had had her tea. Her ladyship was surprisingly kind and

thoughtful about it (extremely unlike my sister), and said, "I am sure, my poor girl, you must want your tea.

We can let the messages wait till afterwards. Come, come, if nothing else will put you at your ease, I'll make

the tea and have a cup with you." I think those were the words, as reported excitably, in my presence, by the

Young Person. At any rate, the Countess insisted on making the tea, and carried her ridiculous ostentation of

humility so far as to take one cup herself, and to insist on the girl's taking the other. The girl drank the tea,

and according to her own account, solemnised the extraordinary occasion five minutes afterwards by fainting

dead away for the first time in her life. Here again I use her own words. Louis thinks they were accompanied

by an increased secretion of tears. I can't say myself. The effort of listening being quite as much as I could

Where did I leave off? Ah, yesshe fainted after drinking a cup of tea with the Countessa proceeding

which might have interested me if I had been her medical man, but being nothing of the sort I felt bored by

hearing of it, nothing more. When she came to herself in half an hour's time she was on the sofa, and nobody

was with her but the landlady. The Countess, finding it too late to remain any longer at the inn, had gone

away as soon as the girl showed signs of recovering, and the landlady had been good enough to help her

Left by herself, she had felt in her bosom (I regret the necessity of referring to this part of the subject a

second time), and had found the two letters there quite safe, but strangely crumpled. She had been giddy in

the night, but had got up well enough to travel in the morning. She had put the letter addressed to that

obtrusive stranger, the gentleman in London into the post, and had now delivered the other letter into my

hands as she was told. This was the plain truth, and though she could not blame herself for any intentional

neglect, she was sadly troubled in her mind, and sadly in want of a word of advice. At this point Louis thinks

the secretions appeared again. Perhaps they did, but it is of infinitely greater importance to mention that at

Louis endeavoured and translated. In other words, he descended immediately into a bottomless pit of

confusion, and the Young Person followed him down. I really don't know when I have been so amused. I left

them at the bottom of the pit as long as they diverted me. When they ceased to divert me, I exerted my

It is unnecessary to say that my interference enabled me, in due course of time, to ascertain the purport of the

I discovered that she was uneasy in her mind, because the train of events that she had just described to me

had prevented her from receiving those supplementary messages which Miss Halcombe had intrusted to the

Countess to deliver. She was afraid the messages might have been of great importance to her mistress's

interests. Her dread of Sir Percival had deterred her from going to Blackwater Park late at night to inquire

about them, and Miss Halcombe's own directions to her, on no account to miss the train in the morning, had

prevented her from waiting at the inn the next day. She was most anxious that the misfortune of her

faintingfit should not lead to the second misfortune of making her mistress think her neglectful, and she

would humbly beg to ask me whether I would advise her to write her explanations and excuses to Miss

Halcombe, requesting to receive the messages by letter, if it was not too late. I make no apologies for this

extremely prosy paragraph. I have been ordered to write it. There are people, unaccountable as it may appear,

who actually take more interest in what my niece's maid said to me on this occasion than in what I said to my

"I should feel very much obliged to you, sir, if you would kindly tell me what I had better do," remarked the

"Let things stop as they are," I said, adapting my language to my listener. "I invariably let things stop as they

"If you think it would be a liberty in me, sir, to write, of course I wouldn't venture to do so. But I am so very

People in the lower class of life never know when or how to go out of a room. They invariably require to be

helped out by their betters. I thought it high time to help the Young Person out. I did it with two judicious

Something outside or inside this singular girl suddenly creaked. Louis, who was looking at her (which I was

not), says she creaked when she curtseyed. Curious. Was it her shoes, her stays, or her bones? Louis thinks it

As soon as I was left by myself I had a little napI really wanted it. When I awoke again I noticed dear

Marian's letter. If I had had the least idea of what it contained I should certainly not have attempted to open it.

Being, unfortunately for myself, quite innocent of all suspicion, I read the letter. It immediately upset me for

I am, by nature, one of the most easytempered creatures that ever livedI make allowances for everybody,

and I take offence at nothing. But as I have before remarked, there are limits to my endurance. I laid down

I am about to make a remark. It is, of course, applicable to the very serious matter now under notice, or I

Nothing, in my opinion, sets the odious selfishness of mankind in such a repulsively vivid light as the

treatment, in all classes of society, which the Single people receive at the hands of the Married people. When

you have once shown yourself too considerate and selfdenying to add a family of your own to an already

overcrowded population, you are vindictively marked out by your married friends, who have no similar

consideration and no similar selfdenial, as the recipient of half their conjugal troubles, and the born friend of

all their children. Husbands and wives TALK of the cares of matrimony, and bachelors and spinsters BEAR

them. Take my own case. I considerately remain single, and my poor dear brother Philip inconsiderately

marries. What does he do when he dies? He leaves his daughter to ME. She is a sweet girlshe is also a

dreadful responsibility. Why lay her on my shoulders? Because I am bound, in the harmless character of a

single man, to relieve my married connections of all their own troubles. I do my best with my brother's

responsibilityI marry my niece, with infinite fuss and difficulty, to the man her father wanted her to marry.

She and her husband disagree, and unpleasant consequences follow. What does she do with those

consequences? She transfers them to ME. Why transfer them to ME? Because I am bound, in the harmless

character of a single man, to relieve my married connections of all their own troubles. Poor single people!

It is quite unnecessary to say that Marian's letter threatened me. Everybody threatens me. All sorts of horrors

were to fall on my devoted head if I hesitated to turn Limmeridge House into an asylum for my niece and her

I have mentioned that my usual course, hitherto, had been to submit to dear Marian, and save noise. But on

this occasion, the consequences involved in her extremely inconsiderate proposal were of a nature to make

me pause. If I opened Limmeridge House as an asylum to Lady Glyde, what security had I against Sir

Percival Glyde's following her here in a state of violent resentment against ME for harbouring his wife? I saw

such a perfect labyrinth of troubles involved in this proceeding that I determined to feel my ground, as it

were. I wrote, therefore, to dear Marian to beg (as she had no husband to lay claim to her) that she would

come here by herself, first, and talk the matter over with me. If she could answer my objections to my own

perfect satisfaction, then I assured her that I would receive our sweet Laura with the greatest pleasure, but not

I felt, of course, at the time, that this temporising on my part would probably end in bringing Marian here in a

state of virtuous indignation, banging doors. But then, the other course of proceeding might end in bringing

Sir Percival here in a state of virtuous indignation, banging doors also, and of the two indignations and

bangings I preferred Marian's, because I was used to her. Accordingly I despatched the letter by return of

post. It gained me time, at all eventsand, oh dear me! what a point that was to begin with.

When I am totally prostrated (did I mention that I was totally prostrated by Marian's letter?) it always takes

me three days to get up again. I was very unreasonableI expected three days of quiet. Of course I didn't get

The third day's post brought me a most impertinent letter from a person with whom I was totally

unacquainted. He described himself as the acting partner of our man of businessour dear, pigheaded old

Gilmoreand he informed me that he had lately received, by the post, a letter addressed to him in Miss

Halcombe's handwriting. On opening the envelope, he had discovered, to his astonishment, that it contained

nothing but a blank sheet of notepaper. This circumstance appeared to him so suspicious (as suggesting to his

restless legal mind that the letter had been tampered with) that he had at once written to Miss Halcombe, and

had received no answer by return of post. In this difficulty, instead of acting like a sensible man and letting

things take their proper course, his next absurd proceeding, on his own showing, was to pester me by writing

to inquire if I knew anything about it. What the deuce should I know about it? Why alarm me as well as

himself? I wrote back to that effect. It was one of my keenest letters. I have produced nothing with a sharper

epistolary edge to it since I tendered his dismissal in writing to that extremely troublesome person, Mr.

This perhaps was not altogether surprising. But it was certainly a remarkable circumstance that no second

letter reached me from Marian, and that no warning signs appeared of her arrival. Her unexpected absence

did me amazing good. It was so very soothing and pleasant to infer (as I did of course) that my married

connections had made it up again. Five days of undisturbed tranquillity, of delicious single blessedness, quite

restored me. On the sixth day I felt strong enough to send for my photographer, and to set him at work again

on the presentation copies of my art treasures, with a view, as I have already mentioned, to the improvement

of taste in this barbarous neighbourhood. I had just dismissed him to his workshop, and had just begun

coquetting with my coins, when Louis suddenly made his appearance with a card in his hand.

"Another Young Person?" I said. "I won't see her. In my state of health Young Persons disagree with me. Not

Is it necessary to say what my first impression was when I looked at my visitor's card? Surely not! My sister

having married a foreigner, there was but one impression that any man in his senses could possibly feel. Of

"Louis," I said, "do you think he would go away if you gave him five shillings?"

Louis looked quite shocked. He surprised me inexpressibly by declaring that my sister's foreign husband was

dressed superbly, and looked the picture of prosperity. Under these circumstances my first impression altered

to a certain extent. I now took it for granted that the Count had matrimonial difficulties of his own to contend

with, and that he had come, like the rest of the family, to cast them all on my shoulders.

"Count Fosco said he had come here, sir, because Miss Halcombe was unable to leave Blackwater Park."

Fresh troubles, apparently. Not exactly his own, as I had supposed, but dear Marian's. Troubles, anyway. Oh

The Count's first appearance really startled me. He was such an alarmingly large person that I quite trembled.

I felt certain that he would shake the floor and knock down my arttreasures. He did neither the one nor the

other. He was refreshingly dressed in summer costumehis manner was delightfully selfpossessed and

quiethe had a charming smile. My first impression of him was highly favourable. It is not creditable to my

penetrationas the sequel will showto acknowledge this, but I am a naturally candid man, and I DO

"Allow me to present myself, Mr. Fairlie," he said. "I come from Blackwater Park, and I have the honour and

the happiness of being Madame Fosco's husband. Let me take my first and last advantage of that

circumstance by entreating you not to make a stranger of me. I beg you will not disturb yourselfI beg you

"You are very good," I replied. "I wish I was strong enough to get up. Charmed to see you at Limmeridge.

"As usual," I said. "I am nothing but a bundle of nerves dressed up to look like a man."

"I have studied many subjects in my time," remarked this sympathetic person. "Among others the

inexhaustible subject of nerves. May I make a suggestion, at once the simplest and the most profound? Will

He walked to the window. Such a contrast to dear Marian! so extremely considerate in all his movements!

"Light," he said, in that delightfully confidential tone which is so soothing to an invalid, "is the first essential.

Light stimulates, nourishes, preserves. You can no more do without it, Mr. Fairlie, than if you were a flower.

Observe. Here, where you sit, I close the shutters to compose you. There, where you do NOT sit, I draw up

the blind and let in the invigorating sun. Admit the light into your room if you cannot bear it on yourself.

Light, sir, is the grand decree of Providence. You accept Providence with your own restrictions. Accept light

I thought this very convincing and attentive. He had taken me in up to that point about the light, he had

"You see me confused," he said, returning to his place"on my word of honour, Mr. Fairlie, you see me

"Sir, can I enter this room (where you sit a sufferer), and see you surrounded by these admirable objects of

Art, without discovering that you are a man whose feelings are acutely impressionable, whose sympathies are

If I had been strong enough to sit up in my chair I should, of course, have bowed. Not being strong enough, I

smiled my acknowledgments instead. It did just as well, we both understood one another.

"Pray follow my train of thought," continued the Count. "I sit here, a man of refined sympathies myself, in

the presence of another man of refined sympathies also. I am conscious of a terrible necessity for lacerating

those sympathies by referring to domestic events of a very melancholy kind. What is the inevitable

consequence? I have done myself the honour of pointing it out to you already. I sit confused."

Was it at this point that I began to suspect he was going to bore me? I rather think it was.

"Is it absolutely necessary to refer to these unpleasant matters?" I inquired. "In our homely English phrase,

He shrugged his shoulders (it was the first foreign thing he had done since he had been in the room), and

looked at me in an unpleasantly penetrating manner. My instincts told me that I had better close my eyes. I

"Dead!" cried the Count, with unnecessary foreign fierceness. "Mr. Fairlie, your national composure terrifies

me. In the name of Heaven, what have I said or done to make you think me the messenger of death?"

"Pray accept my apologies," I answered. "You have said and done nothing. I make it a rule in these

distressing cases always to anticipate the worst. It breaks the blow by meeting it halfway, and so on.

I opened my eyes and looked at him. Was he very yellow when he came in, or had he turned very yellow in

the last minute or two? I really can't say, and I can't ask Louis, because he was not in the room at the time.

"Anybody ill?" I repeated, observing that my national composure still appeared to affect him.

"To my profound sorrow, Miss Halcombe. Perhaps you were in some degree prepared to hear this? Perhaps

when you found that Miss Halcombe did not come here by herself, as you proposed, and did not write a

second time, your affectionate anxiety may have made you fear that she was ill?"

I have no doubt my affectionate anxiety had led to that melancholy apprehension at some time or other, but at

the moment my wretched memory entirely failed to remind me of the circumstance. However, I said yes, in

justice to myself. I was much shocked. It was so very uncharacteristic of such a robust person as dear Marian

to be ill, that I could only suppose she had met with an accident. A horse, or a false step on the stairs, or

"Seriousbeyond a doubt," he replied. "DangerousI hope and trust not. Miss Halcombe unhappily

exposed herself to be wetted through by a heavy rain. The cold that followed was of an aggravated kind, and

When I heard the word fever, and when I remembered at the same moment that the unscrupulous person who

was now addressing me had just come from Blackwater Park, I thought I should have fainted on the spot.

"Not at present," he answered, with detestable composure. "It may turn to infectionbut no such deplorable

complication had taken place when I left Blackwater Park. I have felt the deepest interest in the case, Mr.

FairlieI have endeavoured to assist the regular medical attendant in watching itaccept my personal

Accept his assurances! I never was farther from accepting anything in my life. I would not have believed him

on his oath. He was too yellow to be believed. He looked like a walkingWestIndian epidemic. He was big

enough to carry typhus by the ton, and to dye the very carpet he walked on with scarlet fever. In certain

emergencies my mind is remarkably soon made up. I instantly determined to get rid of him.

"You will kindly excuse an invalid," I said"but long conferences of any kind invariably upset me. May I

beg to know exactly what the object is to which I am indebted for the honour of your visit?"

I fervently hoped that this remarkably broad hint would throw him off his balanceconfuse himreduce

him to polite apologiesin short, get him out of the room. On the contrary, it only settled him in his chair.

He became additionally solemn, and dignified, and confidential. He held up two of his horrid fingers and

gave me another of his unpleasantly penetrating looks. What was I to do? I was not strong enough to quarrel

with him. Conceive my situation, if you please. Is language adequate to describe it? I think not.

"The objects of my visit," he went on, quite irrepressibly, "are numbered on my fingers. They are two. First, I

come to bear my testimony, with profound sorrow, to the lamentable disagreements between Sir Percival and

Lady Glyde. I am Sir Percival's oldest friendI am related to Lady Glyde by marriageI am an eye

witness of all that has happened at Blackwater Park. In those three capacities I speak with authority, with

confidence, with honourable regret. Sir, I inform you, as the head of Lady Glyde's family, that Miss

Halcombe has exaggerated nothing in the letter which she wrote to your address. I affirm that the remedy

which that admirable lady has proposed is the only remedy that will spare you the horrors of public scandal.

A temporary separation between husband and wife is the one peaceable solution of this difficulty. Part them

for the present, and when all causes of irritation are removed, I, who have now the honour of addressing

youI will undertake to bring Sir Percival to reason. Lady Glyde is innocent, Lady Glyde is injured,

butfollow my thought here! she is, on that very account (I say it with shame), the cause of irritation

while she remains under her husband's roof. No other house can receive her with propriety but yours. I invite

Cool. Here was a matrimonial hailstorm pouring in the South of England, and I was invited, by a man with

fever in every fold of his coat, to come out from the North of England and take my share of the pelting. I tried

to put the point forcibly, just as I have put it here. The Count deliberately lowered one of his horrid fingers,

kept the other up, and went onrode over me, as it were, without even the common coachmanlike attention

"Follow my thought once more, if you please," he resumed. "My first object you have heard. My second

object in coming to this house is to do what Miss Halcombe's illness has prevented her from doing for herself.

My large experience is consulted on all difficult matters at Blackwater Park, and my friendly advice was

requested on the interesting subject of your letter to Miss Halcombe. I understood at oncefor my

sympathies are your sympathieswhy you wished to see her here before you pledged yourself to inviting

Lady Glyde. You are most right, sir, in hesitating to receive the wife until you are quite certain that the

husband will not exert his authority to reclaim her. I agree to that. I also agree that such delicate explanations

as this difficulty involves are not explanations which can be properly disposed of by writing only. My

presence here (to my own great inconvenience) is the proof that I speak sincerely. As for the explanations

themselves, IFoscoI, who know Sir Percival much better than Miss Halcombe knows him, affirm to

you, on my honour and my word, that he will not come near this house, or attempt to communicate with this

house, while his wife is living in it. His affairs are embarrassed. Offer him his freedom by means of the

absence of Lady Glyde. I promise you he will take his freedom, and go back to the Continent at the earliest

moment when he can get away. Is this clear to you as crystal? Yes, it is. Have you questions to address to

me? Be it so, I am here to answer. Ask, Mr. Fairlieoblige me by asking to your heart's content."

He had said so much already in spite of me, and he looked so dreadfully capable of saying a great deal more

also in spite of me, that I declined his amiable invitation in pure selfdefence.

"Many thanks," I replied. "I am sinking fast. In my state of health I must take things for granted. Allow me to

do so on this occasion. We quite understand each other. Yes. Much obliged, I am sure, for your kind

interference. If I ever get better, and ever have a second opportunity of improving our acquaintance "

He got up. I thought he was going. No. More talk, more time for the development of infectious

"One moment yet," he said, "one moment before I take my leave. I ask permission at parting to impress on

you an urgent necessity. It is this, sir. You must not think of waiting till Miss Halcombe recovers before you

receive Lady Glyde. Miss Halcombe has the attendance of the doctor, of the housekeeper at Blackwater Park,

and of an experienced nurse as wellthree persons for whose capacity and devotion I answer with my life. I

tell you that. I tell you, also, that the anxiety and alarm of her sister's illness has already affected the health

and spirits of Lady Glyde, and has made her totally unfit to be of use in the sickroom. Her position with her

husband grows more and more deplorable and dangerous every day. If you leave her any longer at

Blackwater Park, you do nothing whatever to hasten her sister's recovery, and at the same time, you risk the

public scandal, which you and I, and all of us, are bound in the sacred interests of the family to avoid. With

all my soul, I advise you to remove the serious responsibility of delay from your own shoulders by writing to

Lady Glyde to come here at once. Do your affectionate, your honourable, your inevitable duty, and whatever

happens in the future, no one can lay the blame on you. I speak from my large experienceI offer my

I looked at himmerely looked at himwith my sense of his amazing assurance, and my dawning

resolution to ring for Louis and have him shown out of the room expressed in every line of my face. It is

perfectly incredible, but quite true, that my face did not appear to produce the slightest impression on him.

"You hesitate?" he said. "Mr. Fairlie! I understand that hesitation. You objectsee, sir, how my sympathies

look straight down into your thoughts!you object that Lady Glyde is not in health and not in spirits to take

the long journey, from Hampshire to this place, by herself. Her own maid is removed from her, as you know,

and of other servants fit to travel with her, from one end of England to another, there are none at Blackwater

Park. You object, again, that she cannot comfortably stop and rest in London, on her way here, because she

cannot comfortably go alone to a public hotel where she is a total stranger. In one breath, I grant both

objectionsin another breath, I remove them. Follow me, if you please, for the last time. It was my

intention, when I returned to England with Sir Percival, to settle myself in the neighbourhood of London.

That purpose has just been happily accomplished. I have taken, for six months, a little furnished house in the

quarter called St. John's Wood. Be so obliging as to keep this fact in your mind, and observe the programme I

now propose. Lady Glyde travels to London (a short journey)I myself meet her at the stationI take her

to rest and sleep at my house, which is also the house of her auntwhen she is restored I escort her to the

station againshe travels to this place, and her own maid (who is now under your roof) receives her at the

carriage door. Here is comfort consultedhere are the interests of propriety consultedhere is your own

dutyduty of hospitality, sympathy, protection, to an unhappy lady in need of all three smoothed and

made easy, from the beginning to the end. I cordially invite you, sir, to second my efforts in the sacred

interests of the family. I seriously advise you to write, by my hands, offering the hospitality of your house

(and heart), and the hospitality of my house (and heart), to that injured and unfortunate lady whose cause I

He waved his horrid hand at mehe struck his infectious breast he addressed me oratorically, as if I was

laid up in the House of Commons. It was high time to take a desperate course of some sort. It was also high

In this trying emergency an idea occurred to mean inestimable idea which, so to speak, killed two intrusive

birds with one stone. I determined to get rid of the Count's tiresome eloquence, and of Lady Glyde's tiresome

troubles, by complying with this odious foreigner's request, and writing the letter at once. There was not the

least danger of the invitation being accepted, for there was not the least chance that Laura would consent to

leave Blackwater Park while Marian was lying there ill. How this charmingly convenient obstacle could have

escaped the officious penetration of the Count, it was impossible to conceivebut it HAD escaped him. My

dread that he might yet discover it, if I allowed him any more time to think, stimulated me to such an

amazing degree, that I struggled into a sitting positionseized, really seized, the writing materials by my

side, and produced the letter as rapidly as if I had been a common clerk in an office. "Dearest Laura, Please

come, whenever you like. Break the journey by sleeping in London at your aunt's house. Grieved to hear of

dear Marian's illness. Ever affectionately yours." I handed these lines, at arm's length, to the CountI sank

back in my chairI said, "Excuse meI am entirely prostratedI can do no more. Will you rest and lunch

He made another speechthe man was absolutely inexhaustible. I closed my eyesI endeavoured to hear as

little as possible. In spite of my endeavours I was obliged to hear a great deal. My sister's endless husband

congratulated himself, and congratulated me, on the result of our interviewhe mentioned a great deal more

about his sympathies and minehe deplored my miserable healthhe offered to write me a

prescriptionhe impressed on me the necessity of not forgetting what he had said about the importance of

lighthe accepted my obliging invitation to rest and lunchhe recommended me to expect Lady Glyde in

two or three days' timehe begged my permission to look forward to our next meeting, instead of paining

himself and paining me, by saying farewellhe added a great deal more, which, I rejoice to think, I did not

attend to at the time, and do not remember now. I heard his sympathetic voice travelling away from me by

degreesbut, large as he was, I never heard him. He had the negative merit of being absolutely noiseless. I

don't know when he opened the door, or when he shut it. I ventured to make use of my eyes again, after an

I rang for Louis, and retired to my bathroom. Tepid water, strengthened with aromatic vinegar, for myself,

and copious fumigation for my study, were the obvious precautions to take, and of course I adopted them. I

rejoice to say they proved successful. I enjoyed my customary siesta. I awoke moist and cool.

My first inquiries were for the Count. Had we really got rid of him? Yeshe had gone away by the

afternoon train. Had he lunched, and if so, upon what? Entirely upon fruittart and cream. What a man! What

Am I expected to say anything more? I believe not. I believe I have reached the limits assigned to me. The

shocking circumstances which happened at a later period did not, I am thankful to say, happen in my

presence. I do beg and entreat that nobody will be so very unfeeling as to lay any part of the blame of those

circumstances on me. I did everything for the best. I am not answerable for a deplorable calamity, which it

was quite impossible to foresee. I am shattered by itI have suffered under it, as nobody else has suffered.

My servant, Louis (who is really attached to me in his unintelligent way), thinks I shall never get over it. He

sees me dictating at this moment, with my handkerchief to my eyes. I wish to mention, in justice to myself,

that it was not my fault, and that I am quite exhausted and heartbroken. Need I say more?

I am asked to state plainly what I know of the progress of Miss Halcombe's illness and of the circumstances

The reason given for making this demand on me is, that my testimony is wanted in the interests of truth. As

the widow of a clergyman of the Church of England (reduced by misfortune to the necessity of accepting a

situation), I have been taught to place the claims of truth above all other considerations. I therefore comply

with a request which I might otherwise, through reluctance to connect myself with distressing family affairs,

I made no memorandum at the time, and I cannot therefore be sure to a day of the date, but I believe I am

correct in stating that Miss Halcombe's serious illness began during the last fortnight or ten days in June. The

breakfast hour was late at Blackwater Park sometimes as late as ten, never earlier than halfpast nine. On

the morning to which I am now referring, Miss Halcombe (who was usually the first to come down) did not

make her appearance at the table. After the family had waited a quarter of an hour, the upper housemaid was

sent to see after her, and came running out of the room dreadfully frightened. I met the servant on the stairs,

and went at once to Miss Halcombe to see what was the matter. The poor lady was incapable of telling me.

She was walking about her room with a pen in her hand, quite lightheaded, in a state of burning fever.

Lady Glyde (being no longer in Sir Percival's service, I may, without impropriety, mention my former

mistress by her name, instead of calling her my lady) was the first to come in from her own bedroom. She

was so dreadfully alarmed and distressed that she was quite useless. The Count Fosco, and his lady, who

came upstairs immediately afterwards, were both most serviceable and kind. Her ladyship assisted me to get

Miss Halcombe to her bed. His lordship the Count remained in the sittingroom, and having sent for my

medicinechest, made a mixture for Miss Halcombe, and a cooling lotion to be applied to her head, so as to

lose no time before the doctor came. We applied the lotion, but we could not get her to take the mixture. Sir

Percival undertook to send for the doctor. He despatched a groom, on horseback, for the nearest medical man,

Mr. Dawson arrived in less than an hour's time. He was a respectable elderly man, well known all round the

country, and we were much alarmed when we found that he considered the case to be a very serious one.

His lordship the Count affably entered into conversation with Mr. Dawson, and gave his opinions with a

judicious freedom. Mr. Dawson, not overcourteously, inquired if his lordship's advice was the advice of a

doctor, and being informed that it was the advice of one who had studied medicine unprofessionally, replied

that he was not accustomed to consult with amateur physicians. The Count, with truly Christian meekness of

temper, smiled and left the room. Before he went out he told me that he might be found, in case he was

wanted in the course of the day, at the boathouse on the banks of the lake. Why he should have gone there, I

cannot say. But he did go, remaining away the whole day till seven o'clock, which was dinnertime. Perhaps

he wished to set the example of keeping the house as quiet as possible. It was entirely in his character to do

Miss Halcombe passed a very bad night, the fever coming and going, and getting worse towards the morning

instead of better. No nurse fit to wait on her being at hand in the neighbourhood, her ladyship the Countess

and myself undertook the duty, relieving each other. Lady Glyde, most unwisely, insisted on sitting up with

us. She was much too nervous and too delicate in health to bear the anxiety of Miss Halcombe's illness

calmly. She only did herself harm, without being of the least real assistance. A more gentle and affectionate

lady never livedbut she cried, and she was frightened, two weaknesses which made her entirely unfit to be

Sir Percival (from distress, I presume, at his lady's affliction and at Miss Halcombe's illness) appeared much

confused and unsettled in his mind. His lordship testified, on the contrary, a becoming composure and

interest. He had his straw hat in one hand, and his book in the other, and he mentioned to Sir Percival in my

hearing that he would go out again and study at the lake. "Let us keep the house quiet," he said. "Let us not

smoke indoors, my friend, now Miss Halcombe is ill. You go your way, and I will go mine. When I study I

Sir Percival was not civil enoughperhaps I ought in justice to say, not composed enoughto take leave of

me with the same polite attention. The only person in the house, indeed, who treated me, at that time or at any

other, on the footing of a lady in distressed circumstances, was the Count. He had the manners of a true

noblemanhe was considerate towards every one. Even the young person (Fanny by name) who attended on

Lady Glyde was not beneath his notice. When she was sent away by Sir Percival, his lordship (showing me

his sweet little birds at the time) was most kindly anxious to know what had become of her, where she was to

go the day she left Blackwater Park, and so on. It is in such little delicate attentions that the advantages of

aristocratic birth always show themselves. I make no apology for introducing these particularsthey are

brought forward in justice to his lordship, whose character, I have reason to know, is viewed rather harshly in

certain quarters. A nobleman who can respect a lady in distressed circumstances, and can take a fatherly

interest in the fortunes of an humble servant girl, shows principles and feelings of too high an order to be

lightly called in question. I advance no opinionsI offer facts only. My endeavour through life is to judge

not that I be not judged. One of my beloved husband's finest sermons was on that text. I read it

constantlyin my own copy of the edition printed by subscription, in the first days of my widowhoodand

at every fresh perusal I derive an increase of spiritual benefit and edification.

There was no improvement in Miss Halcombe, and the second night was even worse than the first. Mr.

Dawson was constant in his attendance. The practical duties of nursing were still divided between the

Countess and myself, Lady Glyde persisting in sitting up with us, though we both entreated her to take some

rest. "My place is by Marian's bedside," was her only answer. "Whether I am ill, or well, nothing will induce

Towards midday I went downstairs to attend to some of my regular duties. An hour afterwards, on my way

back to the sickroom, I saw the Count (who had gone out again early, for the third time) entering the hall, to

all appearance in the highest good spirits. Sir Percival, at the same moment, put his head out of the library

His lordship's large face became dimpled all over with placid smiles, but he made no reply in words. At the

same time Sir Percival turned his head, observed that I was approaching the stairs, and looked at me in the

"Come in here and tell me about it," he said to the Count. "Whenever there are women in a house they're

"My dear Percival," observed his lordship kindly, "Mrs. Michelson has duties. Pray recognise her admirable

"Sadmost sad!" remarked the Count. "You look fatigued, Mrs. Michelson. It is certainly time you and my

wife had some help in nursing. I think I may be the means of offering you that help. Circumstances have

happened which will oblige Madame Fosco to travel to London either tomorrow or the day after. She will

go away in the morning and return at night, and she will bring back with her, to relieve you, a nurse of

excellent conduct and capacity, who is now disengaged. The woman is known to my wife as a person to be

trusted. Before she comes here say nothing about her, if you please, to the doctor, because he will look with

an evil eye on any nurse of my providing. When she appears in this house she will speak for herself, and Mr.

Dawson will be obliged to acknowledge that there is no excuse for not employing her. Lady Glyde will say

I expressed my grateful acknowledgments for his lordship's kind consideration. Sir Percival cut them short by

calling to his noble friend (using, I regret to say, a profane expression) to come into the library, and not to

I proceeded upstairs. We are poor erring creatures, and however well established a woman's principles may

be she cannot always keep on her guard against the temptation to exercise an idle curiosity. I am ashamed to

say that an idle curiosity, on this occasion, got the better of my principles, and made me unduly inquisitive

about the question which Sir Percival had addressed to his noble friend at the library door. Who was the

Count expected to find in the course of his studious morning rambles at Blackwater Park? A woman, it was to

be presumed, from the terms of Sir Percival's inquiry. I did not suspect the Count of any improprietyI

knew his moral character too well. The only question I asked myself wasHad he found her?

To resume. The night passed as usual without producing any change for the better in Miss Halcombe. The

next day she seemed to improve a little. The day after that her ladyship the Countess, without mentioning the

object of her journey to any one in my hearing, proceeded by the morning train to Londonher noble

I was now left in sole charge of Miss Halcombe, with every apparent chance, in consequence of her sister's

resolution not to leave the bedside, of having Lady Glyde herself to nurse next.

The only circumstance of any importance that happened in the course of the day was the occurrence of

His lordship, on returning from the station, stepped up into Miss Halcombe's sittingroom to make his

inquiries. I went out from the bedroom to speak to him, Mr. Dawson and Lady Glyde being both with the

patient at the time. The Count asked me many questions about the treatment and the symptoms. I informed

him that the treatment was of the kind described as "saline," and that the symptoms, between the attacks of

fever, were certainly those of increasing weakness and exhaustion. Just as I was mentioning these last

"Goodmorning, sir," said his lordship, stepping forward in the most urbane manner, and stopping the doctor,

with a highbred resolution impossible to resist, "I greatly fear you find no improvement in the symptoms

"You still persist in your lowering treatment of this case of fever?" continued his lordship.

"I persist in the treatment which is justified by my own professional experience," said Mr. Dawson.

"Permit me to put one question to you on the vast subject of professional experience," observed the Count. "I

presume to offer no more adviceI only presume to make an inquiry. You live at some distance, sir, from

the gigantic centres of scientific activityLondon and Paris. Have you ever heard of the wasting effects of

fever being reasonably and intelligibly repaired by fortifying the exhausted patient with brandy, wine,

ammonia, and quinine? Has that new heresy of the highest medical authorities ever reached your earsYes

"When a professional man puts that question to me I shall be glad to answer him," said the doctor, opening

the door to go out. "You are not a professional man, and I beg to decline answering you."

Buffeted in this inexcusably uncivil way on one cheek, the Count, like a practical Christian, immediately

If my late beloved husband had been so fortunate as to know his lordship, how highly he and the Count

Her ladyship the Countess returned by the last train that night, and brought with her the nurse from London. I

was instructed that this person's name was Mrs. Rubelle. Her personal appearance, and her imperfect English

I have always cultivated a feeling of humane indulgence for foreigners. They do not possess our blessings

and advantages, and they are, for the most part, brought up in the blind errors of Popery. It has also always

been my precept and practice, as it was my dear husband's precept and practice before me (see Sermon

XXIX. in the Collection by the late Rev. Samuel Michelson, M.A.), to do as I would be done by. On both

these accounts I will not say that Mrs. Rubelle struck me as being a small, wiry, sly person, of fifty or

thereabouts, with a dark brown or Creole complexion and watchful light grey eyes. Nor will I mention, for

the reasons just alleged, that I thought her dress, though it was of the plainest black silk, inappropriately

costly in texture and unnecessarily refined in trimming and finish, for a person in her position in life. I should

not like these things to be said of me, and therefore it is my duty not to say them of Mrs. Rubelle. I will

merely mention that her manners were, not perhaps unpleasantly reserved, but only remarkably quiet and

retiring that she looked about her a great deal, and said very little, which might have arisen quite as much

from her own modesty as from distrust of her position at Blackwater Park; and that she declined to partake of

supper (which was curious perhaps, but surely not suspicious?), although I myself politely invited her to that

At the Count's particular suggestion (so like his lordship's forgiving kindness!), it was arranged that Mrs.

Rubelle should not enter on her duties until she had been seen and approved by the doctor the next morning. I

sat up that night. Lady Glyde appeared to be very unwilling that the new nurse should be employed to attend

on Miss Halcombe. Such want of liberality towards a foreigner on the part of a lady of her education and

refinement surprised me. I ventured to say, "My lady, we must all remember not to be hasty in our judgments

on our inferiors especially when they come from foreign parts." Lady Glyde did not appear to attend to

me. She only sighed, and kissed Miss Halcombe's hand as it lay on the counterpane. Scarcely a judicious

proceeding in a sickroom, with a patient whom it was highly desirable not to excite. But poor Lady Glyde

The next morning Mrs. Rubelle was sent to the sittingroom, to be approved by the doctor on his way

I left Lady Glyde with Miss Halcombe, who was slumbering at the time, and joined Mrs. Rubelle, with the

object of kindly preventing her from feeling strange and nervous in consequence of the uncertainty of her

situation. She did not appear to see it in that light. She seemed to be quite satisfied, beforehand, that Mr.

Dawson would approve of her, and she sat calmly looking out of window, with every appearance of enjoying

the country air. Some people might have thought such conduct suggestive of brazen assurance. I beg to say

Instead of the doctor coming up to us, I was sent for to see the doctor. I thought this change of affairs rather

odd, but Mrs. Rubelle did not appear to be affected by it in any way. I left her still calmly looking out of the

"I find that she has been brought here from London by the wife of that fat old foreigner, who is always trying

"Pooh! He isn't the first quack with a handle to his name. They're all Countshang 'em!"

"He would not be a friend of Sir Percival Glyde's, sir, if he was not a member of the highest

"Very well, Mrs. Michelson, call him what you like, and let us get back to the nurse. I have been objecting to

"Yes, without having seen her. She may be the best nurse in existence, but she is not a nurse of my providing.

I have put that objection to Sir Percival, as the master of the house. He doesn't support me. He says a nurse of

my providing would have been a stranger from London also, and he thinks the woman ought to have a trial,

after his wife's aunt has taken the trouble to fetch her from London. There is some justice in that, and I can't

decently say No. But I have made it a condition that she is to go at once, if I find reason to complain of her.

This proposal being one which I have some right to make, as medical attendant, Sir Percival has consented to

it. Now, Mrs. Michelson, I know I can depend on you, and I want you to keep a sharp eye on the nurse for the

first day or two, and to see that she gives Miss Halcombe no medicines but mine. This foreign nobleman of

yours is dying to try his quack remedies (mesmerism included) on my patient, and a nurse who is brought

here by his wife may be a little too willing to help him. You understand? Very well, then, we may go

upstairs. Is the nurse there? I'll say a word to her before she goes into the sickroom."

We found Mrs. Rubelle still enjoying herself at the window. When I introduced her to Mr. Dawson, neither

the doctor's doubtful looks nor the doctor's searching questions appeared to confuse her in the least. She

answered him quietly in her broken English, and though he tried hard to puzzle her, she never betrayed the

least ignorance, so far, about any part of her duties. This was doubtless the result of strength of mind, as I said

Mrs. Rubelle looked very attentively at the patient, curtseyed to Lady Glyde, set one or two little things right

in the room, and sat down quietly in a corner to wait until she was wanted. Her ladyship seemed startled and

annoyed by the appearance of the strange nurse. No one said anything, for fear of rousing Miss Halcombe,

who was still slumbering, except the doctor, who whispered a question about the night. I softly answered,

"Much as usual," and then Mr. Dawson went out. Lady Glyde followed him, I suppose to speak about Mrs.

Rubelle. For my own part, I had made up my mind already that this quiet foreign person would keep her

situation. She had all her wits about her, and she certainly understood her business. So far, I could hardly

Remembering Mr. Dawson's caution to me, I subjected Mrs. Rubelle to a severe scrutiny at certain intervals

for the next three or four days. I over and over again entered the room softly and suddenly, but I never found

her out in any suspicious action. Lady Glyde, who watched her as attentively as I did, discovered nothing

either. I never detected a sign of the medicine bottles being tampered with, I never saw Mrs. Rubelle say a

word to the Count, or the Count to her. She managed Miss Halcombe with unquestionable care and

discretion. The poor lady wavered backwards and forwards between a sort of sleepy exhaustion, which was

half faintness and half slumbering, and attacks of fever which brought with them more or less of wandering in

her mind. Mrs. Rubelle never disturbed her in the first case, and never startled her in the second, by appearing

too suddenly at the bedside in the character of a stranger. Honour to whom honour is due (whether foreign or

English and I give her privilege impartially to Mrs. Rubelle. She was remarkably uncommunicative about

herself, and she was too quietly independent of all advice from experienced persons who understood the

duties of a sickroombut with these drawbacks, she was a good nurse, and she never gave either Lady

The next circumstance of importance that occurred in the house was the temporary absence of the Count,

occasioned by business which took him to London. He went away (I think) on the morning of the fourth day

after the arrival of Mrs. Rubelle, and at parting he spoke to Lady Glyde very seriously, in my presence, on the

"Trust Mr. Dawson," he said, "for a few days more, if you please. But if there is not some change for the

better in that time, send for advice from London, which this mule of a doctor must accept in spite of himself.

Offend Mr. Dawson, and save Miss Halcombe. I say this seriously, on my word of honour and from the

His lordship spoke with extreme feeling and kindness. But poor Lady Glyde's nerves were so completely

broken down that she seemed quite frightened at him. She trembled from head to foot, and allowed him to

take his leave without uttering a word on her side. She turned to me when he had gone, and said, "Oh, Mrs.

Michelson, I am heartbroken about my sister, and I have no friend to advise me! Do you think Mr. Dawson

is wrong? He told me himself this morning that there was no fear, and no need to send for another doctor."

"With all respect to Mr. Dawson," I answered, "in your ladyship's place I should remember the Count's

Lady Glyde turned away from me suddenly, with an appearance of despair, for which I was quite unable to

Sir Percival seemed to feel the loss of his lordship in various ways, and appeared also, I thought, much

depressed and altered by the sickness and sorrow in the house. Occasionally he was so very restless that I

could not help noticing it, coming and going, and wandering here and there and everywhere in the grounds.

His inquiries about Miss Halcombe, and about his lady (whose failing health seemed to cause him sincere

anxiety), were most attentive. I think his heart was much softened. If some kind clerical friendsome such

friend as he might have found in my late excellent husbandhad been near him at this time, cheering moral

progress might have been made with Sir Percival. I seldom find myself mistaken on a point of this sort,

Her ladyship the Countess, who was now the only company for Sir Percival downstairs, rather neglected him,

as I consideredor, perhaps, it might have been that he neglected her. A stranger might almost have

supposed that they were bent, now they were left together alone, on actually avoiding one another. This, of

course, could not be. But it did so happen, nevertheless, that the Countess made her dinner at luncheontime,

and that she always came upstairs towards evening, although Mrs. Rubelle had taken the nursing duties

entirely off her hands. Sir Percival dined by himself, and William (the man out of livery) make the remark, in

my hearing, that his master had put himself on half rations of food and on a double allowance of drink. I

attach no importance to such an insolent observation as this on the part of a servant. I reprobated it at the

In the course of the next few days Miss Halcombe did certainly seem to all of us to be mending a little. Our

faith in Mr. Dawson revived. He appeared to be very confident about the case, and he assured Lady Glyde,

when she spoke to him on the subject, that he would himself propose to send for a physician the moment he

The only person among us who did not appear to be relieved by these words was the Countess. She said to

me privately, that she could not feel easy about Miss Halcombe on Mr. Dawson's authority, and that she

should wait anxiously for her husband's opinion on his return. That return, his letters informed her, would

take place in three days' time. The Count and Countess corresponded regularly every morning during his

lordship's absence. They were in that respect, as in all others, a pattern to married people.

On the evening of the third day I noticed a change in Miss Halcombe, which caused me serious apprehension.

Mrs. Rubelle noticed it too. We said nothing on the subject to Lady Glyde, who was then lying asleep,

Mr. Dawson did not pay his evening visit till later than usual. As soon as he set eyes on his patient I saw his

face alter. He tried to hide it, but he looked both confused and alarmed. A messenger was sent to his

residence for his medicinechest, disinfecting preparations were used in the room, and a bed was made up for

him in the house by his own directions. "Has the fever turned to infection?" I whispered to him. "I am afraid

By Mr. Dawson's own directions Lady Glyde was kept in ignorance of this change for the worse. He himself

absolutely forbade her, on account of her health, to join us in the bedroom that night. She tried to

resistthere was a sad scenebut he had his medical authority to support him, and he carried his point.

The next morning one of the menservants was sent to London at eleven o'clock, with a letter to a physician

in town, and with orders to bring the new doctor back with him by the earliest possible train. Half an hour

The Countess, on her own responsibility, immediately brought him in to see the patient. There was no

impropriety that I could discover in her taking this course. His lordship was a married man, he was old

enough to be Miss Halcombe's father, and he saw her in the presence of a female relative, Lady Glyde's aunt.

Mr. Dawson nevertheless protested against his presence in the room, but I could plainly remark the doctor

The poor suffering lady was past knowing any one about her. She seemed to take her friends for enemies.

When the Count approached her bedside her eyes, which had been wandering incessantly round and round

the room before, settled on his face with a dreadful stare of terror, which I shall remember to my dying day.

The Count sat down by her, felt her pulse and her temples, looked at her very attentively, and then turned

round upon the doctor with such an expression of indignation and contempt in his face, that the words failed

on Mr. Dawson's lips, and he stood for a moment, pale with anger and alarmpale and perfectly speechless.

I replied that she had not. The doctor had absolutely forbidden her to come into the room on the evening

"Have you and Mrs. Rubelle been made aware of the full extent of the mischief?" was his next question.

We were aware, I answered, that the malady was considered infectious. He stopped me before I could add

In the minute that passed, while these questions and answers were going on, Mr. Dawson recovered himself,

"It is NOT typhus fever," he remarked sharply. "I protest against this intrusion, sir. No one has a right to put

The Count interrupted himnot by words, but only by pointing to the bed. Mr. Dawson seemed to feel that

silent contradiction to his assertion of his own ability, and to grow only the more angry under it.

"I say I have done my duty," he reiterated. "A physician has been sent for from London. I will consult on the

nature of the fever with him, and with no one else. I insist on your leaving the room."

"I entered this room, sir, in the sacred interests of humanity," said the Count. "And in the same interests, if

the coming of the physician is delayed, I will enter it again. I warn you once more that the fever has turned to

typhus, and that your treatment is responsible for this lamentable change. If that unhappy lady dies, I will

give my testimony in a court of justice that your ignorance and obstinacy have been the cause of her death."

Before Mr. Dawson could answer, before the Count could leave us, the door was opened from the

Instead of stopping her, the Count moved into the sittingroom, and made way for her to go in. On all other

occasions he was the last man in the world to forget anything, but in the surprise of the moment he apparently

forgot the danger of infection from typhus, and the urgent necessity of forcing Lady Glyde to take proper care

To my astonishment Mr. Dawson showed more presence of mind. He stopped her ladyship at the first step

she took towards the bedside. "I am sincerely sorry, I am sincerely grieved," he said. "The fever may, I fear,

be infectious. Until I am certain that it is not, I entreat you to keep out of the room."

She struggled for a moment, then suddenly dropped her arms and sank forward. She had fainted. The

Countess and I took her from the doctor and carried her into her own room. The Count preceded us, and

waited in the passage till I came out and told him that we had recovered her from the swoon.

I went back to the doctor to tell him, by Lady Glyde's desire, that she insisted on speaking to him

immediately. He withdrew at once to quiet her ladyship's agitation, and to assure her of the physician's arrival

in the course of a few hours. Those hours passed very slowly. Sir Percival and the Count were together

downstairs, and sent up from time to time to make their inquiries. At last, between five and six o'clock, to our

He was a younger man than Mr. Dawson, very serious and very decided. What he thought of the previous

treatment I cannot say, but it struck me as curious that he put many more questions to myself and to Mrs.

Rubelle than he put to the doctor, and that he did not appear to listen with much interest to what Mr. Dawson

said, while he was examining Mr. Dawson's patient. I began to suspect, from what I observed in this way, that

the Count had been right about the illness all the way through, and I was naturally confirmed in that idea

when Mr. Dawson, after some little delay, asked the one important question which the London doctor had

That quiet foreign person, Mrs. Rubelle, crossed her thin brown hands in front of her, and looked at me with a

very significant smile. The Count himself could hardly have appeared more gratified if he had been present in

After giving us some useful directions about the management of the patient, and mentioning that he would

come again in five days' time, the physician withdrew to consult in private with Mr. Dawson. He would offer

no opinion on Miss Halcombe's chances of recoveryhe said it was impossible at that stage of the illness to

Countess Fosco and myself took it by turns to relieve Mrs. Rubelle, Miss Halcombe's condition growing

worse and worse, and requiring our utmost care and attention. It was a terribly trying time. Lady Glyde

(supported, as Mr. Dawson said, by the constant strain of her suspense on her sister's account) rallied in the

most extraordinary manner, and showed a firmness and determination for which I should myself never have

given her credit. She insisted on coming into the sickroom two or three times every day, to look at Miss

Halcombe with her own eyes, promising not to go too close to the bed, if the doctor would consent to her

wishes so far. Mr. Dawson very unwillingly made the concession required of himI think he saw that it was

hopeless to dispute with her. She came in every day, and she selfdenyingly kept her promise. I felt it

personally so distressing (as reminding me of my own affliction during my husband's last illness) to see how

she suffered under these circumstances, that I must beg not to dwell on this part of the subject any longer. It is

more agreeable to me to mention that no fresh disputes took place between Mr. Dawson and the Count. His

lordship made all his inquiries by deputy, and remained continually in company with Sir Percival downstairs.

On the fifth day the physician came again and gave us a little hope. He said the tenth day from the first

appearance of the typhus would probably decide the result of the illness, and he arranged for his third visit to

take place on that date. The interval passed as beforeexcept that the Count went to London again one

On the tenth day it pleased a merciful Providence to relieve our household from all further anxiety and alarm.

The physician positively assured us that Miss Halcombe was out of danger. "She wants no doctor nowall

she requires is careful watching and nursing for some time to come, and that I see she has." Those were his

own words. That evening I read my husband's touching sermon on Recovery from Sickness, with more

happiness and advantage (in a spiritual point of view) than I ever remember to have derived from it before.

The effect of the good news on poor Lady Glyde was, I grieve to say, quite overpowering. She was too weak

to bear the violent reaction, and in another day or two she sank into a state of debility and depression which

obliged her to keep her room. Rest and quiet, and change of air afterwards, were the best remedies which Mr.

Dawson could suggest for her benefit. It was fortunate that matters were no worse, for, on the very day after

she took to her room, the Count and the doctor had another disagreementand this time the dispute between

I was not present at the time, but I understood that the subject of dispute was the amount of nourishment

which it was necessary to give to assist Miss Halcombe's convalescence after the exhaustion of the fever. Mr.

Dawson, now that his patient was safe, was less inclined than ever to submit to unprofessional interference,

and the Count (I cannot imagine why) lost all the selfcontrol which he had so judiciously preserved on

former occasions, and taunted the doctor, over and over again, with his mistake about the fever when it

changed to typhus. The unfortunate affair ended in Mr. Dawson's appealing to Sir Percival, and threatening

(now that he could leave without absolute danger to Miss Halcombe) to withdraw from his attendance at

Blackwater Park if the Count's interference was not peremptorily suppressed from that moment. Sir Percival's

reply (though not designedly uncivil) had only resulted in making matters worse, and Mr. Dawson had

thereupon withdrawn from the house in a state of extreme indignation at Count Fosco's usage of him, and had

We were now, therefore, left without the attendance of a medical man. Although there was no actual

necessity for another doctor nursing and watching being, as the physician had observed, all that Miss

Halcombe requiredI should still, if my authority had been consulted, have obtained professional assistance

The matter did not seem to strike Sir Percival in that light. He said it would be time enough to send for

another doctor if Miss Halcombe showed any signs of a relapse. In the meanwhile we had the Count to

consult in any minor difficulty, and we need not unnecessarily disturb our patient in her present weak and

nervous condition by the presence of a stranger at her bedside. There was much that was reasonable, no

doubt, in these considerations, but they left me a little anxious nevertheless. Nor was I quite satisfied in my

own mind of the propriety of our concealing the doctor's absence as we did from Lady Glyde. It was a

merciful deception, I admitfor she was in no state to bear any fresh anxieties. But still it was a deception,

A second perplexing circumstance which happened on the same day, and which took me completely by

surprise, added greatly to the sense of uneasiness that was now weighing on my mind.

I was sent for to see Sir Percival in the library. The Count, who was with him when I went in, immediately

rose and left us alone together. Sir Percival civilly asked me to take a seat, and then, to my great

"I want to speak to you, Mrs. Michelson, about a matter which I decided on some time ago, and which I

should have mentioned before, but for the sickness and trouble in the house. In plain words, I have reasons

for wishing to break up my establishment immediately at this placeleaving you in charge, of course, as

usual. As soon as Lady Glyde and Miss Halcombe can travel they must both have change of air. My friends,

Count Fosco and the Countess, will leave us before that time to live in the neighbourhood of London, and I

have reasons for not opening the house to any more company, with a view to economising as carefully as I

can. I don't blame you, but my expenses here are a great deal too heavy. In short, I shall sell the horses, and

get rid of all the servants at once. I never do things by halves, as you know, and I mean to have the house

"Do you mean, Sir Percival, that I am to dismiss the indoor servants under my charge without the usual

"Certainly I do. We may all be out of the house before another month, and I am not going to leave the

"Margaret Porcher can roast and boilkeep her. What do I want with a cook if I don't mean to give any

"The servant you have mentioned is the most unintelligent servant in the house, Sir Percival "

"Keep her, I tell you, and have a woman in from the village to do the cleaning and go away again. My weekly

expenses must and shall be lowered immediately. I don't send for you to make objections, Mrs. MichelsonI

send for you to carry out my plans of economy. Dismiss the whole lazy pack of indoor servants tomorrow,

except Porcher. She is as strong as a horseand we'll make her work like a horse."

"You will excuse me for reminding you, Sir Percival, that if the servants go tomorrow they must have a

"Let them! A month's wages saves a month's waste and gluttony in the servants' hall."

This last remark conveyed an aspersion of the most offensive kind on my management. I had too much

selfrespect to defend myself under so gross an imputation. Christian consideration for the helpless position

of Miss Halcombe and Lady Glyde, and for the serious inconvenience which my sudden absence might inflict

on them, alone prevented me from resigning my situation on the spot. I rose immediately. It would have

lowered me in my own estimation to have permitted the interview to continue a moment longer.

"After that last remark, Sir Percival, I have nothing more to say. Your directions shall be attended to."

Pronouncing those words, I bowed my head with the most distant respect, and went out of the room.

The next day the servants left in a body. Sir Percival himself dismissed the grooms and stablemen, sending

them, with all the horses but one, to London. Of the whole domestic establishment, indoors and out, there

now remained only myself, Margaret Porcher, and the gardenerthis last living in his own cottage, and

With the house left in this strange and lonely conditionwith the mistress of it ill in her roomwith Miss

Halcombe still as helpless as a childand with the doctor's attendance withdrawn from us in enmityit was

surely not unnatural that my spirits should sink, and my customary composure be very hard to maintain. My

mind was ill at ease. I wished the poor ladies both well again, and I wished myself away from Blackwater

The next event that occurred was of so singular a nature that it might have caused me a feeling of

superstitious surprise, if my mind had not been fortified by principle against any pagan weakness of that sort.

The uneasy sense of something wrong in the family which had made me wish myself away from Blackwater

Park, was actually followed, strange to say, by my departure from the house. It is true that my absence was

for a temporary period only, but the coincidence was, in my opinion, not the less remarkable on that account.

A day or two after the servants all left I was again sent for to see Sir Percival. The undeserved slur which he

had cast on my management of the household did not, I am happy to say, prevent me from returning good for

evil to the best of my ability, by complying with his request as readily and respectfully as ever. It cost me a

struggle with that fallen nature, which we all share in common, before I could suppress my feelings. Being

I found Sir Percival and Count Fosco sitting together again. On this occasion his lordship remained present at

The subject to which they now requested my attention related to the healthy change of air by which we all

hoped that Miss Halcombe and Lady Glyde might soon be enabled to profit. Sir Percival mentioned that both

the ladies would probably pass the autumn (by invitation of Frederick Fairlie, Esquire) at Limmeridge House,

Cumberland. But before they went there, it was his opinion, confirmed by Count Fosco (who here took up the

conversation and continued it to the end), that they would benefit by a short residence first in the genial

climate of Torquay. The great object, therefore, was to engage lodgings at that place, affording all the

comforts and advantages of which they stood in need, and the great difficulty was to find an experienced

person capable of choosing the sort of residence which they wanted. In this emergency the Count begged to

inquire, on Sir Percival's behalf, whether I would object to give the ladies the benefit of my assistance, by

It was impossible for a person in my situation to meet any proposal, made in these terms, with a positive

I could only venture to represent the serious inconvenience of my leaving Blackwater Park in the

extraordinary absence of all the indoor servants, with the one exception of Margaret Porcher. But Sir Percival

and his lordship declared that they were both willing to put up with inconvenience for the sake of the

invalids. I next respectfully suggested writing to an agent at Torquay, but I was met here by being reminded

of the imprudence of taking lodgings without first seeing them. I was also informed that the Countess (who

would otherwise have gone to Devonshire herself) could not, in Lady Glyde's present condition, leave her

niece, and that Sir Percival and the Count had business to transact together which would oblige them to

remain at Blackwater Park. In short, it was clearly shown me that if I did not undertake the errand, no one

else could be trusted with it. Under these circumstances, I could only inform Sir Percival that my services

It was thereupon arranged that I should leave the next morning, that I should occupy one or two days in

examining all the most convenient houses in Torquay, and that I should return with my report as soon as I

conveniently could. A memorandum was written for me by his lordship, stating the requisites which the place

I was sent to take must be found to possess, and a note of the pecuniary limit assigned to me was added by Sir

My own idea on reading over these instructions was, that no such residence as I saw described could be found

at any wateringplace in England, and that, even if it could by chance be discovered, it would certainly not be

parted with for any period on such terms as I was permitted to offer. I hinted at these difficulties to both the

gentlemen, but Sir Percival (who undertook to answer me) did not appear to feel them. It was not for me to

dispute the question. I said no more, but I felt a very strong conviction that the business on which I was sent

away was so beset by difficulties that my errand was almost hopeless at starting.

Before I left I took care to satisfy myself that Miss Halcombe was going on favourably.

There was a painful expression of anxiety in her face which made me fear that her mind, on first recovering

itself, was not at ease. But she was certainly strengthening more rapidly than I could have ventured to

anticipate, and she was able to send kind messages to Lady Glyde, saying that she was fast getting well, and

entreating her ladyship not to exert herself again too soon. I left her in charge of Mrs. Rubelle, who was still

as quietly independent of every one else in the house as ever. When I knocked at Lady Glyde's door before

going away, I was told that she was still sadly weak and depressed, my informant being the Countess, who

was then keeping her company in her room. Sir Percival and the Count were walking on the road to the lodge

as I was driven by in the chaise. I bowed to them and quitted the house, with not a living soul left in the

Every one must feel what I have felt myself since that time, that these circumstances were more than

unusualthey were! almost suspicious. Let me, however, say again that it was impossible for me, in my

The result of my errand at Torquay was exactly what I had foreseen. No such lodgings as I was instructed to

take could be found in the whole place, and the terms I was permitted to give were much too low for the

purpose, even if I had been able to discover what I wanted. I accordingly returned to Blackwater Park, and

informed Sir Percival, who met me at the door, that my journey had been taken in vain. He seemed too much

occupied with some other subject to care about the failure of my errand, and his first words informed me that

even in the short time of my absence another remarkable change had taken place in the house.

The Count and Countess Fosco had left Blackwater Park for their new residence in St. John's Wood.

I was not made aware of the motive for this sudden departureI was only told that the Count had been very

particular in leaving his kind compliments to me. When I ventured on asking Sir Percival whether Lady

Glyde had any one to attend to her comforts in the absence of the Countess, he replied that she had Margaret

Porcher to wait on her, and he added that a woman from the village had been sent for to do the work

The answer really shocked methere was such a glaring impropriety in permitting an underhousemaid to

fill the place of confidential attendant on Lady Glyde. I went upstairs at once, and met Margaret on the

bedroom landing. Her services had not been required (naturally enough), her mistress having sufficiently

recovered that morning to be able to leave her bed. I asked next after Miss Halcombe, but I was answered in a

I did not choose to repeat the question, and perhaps provoke an impertinent reply. It was in every respect

more becoming to a person in my position to present myself immediately in Lady Glyde's room.

I found that her ladyship had certainly gained in health during the last few days. Although still sadly weak

and nervous, she was able to get up without assistance, and to walk slowly about her room, feeling no worse

effect from the exertion than a slight sensation of fatigue. She had been made a little anxious that morning

about Miss Halcombe, through having received no news of her from any one. I thought this seemed to imply

a blamable want of attention on the part of Mrs. Rubelle, but I said nothing, and remained with Lady Glyde to

assist her to dress. When she was ready we both left the room together to go to Miss Halcombe.

We were stopped in the passage by the appearance of Sir Percival. He looked as if he had been purposely

"It may spare you a disappointment," remarked Sir Percival, "if I tell you at once that you will not find her

Lady Glyde was not strong enough to bear the surprise of this extraordinary statement. She turned fearfully

I was so astonished myself that I hardly knew what to say. I asked Sir Percival if he really meant that Miss

"Impossible!" she cried out in a loud, frightened manner, taking a step or two forward from the wall. "Where

"Mr. Dawson wasn't wanted, and wasn't here," said Sir Percival. "He left of his own accord, which is enough

of itself to show that she was strong enough to travel. How you stare! If you don't believe she has gone, look

She took him at his word, and I followed her. There was no one in Miss Halcombe's room but Margaret

Porcher, who was busy setting it to rights. There was no one in the spare rooms or the dressing rooms when

we looked into them afterwards. Sir Percival still waited for us in the passage. As we were leaving the last

room that we had examined Lady Glyde whispered, "Don't go, Mrs. Michelson! don't leave me, for God's

sake!" Before I could say anything in return she was out again in the passage, speaking to her husband.

"What does it mean, Sir Percival? I insistI beg and pray you will tell me what it means."

"It means," he answered, "that Miss Halcombe was strong enough yesterday morning to sit up and be dressed,

and that she insisted on taking advantage of Fosco's going to London to go there too."

"You saw Miss Halcombe last," she said. "Tell me plainly, Mrs. Michelson, did you think she looked fit to

"Before you went away," he said, "did you, or did you not, tell the nurse that Miss Halcombe looked much

"Set one of Mrs. Michelson's opinions fairly against the other," he said, "and try to be reasonable about a

perfectly plain matter. If she had not been well enough to be moved do you think we should any of us have

risked letting her go? She has got three competent people to look after herFosco and your aunt, and Mrs.

Rubelle, who went away with them expressly for that purpose. They took a whole carriage yesterday, and

made a bed for her on the seat in case she felt tired. Today, Fosco and Mrs. Rubelle go on with her

"Why does Marian go to Limmeridge and leave me here by myself?" said her ladyship, interrupting Sir

"Because your uncle won't receive you till he has seen your sister first," he replied. "Have you forgotten the

letter he wrote to her at the beginning of her illness? It was shown to you, you read it yourself, and you ought

"If you do, why should you be surprised at her leaving you? You want to be back at Limmeridge, and she has

"She would have bid you goodbye this time," returned Sir Percival, "if she had not been afraid of herself

and of you. She knew you would try to stop her, she knew you would distress her by crying. Do you want to

make any more objections? If you do, you must come downstairs and ask questions in the diningroom.

His manner all through this strange conversation had been very unlike what it usually was. He seemed to be

almost as nervous and fluttered, every now and then, as his lady herself. I should never have supposed that

I tried to prevail on Lady Glyde to go back to her room, but it was useless. She stopped in the passage, with

"Remember, my lady, what surprising energy there is in Miss Halcombe," I suggested. "She might well make

an effort which other ladies in her situation would be unfit for. I hope and believe there is nothing wrongI

"I must follow Marian," said her ladyship, with the same panic stricken look. "I must go where she has

gone, I must see that she is alive and well with my own eyes. Come! come down with me to Sir Percival."

I hesitated, fearing that my presence might be considered an intrusion. I attempted to represent this to her

ladyship, but she was deaf to me. She held my arm fast enough to force me to go downstairs with her, and she

still clung to me with all the little strength she had at the moment when I opened the diningroom door.

Sir Percival was sitting at the table with a decanter of wine before him. He raised the glass to his lips as we

went in and drained it at a draught. Seeing that he looked at me angrily when he put it down again, I

"Do you suppose there are any secrets going on here?" he broke out suddenly; "there are nonethere is

nothing underhand, nothing kept from you or from any one." After speaking those strange words loudly and

sternly, he filled himself another glass of wine and asked Lady Glyde what she wanted of him.

"If my sister is fit to travel I am fit to travel" said her ladyship, with more firmness than she had yet shown. "I

come to beg you will make allowances for my anxiety about Marian, and let me follow her at once by the

"You must wait till tomorrow," replied Sir Percival, "and then if you don't hear to the contrary you can go. I

don't suppose you are at all likely to hear to the contrary, so I shall write to Fosco by tonight's post."

He said those last words holding his glass up to the light, and looking at the wine in it instead of at Lady

Glyde. Indeed he never once looked at her throughout the conversation. Such a singular want of good

"To tell him to expect you by the midday train," said Sir Percival. "He will meet you at the station when you

Lady Glyde's hand began to tremble violently round my armwhy I could not imagine.

"There is no necessity for Count Fosco to meet me," she said. "I would rather not stay in London to sleep."

"You must. You can't take the whole journey to Cumberland in one day. You must rest a night in

Londonand I don't choose you to go by yourself to an hotel. Fosco made the offer to your uncle to give

you houseroom on the way down, and your uncle has accepted it. Here! here is a letter from him addressed

to yourself. I ought to have sent it up this morning, but I forgot. Read it and see what Mr. Fairlie himself says

"Read it," she said faintly. "I don't know what is the matter with me. I can't read it myself."

It was a note of only four linesso short and so careless that it quite struck me. If I remember correctly it

"Dearest Laura, Please come whenever you like. Break the journey by sleeping at your aunt's house. Grieved

"I would rather not go thereI would rather not stay a night in London," said her ladyship, breaking out

eagerly with those words before I had quite done reading the note, short as it was. "Don't write to Count

Sir Percival filled another glass from the decanter so awkwardly that he upset it and spilt all the wine over the

table. "My sight seems to be failing me," he muttered to himself, in an odd, muffled voice. He slowly set the

glass up again, refilled it, and drained it once more at a draught. I began to fear, from his look and manner,

"Pray don't write to Count Fosco," persisted Lady Glyde, more earnestly than ever.

"Why not, I should like to know?" cried Sir Percival, with a sudden burst of anger that startled us both.

"Where can you stay more properly in London than at the place your uncle himself chooses for youat your

The arrangement proposed was so unquestionably the right and the proper one, that I could make no possible

objection to it. Much as I sympathised with Lady Glyde in other respects, I could not sympathise with her in

her unjust prejudices against Count Fosco. I never before met with any lady of her rank and station who was

so lamentably narrowminded on the subject of foreigners. Neither her uncle's note nor Sir Percival's

increasing impatience seemed to have the least effect on her. She still objected to staying a night in London,

"Drop it!" said Sir Percival, rudely turning his back on us. "If you haven't sense enough to know what is best

for yourself other people must know it foe you. The arrangement is made and there is an end of it. You are

"Marian?" repeated her Ladyship, in a bewildered manner; "Marian sleeping in Count Fosco's house!"

"Yes, in Count Fosco's house. She slept there last night to break the journey, and you are to follow her

example, and do what your uncle tells you. You are to sleep at Fosco's tomorrow night, as your sister did, to

break the journey. Don't throw too many obstacles in my way! don't make me repent of letting you go at all!"

He started to his feet, and suddenly walked out into the verandah through the open glass doors.

"Will your ladyship excuse me," I whispered, "if I suggest that we had better not wait here till Sir Percival

As soon as we were safe upstairs again, I did all I could to compose her ladyship's spirits. I reminded her that

Mr. Fairlie's letters to Miss Halcombe and to herself did certainly sanction, and even render necessary, sooner

or later, the course that had been taken. She agreed to this, and even admitted, of her own accord, that both

letters were strictly in character with her uncle's peculiar dispositionbut her fears about Miss Halcombe,

and her unaccountable dread of sleeping at the Count's house in London, still remained unshaken in spite of

every consideration that I could urge. I thought it my duty to protest against Lady Glyde's unfavourable

"Your ladyship will pardon my freedom," I remarked, in conclusion, "but it is said, 'by their fruits ye shall

know them.' I am sure the Count's constant kindness and constant attention, from the very beginning of Miss

Halcombe's illness, merit our best confidence and esteem. Even his lordship's serious misunderstanding with

Mr. Dawson was entirely attributable to his anxiety on Miss Halcombe's account."

I related the unhappy circumstances under which Mr. Dawson had withdrawn his attendancementioning

them all the more readily because I disapproved of Sir Percival's continuing to conceal what had happened

Her ladyship started up, with every appearance of being additionally agitated and alarmed by what I had told

"Worse! worse than I thought!" she said, walking about the room, in a bewildered manner. "The Count knew

Mr. Dawson would never consent to Marian's taking a journeyhe purposely insulted the doctor to get him

"Mrs. Michelson!" she went on vehemently, "no words that ever were spoken will persuade me that my sister

is in that man's power and in that man's house with her own consent. My horror of him is such, that nothing

Sir Percival could say and no letters my uncle could write, would induce me, if I had only my own feelings to

consult, to eat, drink, or sleep under his roof. Put my misery of suspense about Marian gives me the courage

I thought it right, at this point, to mention that Miss Halcombe had already gone on to Cumberland, according

"I am afraid to believe it!" answered her ladyship. "I am afraid she is still in that man's house. If I am wrong,

if she has really gone on to Limmeridge, I am resolved I will not sleep to morrow night under Count Fosco's

roof. My dearest friend in the world, next to my sister, lives near London. You have heard me, you have

heard Miss Halcombe, speak of Mrs. Vesey? I mean to write, and propose to sleep at her house. I don't know

how I shall get thereI don't know how I shall avoid the Countbut to that refuge I will escape in some

way, if my sister has gone to Cumberland. All I ask of you to do, is to see yourself that my letter to Mrs.

Vesey goes to London tonight, as certainly as Sir Percival's letter goes to Count Fosco. I have reasons for

not trusting the postbag downstairs. Will you keep my secret, and help me in this? it is the last favour,

I hesitated, I thought it all very strange, I almost feared that her ladyship's mind had been a little affected by

recent anxiety and suffering. At my own risk, however, I ended by giving my consent. If the letter had been

addressed to a stranger, or to any one but a lady so well known to me by report as Mrs. Vesey, I might have

refused. I thank Godlooking to what happened afterwardsI thank God I never thwarted that wish, or any

other, which Lady Glyde expressed to me, on the last day of her residence at Blackwater Park.

The letter was written and given into my hands. I myself put it into the postbox in the village that evening.

I slept, by Lady Glyde's own desire, in the next room to hers, with the door open between us. There was

something so strange and dreadful in the loneliness and emptiness of the house, that I was glad, on my side,

to have a companion near me. Her ladyship sat up late, reading letters and burning them, and emptying her

drawers and cabinets of little things she prized, as if she never expected to return to Blackwater Park. Her

sleep was sadly disturbed when she at last went to bedshe cried out in it several times, once so loud that

she woke herself. Whatever her dreams were, she did not think fit to communicate them to me. Perhaps, in

my situation, I had no right to expect that she should do so. It matters little now. I was sorry for her, I was

The next day was fine and sunny. Sir Percival came up, after breakfast, to tell us that the chaise would be at

the door at a quarter to twelvethe train to London stopping at our station at twenty minutes after. He

informed Lady Glyde that he was obliged to go out, but added that he hoped to be back before she left. If any

unforeseen accident delayed him, I was to accompany her to the station, and to take special care that she was

in time for the train. Sir Percival communicated these directions very hastily walking here and there about

the room all the time. Her ladyship looked attentively after him wherever he went. He never once looked at

She only spoke when he had done, and then she stopped him as he approached the door, by holding out her

"I shall see you no more," she said, in a very marked manner. "This is our partingour parting, it may be for

His face turned of an awful whiteness all over, and great beads of perspiration broke out on his bald forehead.

"I shall come back," he said, and made for the door, as hastily as if his wife's farewell words had frightened

I had never liked Sir Percival, but the manner in which he left Lady Glyde made me feel ashamed of having

eaten his bread and lived in his service. I thought of saying a few comforting and Christian words to the poor

lady, but there was something in her face, as she looked after her husband when the door closed on him, that

At the time named the chaise drew up at the gates. Her ladyship was rightSir Percival never came back. I

No positive responsibility lay on my shoulders, and yet I did not feel easy in my mind. "It is of your own free

will," I said, as the chaise drove through the lodgegates, "that your ladyship goes to London?"

"I will go anywhere," she answered, "to end the dreadful suspense that I am suffering at this moment."

She had made me feel almost as anxious and as uncertain about Miss Halcombe as she felt herself. I

presumed to ask her to write me a line, if all went well in London. She answered, "Most willingly, Mrs.

"We all have our crosses to bear, my lady," I said, seeing her silent and thoughtful, after she had promised to

She made no replyshe seemed to be too much wrapped up in her own thoughts to attend to me.

"I fear your ladyship rested badly last night," I remarked, after waiting a little.

"Indeed, my lady?" I thought she was going to tell me her dreams, but no, when she spoke next it was only to

"Did Sir Percival say, yesterday, that Count Fosco was to meet me at the terminus in London?"

We arrived at the station, with hardly two minutes to spare. The gardener (who had driven us) managed about

the luggage, while I took the ticket. The whistle of the train was sounding when I joined her ladyship on the

platform. She looked very strangely, and pressed her hand over her heart, as if some sudden pain or fright had

"I wish you were going with me!" she said, catching eagerly at my arm when I gave her the ticket.

If there had been time, if I had felt the day before as I felt then, I would have made my arrangements to

accompany her, even though the doing so had obliged me to give Sir Percival warning on the spot. As it was,

her wishes, expressed at the last moment only, were expressed too late for me to comply with them. She

seemed to understand this herself before I could explain it, and did not repeat her desire to have me for a

travelling companion. The train drew up at the platform. She gave the gardener a present for his children, and

"You have been very kind to me and to my sister," she said"kind when we were both friendless. I shall

remember you gratefully, as long as I live to remember any one. Goodbyeand God bless you!"

She spoke those words with a tone and a look which brought the tears into my eyesshe spoke them as if

"Goodbye, my lady," I said, putting her into the carriage, and trying to cheer her; "goodbye, for the present

She shook her head, and shuddered as she settled herself in the carriage. The guard closed the door. "Do you

believe in dreams?" she whispered to me at the window. "My dreams, last night, were dreams I have never

had before. The terror of them is hanging over me still." The whistle sounded before I could answer, and the

train moved. Her pale quiet face looked at me for the last time looked sorrowfully and solemnly from the

Towards five o'clock on the afternoon of that same day, having a little time to myself in the midst of the

household duties which now pressed upon me, I sat down alone in my own room, to try and compose my

mind with the volume of my husband's Sermons. For the first time in my life I found my attention wandering

over those pious and cheering words. Concluding that Lady Glyde's departure must have disturbed me far

more seriously than I had myself supposed, I put the book aside, and went out to take a turn in the garden. Sir

Percival had not yet returned, to my knowledge, so I could feel no hesitation about showing myself in the

On turning the corner of the house, and gaining a view of the garden, I was startled by seeing a stranger

walking in it. The stranger was a womanshe was lounging along the path with her back to me, and was

I could neither move nor speak. She came up to me, as composedly as ever, with her flowers in her hand.

When I heard that astounding answer, all my thoughts were startled back on the instant to my parting with

Lady Glyde. I can hardly say I reproached myself, but at that moment I think I would have given many a

Mrs. Rubelle waited, quietly arranging her nosegay, as if she expected me to say something.

I could say nothing. I thought of Lady Glyde's wornout energies and weakly health, and I trembled for the

time when the shock of the discovery that I had made would fall on her. For a minute or more my fears for

the poor ladies silenced me. At the end of that time Mrs. Rubelle looked up sideways from her flowers, and

I saw him as soon as she did. He came towards us, slashing viciously at the flowers with his ridingwhip.

When he was near enough to see my face he stopped, struck at his boot with the whip, and burst out laughing,

so harshly and so violently that the birds flew away, startled, from the tree by which he stood.

"I showed myself about half an hour ago, sir. You said I might take my liberty again as soon as Lady Glyde

"Quite right. I don't blame youI only asked the question." He waited a moment, and then addressed himself

once more to me. "You can't believe it, can you?" he said mockingly. "Here! come along and see for

He led the way round to the front of the house. I followed him, and Mrs. Rubelle followed me. After passing

through the iron gates he stopped, and pointed with his whip to the disused middle wing of the building.

"There!" he said. "Look up at the first floor. You know the old Elizabethan bedrooms? Miss Halcombe is

snug and safe in one of the best of them at this moment. Take her in, Mrs. Rubelle (you have got your key?);

take Mrs. Michelson in, and let her own eyes satisfy her that there is no deception this time."

The tone in which he spoke to me, and the minute or two that had passed since we left the garden, helped me

to recover my spirits a little. What I might have done at this critical moment, if all my life had been passed in

service, I cannot say. As it was, possessing the feelings, the principles, and the bringing up of a lady, I could

not hesitate about the right course to pursue. My duty to myself, and my duty to Lady Glyde, alike forbade

me to remain in the employment of a man who had shamefully deceived us both by a series of atrocious

"I must beg permission, Sir Percival, to speak a few words to you in private," I said. "Having done so, I shall

Mrs. Rubelle, whom I had indicated by a slight turn of my head, insolently sniffed at her nosegay and walked

"I wish to mention, sir, that I am desirous of resigning the situation I now hold at Blackwater Park." That was

literally how I put it. I was resolved that the first words spoken in his presence should be words which

He eyed me with one of his blackest looks, and thrust his hands savagely into the pockets of his ridingcoat.

"It is not for me, Sir Percival, to express an opinion on what has taken place in this house. I desire to give no

offence. I merely wish to say that I do not feel it consistent with my duty to Lady Glyde and to myself to

"Is it consistent with your duty to me to stand there, casting suspicion on me to my face?" he broke out in his

most violent manner. "I see what you're driving at. You have taken your own mean, underhand view of an

innocent deception practised on Lady Glyde for her own good. It was essential to her health that she should

have a change of air immediately, and you know as well as I do she would never have gone away if she had

been told Miss Halcombe was still left here. She has been deceived in her own interestsand I don't care

who knows it. Go, if you likethere are plenty of housekeepers as good as you to be had for the asking. Go

when you pleasebut take care how you spread scandals about me and my affairs when you're out of my

service. Tell the truth, and nothing but the truth, or it will be the worse for you! See Miss Halcombe for

yourselfsee if she hasn't been as well taken care of in one part of the house as in the other. Remember the

doctor's own orders that Lady Glyde was to have a change of air at the earliest possible opportunity. Bear all

that well in mind, and then say anything against me and my proceedings if you dare!"

He poured out these words fiercely, all in a breath, walking backwards and forwards, and striking about him

Nothing that he said or did shook my opinion of the disgraceful series of falsehoods that he had told in my

presence the day before, or of the cruel deception by which he had separated Lady Glyde from her sister, and

had sent her uselessly to London, when she was half distracted with anxiety on Miss Halcombe's account. I

naturally kept these thoughts to myself, and said nothing more to irritate him; but I was not the less resolved

to persist in my purpose. A soft answer turneth away wrath, and I suppressed my own feelings accordingly

"While I am in your service, Sir Percival," I said, "I hope I know my duty well enough not to inquire into

your motives. When I am out of your service, I hope I know my own place well enough not to speak of

"When do you want to go?" he asked, interrupting me without ceremony. "Don't suppose I am anxious to

keep youdon't suppose I care about your leaving the house. I am perfectly fair and open in this matter,

"My convenience has nothing to do with it. I shall be out of the house for good and all tomorrow morning,

and I can settle your accounts tonight. If you want to study anybody's convenience, it had better be Miss

Halcombe's. Mrs. Rubelle's time is up today, and she has reasons for wishing to be in London tonight. If

I hope it is unnecessary for me to say that I was quite incapable of deserting Miss Halcombe in such an

emergency as had now befallen Lady Glyde and herself. After first distinctly ascertaining from Sir Percival

that Mrs. Rubelle was certain to leave at once if I took her place, and after also obtaining permission to

arrange for Mr. Dawson's resuming his attendance on his patient, I willingly consented to remain at

Blackwater Park until Miss Halcombe no longer required my services. It was settled that I should give Sir

Percival's solicitor a week's notice before I left, and that he was to undertake the necessary arrangements for

appointing my successor. The matter was discussed in very few words. At its conclusion Sir Percival abruptly

turned on his heel, and left me free to join Mrs. Rubelle. That singular foreign person had been sitting

composedly on the doorstep all this time, waiting till I could follow her to Miss Halcombe's room.

I had hardly walked halfway towards the house when Sir Percival, who had withdrawn in the opposite

The question was so extraordinary, after what had just passed between us, that I hardly knew what to say in

"Mind! I don't know why you are going," he went on. "You must give a reason for leaving me, I suppose,

when you get another situation. What reason? The breaking up of the family? Is that it?"

"Very well! That's all I want to know. If people apply for your character, that's your reason, stated by

He turned away again before I could say another word, and walked out rapidly into the grounds. His manner

Even the patience of Mrs. Rubelle was getting exhausted, when I joined her at the house door.

"At last!" she said, with a shrug of her lean foreign shoulders. She led the way into the inhabited side of the

house, ascended the stairs, and opened with her key the door at the end of the passage, which communicated

with the old Elizabethan roomsa door never previously used, in my time, at Blackwater Park. The rooms

themselves I knew well, having entered them myself on various occasions from the other side of the house.

Mrs. Rubelle stopped at the third door along the old gallery, handed me the key of it, with the key of the door

of communication, and told me I should find Miss Halcombe in that room. Before I went in I thought it

desirable to make her understand that her attendance had ceased. Accordingly, I told her in plain words that

"Now that you have taken charge, ma'am, I leave in half an hour's time. Sir Percival has kindly placed at my

disposition the gardener, and the chaise, whenever I want them. I shall want them in half an hour's time to go

to the station. I am packed up in anticipation already. I wish you goodday, ma'am."

She dropped a brisk curtsey, and walked back along the gallery, humming a little tune, and keeping time to it

cheerfully with the nosegay in her hand. I am sincerely thankful to say that was the last I saw of Mrs.

When I went into the room Miss Halcombe was asleep. I looked at her anxiously, as she lay in the dismal,

high, oldfashioned bed. She was certainly not in any respect altered for the worse since I had seen her last.

She had not been neglected, I am bound to admit, in any way that I could perceive. The room was dreary, and

dusty, and dark, but the window (looking on a solitary courtyard at the back of the house) was opened to let

in the fresh air, and all that could be done to make the place comfortable had been done. The whole cruelty of

Sir Percival's deception had fallen on poor Lady Glyde. The only illusage which either he or Mrs. Rubelle

had inflicted on Miss Halcombe consisted, so far as I could see, in the first offence of hiding her away.

I stole back, leaving the sick lady still peacefully asleep, to give the gardener instructions about bringing the

doctor. I begged the man, after he had taken Mrs. Rubelle to the station, to drive round by Mr. Dawson's, and

leave a message in my name, asking him to call and see me. I knew he would come on my account, and I

In due course of time the gardener returned, and said that he had driven round by Mr. Dawson's residence,

after leaving Mrs. Rubelle at the station. The doctor sent me word that he was poorly in health himself, but

Having delivered his message the gardener was about to withdraw, but I stopped him to request that he would

come back before dark, and sit up that night, in one of the empty bedrooms, so as to be within call in case I

wanted him. He understood readily enough my unwillingness to be left alone all night in the most desolate

part of that desolate house, and we arranged that he should come in between eight and nine.

He came punctually, and I found cause to be thankful that I had adopted the precaution of calling him in.

Before midnight Sir Percival's strange temper broke out in the most violent and most alarming manner, and if

the gardener had not been on the spot to pacify him on the instant, I am afraid to think what might have

Almost all the afternoon and evening he had been walking about the house and grounds in an unsettled,

excitable manner, having, in all probability, as I thought, taken an excessive quantity of wine at his solitary

dinner. However that may be, I heard his voice calling loudly and angrily in the new wing of the house, as I

was taking a turn backwards and forwards along the gallery the last thing at night. The gardener immediately

ran down to him, and I closed the door of communication, to keep the alarm, if possible, from reaching Miss

Halcombe's ears. It was full half an hour before the gardener came back. He declared that his master was

quite out of his sensesnot through the excitement of drink, as I had supposed, but through a kind of panic

or frenzy of mind, for which it was impossible to account. He had found Sir Percival walking backwards and

forwards by himself in the hall, swearing, with every appearance of the most violent passion, that he would

not stop another minute alone in such a dungeon as his own house, and that he would take the first stage of

his journey immediately in the middle of the night. The gardener, on approaching him, had been hunted out,

with oaths and threats, to get the horse and chaise ready instantly. In a quarter of an hour Sir Percival had

joined him in the yard, had jumped into the chaise, and, lashing the horse into a gallop, had driven himself

away, with his face as pale as ashes in the moonlight. The gardener had heard him shouting and cursing at the

lodgekeeper to get up and open the gatehad heard the wheels roll furiously on again in the still night,

The next day, or a day or two after, I forget which, the chaise was brought back from Knowlesbury, our

nearest town, by the ostler at the old inn. Sir Percival had stopped there, and had afterwards left by the

trainfor what destination the man could not tell. I never received any further information, either from

himself or from any one else, of Sir Percival's proceedings, and I am not even aware, at this moment, whether

he is in England or out of it. He and I have not met since he drove away like an escaped criminal from his

I have been informed that the particulars of Miss Halcombe's waking, and of what passed between us when

she found me sitting by her bedside, are not material to the purpose which is to be answered by the present

narrative. It will be sufficient for me to say in this place, that she was not herself conscious of the means

adopted to remove her from the inhabited to the uninhabited part of the house. She was in a deep sleep at the

time, whether naturally or artificially produced she could not say. In my absence at Torquay, and in the

absence of all the resident servants except Margaret Porcher (who was perpetually eating, drinking, or

sleeping, when she was not at work), the secret transfer of Miss Halcombe from one part of the house to the

other was no doubt easily performed. Mrs. Rubelle (as I discovered for myself, in looking about the room)

had provisions, and all other necessaries, together with the means of heating water, broth, and so on, without

kindling a fire, placed at her disposal during the few days of her imprisonment with the sick lady. She had

declined to answer the questions which Miss Halcombe naturally put, but had not, in other respects, treated

her with unkindness or neglect. The disgrace of lending herself to a vile deception is the only disgrace with

I need write no particulars (and I am relieved to know it) of the effect produced on Miss Halcombe by the

news of Lady Glyde's departure, or by the far more melancholy tidings which reached us only too soon

afterwards at Blackwater Park. In both cases I prepared her mind beforehand as gently and as carefully as

possible, having the doctor's advice to guide me, in the last case only, through Mr. Dawson's being too unwell

to come to the house for some days after I had sent for him. It was a sad time, a time which it afflicts me to

think of or to write of now. The precious blessings of religious consolation which I endeavoured to convey

were long in reaching Miss Halcombe's heart, but I hope and believe they came home to her at last. I never

left her till her strength was restored. The train which took me away from that miserable house was the train

which took her away also. We parted very mournfully in London. I remained with a relative at Islington, and

I have only a few lines more to write before I close this painful statement. They are dictated by a sense of

In the first place, I wish to record my own personal conviction that no blame whatever, in connection with the

events which I have now related, attaches to Count Fosco. I am informed that a dreadful suspicion has been

raised, and that some very serious constructions are placed upon his lordship's conduct. My persuasion of the

Count's innocence remains, however, quite unshaken. If he assisted Sir Percival in sending me to Torquay, he

assisted under a delusion, for which, as a foreigner and a stranger, he was not to blame. If he was concerned

in bringing Mrs. Rubelle to Blackwater Park, it was his misfortune and not his fault, when that foreign person

was base enough to assist a deception planned and carried out by the master of the house. I protest, in the

interests of morality, against blame being gratuitously and wantonly attached to the proceedings of the Count.

In the second place, I desire to express my regret at my own inability to remember the precise day on which

Lady Glyde left Blackwater Park for London. I am told that it is of the last importance to ascertain the exact

date of that lamentable journey, and I have anxiously taxed my memory to recall it. The effort has been in

vain. I can only remember now that it was towards the latter part of July. We all know the difficulty, after a

lapse of time, of fixing precisely on a past date unless it has been previously written down. That difficulty is

greatly increased in my case by the alarming and confusing events which took place about the period of Lady

Glyde's departure. I heartily wish I had made a memorandum at the time. I heartily wish my memory of the

date was as vivid as my memory of that poor lady's face, when it looked at me sorrowfully for the last time

I am sorry to say that I have never learnt to read or write. I have been a hardworking woman all my life, and

have kept a good character. I know that it is a sin and wickedness to say the thing which is not, and I will

truly beware of doing so on this occasion. All that I know I will tell, and I humbly beg the gentleman who

takes this down to put my language right as he goes on, and to make allowances for my being no scholar.

In this last summer I happened to be out of place (through no fault of my own), and I heard of a situation as

plain cook, at Number Five, Forest Road, St. John's Wood. I took the place on trial. My master's name was

Fosco. My mistress was an English lady. He was Count and she was Countess. There was a girl to do

housemaid's work when I got there. She was not overclean or tidy, but there was no harm in her. I and she

Our master and mistress came after we got in; and as soon as they did come we were told, downstairs, that

The company was my mistress's niece, and the back bedroom on the first floor was got ready for her. My

mistress mentioned to me that Lady Glyde (that was her name) was in poor health, and that I must be

particular in my cooking accordingly. She was to come that day, as well as I can rememberbut whatever

you do, don't trust my memory in the matter. I am sorry to say it's no use asking me about days of the month,

and suchlike. Except Sundays, half my time I take no heed of them, being a hardworking woman and no

scholar. All I know is Lady Glyde came, and when she did come, a fine fright she gave us all surely. I don't

know how master brought her to the house, being hard at work at the time. But he did bring her in the

afternoon, I think, and the housemaid opened the door to them, and showed them into the parlour. Before she

had been long down in the kitchen again with me, we heard a hurryskurry upstairs, and the parlour bell

We both ran up, and there we saw the lady laid on the sofa, with her face ghastly white, and her hands fast

clenched, and her head drawn down to one side. She had been taken with a sudden fright, my mistress said,

and master he told us she was in a fit of convulsions. I ran out, knowing the neighbourhood a little better than

the rest of them, to fetch the nearest doctor's help. The nearest help was at Goodricke's and Garth's, who

worked together as partners, and had a good name and connection, as I have heard, all round St. John's Wood.

It was some time before he could make himself of much use. The poor unfortunate lady fell out of one fit into

another, and went on so till she was quite wearied out, and as helpless as a new born babe. We then got her

to bed. Mr. Goodricke went away to his house for medicine, and came back again in a quarter of an hour or

less. Besides the medicine he brought a bit of hollow mahogany wood with him, shaped like a kind of

trumpet, and after waiting a little while, he put one end over the lady's heart and the other to his ear, and

When he had done he says to my mistress, who was in the room, "This is a very serious case," he says, "I

recommend you to write to Lady Glyde's friends directly." My mistress says to him, "Is it heartdisease?"

And he says, "Yes, heartdisease of a most dangerous kind." He told her exactly what he thought was the

matter, which I was not clever enough to understand. But I know this, he ended by saying that he was afraid

My mistress took this ill news more quietly than my master. He was a big, fat, odd sort of elderly man, who

kept birds and white mice, and spoke to them as if they were so many Christian children. He seemed terribly

cut up by what had happened. "Ah! poor Lady Glyde! poor dear Lady Glyde!" he says, and went stalking

about, wringing his fat hands more like a playactor than a gentleman. For one question my mistress asked

the doctor about the lady's chances of getting round, he asked a good fifty at least. I declare he quite

tormented us all, and when he was quiet at last, out he went into the bit of back garden, picking trumpery

little nosegays, and asking me to take them upstairs and make the sickroom look pretty with them. As if

THAT did any good. I think he must have been, at times, a little soft in his head. But he was not a bad

masterhe had a monstrous civil tongue of his own, and a jolly, easy, coaxing way with him. I liked him a

deal better than my mistress. She was a hard one, if ever there was a hard one yet.

Towards nighttime the lady roused up a little. She had been so wearied out, before that, by the convulsions,

that she never stirred hand or foot, or spoke a word to anybody. She moved in the bed now, and stared about

her at the room and us in it. She must have been a nicelooking lady when well, with light hair, and blue eyes

and all that. Her rest was troubled at nightat least so I heard from my mistress, who sat up alone with her. I

only went in once before going to bed to see if I could be of any use, and then she was talking to herself in a

confused, rambling manner. She seemed to want sadly to speak to somebody who was absent from her

somewhere. I couldn't catch the name the first time, and the second time master knocked at the door, with his

When I went in early the next morning, the lady was clean worn out again, and lay in a kind of faint sleep.

Mr. Goodricke brought his partner, Mr. Garth, with him to advise. They said she must not be disturbed out of

her rest on any account. They asked my mistress many questions, at the other end of the room, about what the

lady's health had been in past times, and who had attended her, and whether she had ever suffered much and

long together under distress of mind. I remember my mistress said "Yes" to that last question. And Mr.

Goodricke looked at Mr. Garth, and shook his head; and Mr. Garth looked at Mr. Goodricke, and shook his

head. They seemed to think that the distress might have something to do with the mischief at the lady's heart.

She was but a frail thing to look at, poor creature! Very little strength at any time, I should sayvery little

Later on the same morning, when she woke, the lady took a sudden turn, and got seemingly a great deal

better. I was not let in again to see her, no more was the housemaid, for the reason that she was not to be

disturbed by strangers. What I heard of her being better was through my master. He was in wonderful good

spirits about the change, and looked in at the kitchen window from the garden, with his great big

"Good Mrs. Cook," says he, "Lady Glyde is better. My mind is more easy than it was, and I am going out to

stretch my big legs with a sunny little summer walk. Shall I order for you, shall I market for you, Mrs. Cook?

What are you making there? A nice tart for dinner? Much crust, if you pleasemuch crisp crust, my dear,

that melts and crumbles delicious in the mouth." That was his way. He was past sixty, and fond of pastry. Just

The doctor came again in the forenoon, and saw for himself that Lady Glyde had woke up better. He forbid

us to talk to her, or to let her talk to us, in case she was that way disposed, saying she must be kept quiet

before all things, and encouraged to sleep as much as possible. She did not seem to want to talk whenever I

saw her, except overnight, when I couldn't make out what she was sayingshe seemed too much worn

down. Mr. Goodricke was not nearly in such good spirits about her as master. He said nothing when he came

About that time (which was before master came home again) the bell rang hard from the bedroom, and my

mistress ran out into the landing, and called to me to go for Mr. Goodricke, and tell him the lady had fainted.

I got on my bonnet and shawl, when, as good luck would have it, the doctor himself came to the house for his

I let him in, and went upstairs along with him. "Lady Glyde was just as usual," says my mistress to him at the

door; "she was awake, and looking about her in a strange, forlorn manner, when I heard her give a sort of half

cry, and she fainted in a moment." The doctor went up to the bed, and stooped down over the sick lady. He

looked very serious, all on a sudden, at the sight of her, and put his hand on her heart.

My mistress stared hard in Mr. Goodricke's face. "Not dead!" says she, whispering, and turning all of a

"Yes," says the doctor, very quiet and grave. "Dead. I was afraid it would happen suddenly when I examined

her heart yesterday." My mistress stepped back from the bedside while he was speaking, and trembled and

trembled again. "Dead!" she whispers to herself; "dead so suddenly! dead so soon! What will the Count say?"

Mr. Goodricke advised her to go downstairs, and quiet herself a little. "You have been sitting up all night,"

says he, "and your nerves are shaken. This person," says he, meaning me, "this person will stay in the room

till I can send for the necessary assistance." My mistress did as he told her. "I must prepare the Count," she

says. "I must carefully prepare the Count." And so she left us, shaking from head to foot, and went out.

"Your master is a foreigner," says Mr. Goodricke, when my mistress had left us. "Does he understand about

registering the death?" "I can't rightly tell, sir," says I, "but I should think not." The doctor considered a

minute, and then says he, "I don't usually do such things," says he, "but it may save the family trouble in this

case if I register the death myself. I shall pass the district office in half an hour's time, and I can easily look

in. Mention, if you please, that I will do so." "Yes, sir," says I, "with thanks, I'm sure, for your kindness in

thinking of it." "You don't mind staying here till I can send you the proper person?" says he. "No, sir," says I;

"I'll stay with the poor lady till then. I suppose nothing more could be done, sir, than was done?" says I. "No,"

says he, "nothing; she must have suffered sadly before ever I saw herthe case was hopeless when I was

called in." "Ah, dear me! we all come to it, sooner or later, don't we, sir?" says I. He gave no answer to

I stopped by the bedside from that time till the time when Mr. Goodricke sent the person in, as he had

promised. She was, by name, Jane Gould. I considered her to be a respectablelooking woman. She made no

remark, except to say that she understood what was wanted of her, and that she had winded a many of them in

How master bore the news, when he first heard it, is more than I can tell, not having been present. When I did

see him he looked awfully overcome by it, to be sure. He sat quiet in a corner, with his fat hands hanging

over his thick knees, and his head down, and his eyes looking at nothing. He seemed not so much sorry, as

scared and dazed like, by what had happened. My mistress managed all that was to be done about the funeral.

It must have cost a sight of moneythe coffin, in particular, being most beautiful. The dead lady's husband

was away, as we heard, in foreign parts. But my mistress (being her aunt) settled it with her friends in the

country (Cumberland, I think) that she should be buried there, in the same grave along with her mother.

Everything was done handsomely, in respect of the funeral, I say again, and master went down to attend the

burying in the country himself. He looked grand in his deep mourning, with his big solemn face, and his slow

(1) That neither I nor my fellowservant ever saw my master give Lady Glyde any medicine himself.

(2) That he was never, to my knowledge and belief, left alone in the room with Lady Glyde.

(3) That I am not able to say what caused the sudden fright, which my mistress informed me had seized the

lady on her first coming into the house. The cause was never explained, either to me or to my fellowservant.

The above statement has been read over in my presence. I have nothing to add to it, or to take away from it. I

To the Registrar of the SubDistrict in which the undermentioned death took place.I hereby certify that I

attended Lady Glyde, aged TwentyOne last Birthday; that I last saw her on Thursday the 25th July 1850;

that she died on the same day at No. 5 Forest Road, St. John's Wood, and that the cause of her death was

I was the person sent in by Mr. Goodricke to do what was right and needful by the remains of a lady who had

died at the house named in the certificate which precedes this. I found the body in charge of the servant,

Hester Pinhorn. I remained with it, and prepared it at the proper time for the grave. It was laid in the coffin in

my presence, and I afterwards saw the coffin screwed down previous to its removal. When that had been

done, and not before, I received what was due to me and left the house. I refer persons who may wish to

investigate my character to Mr. Goodricke. He will bear witness that I can be trusted to tell the truth.

Sacred to the Memory of Laura, Lady Glyde, wife of Sir Percival Glyde, Bart., of Blackwater Park,

Hampshire, and daughter of the late Philip Fairlie, Esq., of Limmeridge House, in this parish. Born March

Early in the summer of 1850 I and my surviving companions left the wilds and forests of Central America for

home. Arrived at the coast, we took ship there for England. The vessel was wrecked in the Gulf of

MexicoI was among the few saved from the sea. It was my third escape from peril of death. Death by

disease, death by the Indians, death by drowningall three had approached me; all three had passed me by.

The survivors of the wreck were rescued by an American vessel bound for Liverpool. The ship reached her

port on the thirteenth day of October 1850. We landed late in the afternoon, and I arrived in London the same

These pages are not the record of my wanderings and my dangers away from home. The motives which led

me from my country and my friends to a new world of adventure and peril are known. From that

selfimposed exile I came back, as I had hoped, prayed, believed I should come backa changed man. In

the waters of a new life I had tempered my nature afresh. In the stern school of extremity and danger my will

had learnt to be strong, my heart to be resolute, my mind to rely on itself. I had gone out to fly from my own

To face it with that inevitable suppression of myself which I knew it would demand from me. I had parted

with the worst bitterness of the past, but not with my heart's remembrance of the sorrow and the tenderness of

that memorable time. I had not ceased to feel the one irreparable disappointment of my lifeI had only

learnt to bear it. Laura Fairlie was in all my thoughts when the ship bore me away, and I looked my last at

England. Laura Fairlie was in all my thoughts when the ship brought me back, and the morning light showed

My pen traces the old letters as my heart goes back to the old love. I write of her as Laura Fairlie still. It is

There are no more words of explanation to add on my appearance for the second time in these pages. This

My first anxieties and first hopes when the morning came centred in my mother and my sister. I felt the

necessity of preparing them for the joy and surprise of my return, after an absence during which it had been

impossible for them to receive any tidings of me for months past. Early in the morning I sent a letter to the

When the first meeting was over, when our quiet and composure of other days began gradually to return to

us, I saw something in my mother's face which told me that a secret oppression lay heavy on her heart. There

was more than lovethere was sorrow in the anxious eyes that looked on me so tenderlythere was pity in

the kind hand that slowly and fondly strengthened its hold on mine. We had no concealments from each

other. She knew how the hope of my life had been wreckedshe knew why I had left her. It was on my lips

to ask as composedly as I could if any letter had come for me from Miss Halcombe, if there was any news of

her sister that I might hear. But when I looked in my mother's face I lost courage to put the question even in

My sister, who had been sitting opposite to us, rose suddenly without a word of explanationrose and left

My mother moved closer to me on the sofa and put her arms round my neck. Those fond arms trembledthe

"Walter!" she whispered, "my own darling! my heart is heavy for you. Oh, my son! my son! try to remember

It was the morning of the third day since my returnthe morning of the sixteenth of October.

I had remained with them at the cottageI had tried hard not to embitter the happiness of my return to

THEM as it was embittered to ME. I had done all man could to rise after the shock, and accept my life

resignedlyto let my great sorrow come in tenderness to my heart, and not in despair. It was useless and

hopeless. No tears soothed my aching eyes, no relief came to me from my sister's sympathy or my mother's

On that third morning I opened my heart to them. At last the words passed my lips which I had longed to

"Let me go away alone for a little while," I said. "I shall bear it better when I have looked once more at the

place where I first saw herwhen I have knelt and prayed by the grave where they have laid her to rest."

It was a quiet autumn afternoon when I stopped at the solitary station, and set forth alone on foot by the

wellremembered road. The waning sun was shining faintly through thin white cloudsthe air was warm

and stillthe peacefulness of the lonely country was overshadowed and saddened by the influence of the

I reached the moorI stood again on the brow of the hillI looked on along the pathand there were the

familiar garden trees in the distance, the clear sweeping semicircle of the drive, the high white walls of

Limmeridge House. The chances and changes, the wanderings and dangers of months and months past, all

shrank and shrivelled to nothing in my mind. It was like yesterday since my feet had last trodden the fragrant

heathy ground. I thought I should see her coming to meet me, with her little straw hat shading her face, her

simple dress fluttering in the air, and her wellfilled sketchbook ready in her hand.

I turned aside, and there below me in the glen was the lonesome grey church, the porch where I had waited

for the coming of the woman in white, the hills encircling the quiet burialground, the brook bubbling cold

over its stony bed. There was the marble cross, fair and white, at the head of the tombthe tomb that now

I approached the grave. I crossed once more the low stone stile, and bared my head as I touched the sacred

I stopped before the pedestal from which the cross rose. On one side of it, on the side nearest to me, the

newlycut inscription met my eyesthe hard, clear, cruel black letters which told the story of her life and

death. I tried to read them. I did read as far as the name. "Sacred to the Memory of Laura" The kind

blue eyes dim with tearsthe fair head drooping wearilythe innocent parting words which implored me to

leave heroh, for a happier last memory of her than this; the memory I took away with me, the memory I

A second time I tried to read the inscription. I saw at the end the date of her death, and above it

Above it there were lines on the marblethere was a name among them which disturbed my thoughts of her.

I went round to the other side of the grave, where there was nothing to read, nothing of earthly vileness to

I knelt down by the tomb. I laid my hands, I laid my head on the broad white stone, and closed my weary

eyes on the earth around, on the light above. I let her come back to me. Oh, my love! my love! my heart may

speak to you NOW! I It is yesterday again since we partedyesterday, since your dear hand lay in

The first sound that came after the heavenly peace rustled faintly like a passing breath of air over the grass of

the burialground. I heard it nearing me slowly, until it came changed to my ear came like footsteps

The sunset was near at hand. The clouds had partedthe slanting light fell mellow over the hills. The last of

Beyond me, in the burialground, standing together in the cold clearness of the lower light, I saw two

They came a little on, and stopped again. Their veils were down, and hid their faces from me. When they

stopped, one of them raised her veil. In the still evening light I saw the face of Marian Halcombe.

Changed, changed as if years had passed over it! The eyes large and wild, and looking at me with a strange

terror in them. The face worn and wasted piteously. Pain and fear and grief written on her as with a brand.

I took one step towards her from the grave. She never movedshe never spoke. The veiled woman with her

cried out faintly. I stopped. The springs of my life fell low, and the shuddering of an unutterable dread crept

The woman with the veiled face moved away from her companion, and came towards me slowly. Left by

herself, standing by herself, Marian Halcombe spoke. It was the voice that I rememberedthe voice not

"My dream! my dream!" I heard her say those words softly in the awful silence. She sank on her knees, and

raised her clasped hands to heaven. "Father! strengthen him. Father! help him in his hour of need."

The woman came on, slowly and silently came on. I looked at her at her, and at none other, from that

The voice that was praying for me faltered and sank lowthen rose on a sudden, and called affrightedly,

But the veiled woman had possession of me, body and soul. She stopped on one side of the grave. We stood

face to face with the tombstone between us. She was close to the inscription on the side of the pedestal. Her

The voice came nearer, and rose and rose more passionately still. "Hide your face! don't look at her! Oh, for

Laura, Lady Glyde, was standing by the inscription, and was looking at me over the grave.

The history of the interval which I thus pass over must remain unrecorded. My heart turns faint, my mind

sinks in darkness and confusion when I think of it. This must not be, if I who write am to guide, as I ought,

you who read. This must not be, if the clue that leads through the windings of the story is to remain from end

A life suddenly changedits whole purpose created afresh, its hopes and fears, its struggles, its interests, and

its sacrifices all turned at once and for ever into a new directionthis is the prospect which now opens

before me, like the burst of view from a mountain's top. I left my narrative in the quiet shadow of

Limmeridge churchI resume it, one week later, in the stir and turmoil of a London street.

The street is in a populous and a poor neighbourhood. The ground floor of one of the houses in it is occupied

by a small newsvendor's shop, and the first floor and the second are let as furnished lodgings of the humblest

I have taken those two floors in an assumed name. On the upper floor I live, with a room to work in, a room

to sleep in. On the lower floor, under the same assumed name, two women live, who are described as my

sisters. I get my bread by drawing and engraving on wood for the cheap periodicals. My sisters are supposed

to help me by taking in a little needlework. Our poor place of abode, our humble calling, our assumed

relationship, and our assumed name, are all used alike as a means of hiding us in the houseforest of London.

We are numbered no longer with the people whose lives are open and known. I am an obscure, unnoticed

man, without patron or friend to help me. Marian Halcombe is nothing now but my eldest sister, who

provides for our household wants by the toil of her own hands. We two, in the estimation of others, are at

once the dupes and the agents of a daring imposture. We are supposed to be the accomplices of mad Anne

Catherick, who claims the name, the place, and the living personality of dead Lady Glyde.

That is our situation. That is the changed aspect in which we three must appear, henceforth, in this narrative,

In the eye of reason and of law, in the estimation of relatives and friends, according to every received

formality of civilised society, "Laura, Lady Glyde," lay buried with her mother in Limmeridge churchyard.

Torn in her own lifetime from the list of the living, the daughter of Philip Fairlie and the wife of Percival

Glyde might still exist for her sister, might still exist for me, but to all the world besides she was dead. Dead

to her uncle, who had renounced her; dead to the servants of the house, who had failed to recognise her; dead

to the persons in authority, who had transmitted her fortune to her husband and her aunt; dead to my mother

and my sister, who believed me to be the dupe of an adventuress and the victim of a fraud; socially, morally,

And yet alive! Alive in poverty and in hiding. Alive, with the poor drawingmaster to fight her battle, and to

Did no suspicion, excited by my own knowledge of Anne Catherick's resemblance to her, cross my mind,

when her face was first revealed to me? Not the shadow of a suspicion, from the moment when she lifted her

Before the sun of that day had set, before the last glimpse of the home which was closed against her had

passed from our view, the farewell words I spoke, when we parted at Limmeridge House, had been recalled

by both of usrepeated by me, recognised by her. "If ever the time comes, when the devotion of my whole

heart and soul and strength will give you a moment's happiness, or spare you a moment's sorrow, will you try

to remember the poor drawing master who has taught you?" She, who now remembered so little of the

trouble and terror of a later time, remembered those words, and laid her poor head innocently and trustingly

on the bosom of the man who had spoken them. In that moment, when she called me by my name, when she

said, "They have tried to make me forget everything, Walter, but I remember Marian, and I remember

YOU"in that moment, I, who had long since given her my love, gave her my life, and thanked God that it

was mine to bestow on her. Yes! the time had come. From thousands on thousands of miles awaythrough

forest and wilderness, where companions stronger than I had fallen by my side, through peril of death thrice

renewed, and thrice escaped, the Hand that leads men on the dark road to the future had led me to meet that

time. Forlorn and disowned, sorely tried and sadly changedher beauty faded, her mind cloudedrobbed of

her station in the world, of her place among living creaturesthe devotion I had promised, the devotion of

my whole heart and soul and strength, might be laid blamelessly now at those dear feet. In the right of her

calamity, in the right of her friendlessness, she was mine at last! Mine to support, to protect, to cherish, to

restore. Mine to love and honour as father and brother both. Mine to vindicate through all risks and all

sacrificesthrough the hopeless struggle against Rank and Power, through the long fight with armed deceit

and fortified Success, through the waste of my reputation, through the loss of my friends, through the hazard

My position is definedmy motives are acknowledged. The story of Marian and the story of Laura must

I shall relate both narratives, not in the words (often interrupted, often inevitably confused) of the speakers

themselves, but in the words of the brief, plain, studiously simple abstract which I committed to writing for

my own guidance, and for the guidance of my legal adviser. So the tangled web will be most speedily and

The story of Marian begins where the narrative of the housekeeper at Blackwater Park left off.

On Lady Glyde's departure from her husband's house, the fact of that departure, and the necessary statement

of the circumstances under which it had taken place, were communicated to Miss Halcombe by the

housekeeper. It was not till some days afterwards (how many days exactly, Mrs. Michelson, in the absence of

any written memorandum on the subject, could not undertake to say) that a letter arrived from Madame Fosco

announcing Lady Glyde's sudden death in Count Fosco's house. The letter avoided mentioning dates, and left

it to Mrs. Michelson's discretion to break the news at once to Miss Halcombe, or to defer doing so until that

Having consulted Mr. Dawson (who had been himself delayed, by ill health, in resuming his attendance at

Blackwater Park), Mrs. Michelson, by the doctor's advice, and in the doctor's presence, communicated the

news, either on the day when the letter was received, or on the day after. It is not necessary to dwell here

upon the effect which the intelligence of Lady Glyde's sudden death produced on her sister. It is only useful

to the present purpose to say that she was not able to travel for more than three weeks afterwards. At the end

of that time she proceeded to London accompanied by the housekeeper. They parted thereMrs. Michelson

previously informing Miss Halcombe of her address, in case they might wish to communicate at a future

On parting with the housekeeper Miss Halcombe went at once to the office of Messrs. Gilmore Kyrle to

consult with the latter gentleman in Mr. Gilmore's absence. She mentioned to Mr. Kyrle what she had thought

it desirable to conceal from every one else (Mrs. Michelson included)her suspicion of the circumstances

under which Lady Glyde was said to have met her death. Mr. Kyrle, who had previously given friendly proof

of his anxiety to serve Miss Halcombe, at once undertook to make such inquiries as the delicate and

To exhaust this part of the subject before going farther, it may be mentioned that Count Fosco offered every

facility to Mr. Kyrle, on that gentleman's stating that he was sent by Miss Halcombe to collect such

particulars as had not yet reached her of Lady Glyde's decease. Mr. Kyrle was placed in communication with

the medical man, Mr. Goodricke, and with the two servants. In the absence of any means of ascertaining the

exact date of Lady Glyde's departure from Blackwater Park, the result of the doctor's and the servants'

evidence, and of the volunteered statements of Count Fosco and his wife, was conclusive to the mind of Mr.

Kyrle. He could only assume that the intensity of Miss Halcombe's suffering, under the loss of her sister, had

misled her judgment in a most deplorable manner, and he wrote her word that the shocking suspicion to

which she had alluded in his presence was, in his opinion, destitute of the smallest fragment of foundation in

Meanwhile, Miss Halcombe had returned to Limmeridge House, and had there collected all the additional

Mr. Fairlie had received his first intimation of his niece's death from his sister, Madame Fosco, this letter also

not containing any exact reference to dates. He had sanctioned his sister's proposal that the deceased lady

should be laid in her mother's grave in Limmeridge churchyard. Count Fosco had accompanied the remains to

Cumberland, and had attended the funeral at Limmeridge, which took place on the 30th of July. It was

followed, as a mark of respect, by all the inhabitants of the village and the neighbourhood. On the next day

the inscription (originally drawn out, it was said, by the aunt of the deceased lady, and submitted for approval

to her brother, Mr. Fairlie) was engraved on one side of the monument over the tomb.

On the day of the funeral, and for one day after it, Count Fosco had been received as a guest at Limmeridge

House, but no interview had taken place between Mr. Fairlie and himself, by the former gentleman's desire.

They had communicated by writing, and through this medium Count Fosco had made Mr. Fairlie acquainted

with the details of his niece's last illness and death. The letter presenting this information added no new facts

to the facts already known, but one very remarkable paragraph was contained in the postscript. It referred to

It first informed Mr. Fairlie that Anne Catherick (of whom he might hear full particulars from Miss

Halcombe when she reached Limmeridge) had been traced and recovered in the neighbourhood of

Blackwater Park, and had been for the second time placed under the charge of the medical man from whose

This was the first part of the postscript. The second part warned Mr. Fairlie that Anne Catherick's mental

malady had been aggravated by her long freedom from control, and that the insane hatred and distrust of Sir

Percival Glyde, which had been one of her most marked delusions in former times, still existed under a

newlyacquired form. The unfortunate woman's last idea in connection with Sir Percival was the idea of

annoying and distressing him, and of elevating herself, as she supposed, in the estimation of the patients and

nurses, by assuming the character of his deceased wife, the scheme of this personation having evidently

occurred to her after a stolen interview which she had succeeded in obtaining with Lady Glyde, and at which

she had observed the extraordinary accidental likeness between the deceased lady and herself. It was to the

last degree improbable that she would succeed a second time in escaping from the Asylum, but it was just

possible she might find some means of annoying the late Lady Glyde's relatives with letters, and in that case

The postscript, expressed in these terms, was shown to Miss Halcombe when she arrived at Limmeridge.

There were also placed in her possession the clothes Lady Glyde had worn, and the other effects she had

brought with her to her aunt's house. They had been carefully collected and sent to Cumberland by Madame

Such was the posture of affairs when Miss Halcombe reached Limmeridge in the early part of September.

Shortly afterwards she was confined to her room by a relapse, her weakened physical energies giving way

under the severe mental affliction from which she was now suffering. On getting stronger again, in a month's

time, her suspicion of the circumstances described as attending her sister's death still remained unshaken. She

had heard nothing in the interim of Sir Percival Glyde, but letters had reached her from Madame Fosco,

making the most affectionate inquiries on the part of her husband and herself. Instead of answering these

letters, Miss Halcombe caused the house in St. John's Wood, and the proceedings of its inmates, to be

Nothing doubtful was discovered. The same result attended the next investigations, which were secretly

instituted on the subject of Mrs. Rubelle. She had arrived in London about six months before with her

husband. They had come from Lyons, and they had taken a house in the neighbourhood of Leicester Square,

to be fitted up as a boardinghouse for foreigners, who were expected to visit England in large numbers to

see the Exhibition of 1851. Nothing was known against husband or wife in the neighbourhood. They were

quiet people, and they had paid their way honestly up to the present time. The final inquiries related to Sir

Percival Glyde. He was settled in Paris, and living there quietly in a small circle of English and French

Foiled at all points, but still not able to rest, Miss Halcombe next determined to visit the Asylum in which she

then supposed Anne Catherick to be for the second time confined. She had felt a strong curiosity about the

woman in former days, and she was now doubly interestedfirst, in ascertaining whether the report of Anne

Catherick's attempted personation of Lady Glyde was true, and secondly (if it proved to be true), in

discovering for herself what the poor creature's real motives were for attempting the deceit.

Although Count Fosco's letter to Mr. Fairlie did not mention the address of the Asylum, that important

omission cast no difficulties in Miss Halcombe's way. When Mr. Hartright had met Anne Catherick at

Limmeridge, she had informed him of the locality in which the house was situated, and Miss Halcombe had

noted down the direction in her diary, with all the other particulars of the interview exactly as she heard them

from Mr. Hartright's own lips. Accordingly she looked back at the entry and extracted the addressfurnished

herself with the Count's letter to Mr. Fairlie as a species of credential which might be useful to her, and

She passed the night of the eleventh in London. It had been her intention to sleep at the house inhabited by

Lady Glyde's old governess, but Mrs. Vesey's agitation at the sight of her lost pupil's nearest and dearest

friend was so distressing that Miss Halcombe considerately refrained from remaining in her presence, and

removed to a respectable boardinghouse in the neighbourhood, recommended by Mrs. Vesey's married

sister. The next day she proceeded to the Asylum, which was situated not far from London on the northern

At first he appeared to be decidedly unwilling to let her communicate with his patient. But on her showing

him the postscript to Count Fosco's letteron her reminding him that she was the "Miss Halcombe" there

referred tothat she was a near relative of the deceased Lady Glydeand that she was therefore naturally

interested, for family reasons, in observing for herself the extent of Anne Catherick's delusion in relation to

her late sisterthe tone and manner of the owner of the Asylum altered, and he withdrew his objections. He

probably felt that a continued refusal, under these circumstances, would not only be an act of discourtesy in

itself, but would also imply that the proceedings in his establishment were not of a nature to bear

Miss Halcombe's own impression was that the owner of the Asylum had not been received into the

confidence of Sir Percival and the Count. His consenting at all to let her visit his patient seemed to afford one

proof of this, and his readiness in making admissions which could scarcely have escaped the lips of an

For example, in the course of the introductory conversation which took place, he informed Miss Halcombe

that Anne Catherick had been brought back to him with the necessary order and certificates by Count Fosco

on the twentyseventh of Julythe Count also producing a letter of explanations and instructions signed by

Sir Percival Glyde. On receiving his inmate again, the proprietor of the Asylum acknowledged that he had

observed some curious personal changes in her. Such changes no doubt were not without precedent in his

experience of persons mentally afflicted. Insane people were often at one time, outwardly as well as inwardly,

unlike what they were at anotherthe change from better to worse, or from worse to better, in the madness

having a necessary tendency to produce alterations of appearance externally. He allowed for these, and he

allowed also for the modification in the form of Anne Catherick's delusion, which was reflected no doubt in

her manner and expression. But he was still perplexed at times by certain differences between his patient

before she had escaped and his patient since she had been brought back. Those differences were too minute to

be described. He could not say of course that she was absolutely altered in height or shape or complexion, or

in the colour of her hair and eyes, or in the general form of her facethe change was something that he felt

more than something that he saw. In short, the case had been a puzzle from the first, and one more perplexity

It cannot be said that this conversation led to the result of even partially preparing Miss Halcombe's mind for

what was to come. But it produced, nevertheless, a very serious effect upon her. She was so completely

unnerved by it, that some little time elapsed before she could summon composure enough to follow the

proprietor of the Asylum to that part of the house in which the inmates were confined.

On inquiry, it turned out that the supposed Anne Catherick was then taking exercise in the grounds attached

to the establishment. One of the nurses volunteered to conduct Miss Halcombe to the place, the proprietor of

the Asylum remaining in the house for a few minutes to attend to a case which required his services, and then

The nurse led Miss Halcombe to a distant part of the property, which was prettily laid out, and after looking

about her a little, turned into a turf walk, shaded by a shrubbery on either side. About halfway down this

walk two women were slowly approaching. The nurse pointed to them and said, "There is Anne Catherick,

ma'am, with the attendant who waits on her. The attendant will answer any questions you wish to put." With

Miss Halcombe advanced on her side, and the women advanced on theirs. When they were within a dozen

paces of each other, one of the women stopped for an instant, looked eagerly at the strange lady, shook off the

nurse's grasp on her, and the next moment rushed into Miss Halcombe's arms. In that moment Miss

Fortunately for the success of the measures taken subsequently, no one was present at that moment but the

nurse. She was a young woman, and she was so startled that she was at first quite incapable of interfering.

When she was able to do so her whole services were required by Miss Halcombe, who had for the moment

sunk altogether in the effort to keep her own senses under the shock of the discovery. After waiting a few

minutes in the fresh air and the cool shade, her natural energy and courage helped her a little, and she became

sufficiently mistress of herself to feel the necessity of recalling her presence of mind for her unfortunate

She obtained permission to speak alone with the patient, on condition that they both remained well within the

nurse's view. There was no time for questionsthere was only time for Miss Halcombe to impress on the

unhappy lady the necessity of controlling herself, and to assure her of immediate help and rescue if she did

so. The prospect of escaping from the Asylum by obedience to her sister's directions was sufficient to quiet

Lady Glyde, and to make her understand what was required of her. Miss Halcombe next returned to the nurse,

placed all the gold she then had in her pocket (three sovereigns) in the nurse's hands, and asked when and

The woman was at first surprised and distrustful. But on Miss Halcombe's declaring that she only wanted to

put some questions which she was too much agitated to ask at that moment, and that she had no intention of

misleading the nurse into any dereliction of duty, the woman took the money, and proposed three o'clock on

the next day as the time for the interview. She might then slip out for half an hour, after the patients had

dined, and she would meet the lady in a retired place, outside the high north wall which screened the grounds

of the house. Miss Halcombe had only time to assent, and to whisper to her sister that she should hear from

her on the next day, when the proprietor of the Asylum joined them. He noticed his visitor's agitation, which

Miss Halcombe accounted for by saying that her interview with Anne Catherick had a little startled her at

first. She took her leave as soon after as possiblethat is to say, as soon as she could summon courage to

A very little reflection, when the capacity to reflect returned, convinced her that any attempt to identify Lady

Glyde and to rescue her by legal means, would, even if successful, involve a delay that might be fatal to her

sister's intellects, which were shaken already by the horror of the situation to which she had been consigned.

By the time Miss Halcombe had got back to London, she had determined to effect Lady Glyde's escape

She went at once to her stockbroker, and sold out of the funds all the little property she possessed, amounting

to rather less than seven hundred pounds. Determined, if necessary, to pay the price of her sister's liberty with

every farthing she had in the world, she repaired the next day, having the whole sum about her in bank

The nurse was there. Miss Halcombe approached the subject cautiously by many preliminary questions. She

discovered, among other particulars, that the nurse who had in former times attended on the true Anne

Catherick had been held responsible (although she was not to blame for it) for the patient's escape, and had

lost her place in consequence. The same penalty, it was added, would attach to the person then speaking to

her, if the supposed Anne Catherick was missing a second time; and, moreover, the nurse in this case had an

especial interest in keeping her place. She was engaged to be married, and she and her future husband were

waiting till they could save, together, between two and three hundred pounds to start in business. The nurse's

wages were good, and she might succeed, by strict economy, in contributing her small share towards the sum

On this hint Miss Halcombe spoke. She declared that the supposed Anne Catherick was nearly related to her,

that she had been placed in the Asylum under a fatal mistake, and that the nurse would be doing a good and a

Christian action in being the means of restoring them to one another. Before there was time to start a single

objection, Miss Halcombe took four banknotes of a hundred pounds each from her pocketbook, and

offered them to the woman, as a compensation for the risk she was to run, and for the loss of her place.

The nurse hesitated, through sheer incredulity and surprise. Miss Halcombe pressed the point on her firmly.

"You will be doing a good action," she repeated; "you will be helping the most injured and unhappy woman

alive. There is your marriage portion for a reward. Bring her safely to me here, and I will put these four

"Will you give me a letter saying those words, which I can show to my sweetheart when he asks how I got

"I will bring the letter with me, ready written and signed," answered Miss Halcombe.

It was hastily agreed between them that Miss Halcombe should return early the next morning and wait out of

sight among the treesalways, however, keeping near the quiet spot of ground under the north wall. The

nurse could fix no time for her appearance, caution requiring that she should wait and be guided by

Miss Halcombe was at her place, with the promised letter and the promised banknotes, before ten the next

morning. She waited more than an hour and a half. At the end of that time the nurse came quickly round the

corner of the wall holding Lady Glyde by the arm. The moment they met Miss Halcombe put the banknotes

The nurse had dressed Lady Glyde, with excellent forethought, in a bonnet, veil, and shawl of her own. Miss

Halcombe only detained her to suggest a means of turning the pursuit in a false direction, when the escape

was discovered at the Asylum. She was to go back to the house, to mention in the hearing of the other nurses

that Anne Catherick had been inquiring latterly about the distance from London to Hampshire, to wait till the

last moment, before discovery was inevitable, and then to give the alarm that Anne was missing. The

supposed inquiries about Hampshire, when communicated to the owner of the Asylum, would lead him to

imagine that his patient had returned to Blackwater Park, under the influence of the delusion which made her

persist in asserting herself to be Lady Glyde, and the first pursuit would, in all probability, be turned in that

The nurse consented to follow these suggestions, the more readily as they offered her the means of securing

herself against any worse consequences than the loss of her place, by remaining in the Asylum, and so

maintaining the appearance of innocence, at least. She at once returned to the house, and Miss Halcombe lost

no time in taking her sister back with her to London. They caught the afternoon train to Carlisle the same

afternoon, and arrived at Limmeridge, without accident or difficulty of any kind, that night.

During the latter part of their journey they were alone in the carriage, and Miss Halcombe was able to collect

such remembrances of the past as her sister's confused and weakened memory was able to recall. The terrible

story of the conspiracy so obtained was presented in fragments, sadly incoherent in themselves, and widely

detached from each other. Imperfect as the revelation was, it must nevertheless be recorded here before this

explanatory narrative closes with the events of the next day at Limmeridge House.

Lady Glyde's recollection of the events which followed her departure from Blackwater Park began with her

arrival at the London terminus of the South Western Railway. She had omitted to make a memorandum

beforehand of the day on which she took the journey. All hope of fixing that important date by any evidence

On the arrival of the train at the platform Lady Glyde found Count Fosco waiting for her. He was at the

carriage door as soon as the porter could open it. The train was unusually crowded, and there was great

confusion in getting the luggage. Some person whom Count Fosco brought with him procured the luggage

which belonged to Lady Glyde. It was marked with her name. She drove away alone with the Count in a

Her first question, on leaving the terminus, referred to Miss Halcombe. The Count informed her that Miss

Halcombe had not yet gone to Cumberland, afterconsideration having caused him to doubt the prudence of

Lady Glyde next inquired whether her sister was then staying in the Count's house. Her recollection of the

answer was confused, her only distinct impression in relation to it being that the Count declared he was then

taking her to see Miss Halcombe. Lady Glyde's experience of London was so limited that she could not tell,

at the time, through what streets they were driving. But they never left the streets, and they never passed any

gardens or trees. When the carriage stopped, it stopped in a small street behind a squarea square in which

there were shops, and public buildings, and many people. From these recollections (of which Lady Glyde was

certain) it seems quite clear that Count Fosco did not take her to his own residence in the suburb of St. John's

They entered the house, and went upstairs to a back room, either on the first or second floor. The luggage was

carefully brought in. A female servant opened the door, and a man with a dark beard, apparently a foreigner,

met them in the hall, and with great politeness showed them the way upstairs. In answer to Lady Glyde's

inquiries, the Count assured her that Miss Halcombe was in the house, and that she should be immediately

informed of her sister's arrival. He and the foreigner then went away and left her by herself in the room. It

was poorly furnished as a sitting room, and it looked out on the backs of houses.

The place was remarkably quietno footsteps went up or down the stairsshe only heard in the room

beneath her a dull, rumbling sound of men's voices talking. Before she had been long left alone the Count

returned, to explain that Miss Halcombe was then taking rest, and could not be disturbed for a little while. He

was accompanied into the room by a gentleman (an Englishman), whom he begged to present as a friend of

After this singular introductionin the course of which no names, to the best of Lady Glyde's recollection,

had been mentionedshe was left alone with the stranger. He was perfectly civil, but he startled and

confused her by some odd questions about herself, and by looking at her, while he asked them, in a strange

manner. After remaining a short time he went out, and a minute or two afterwards a second strangeralso an

Englishmancame in. This person introduced himself as another friend of Count Fosco's, and he, in his turn,

looked at her very oddly, and asked some curious questionsnever, as well as she could remember,

addressing her by name, and going out again, after a little while, like the first man. By this time she was so

frightened about herself, and so uneasy about her sister, that she had thoughts of venturing downstairs again,

and claiming the protection and assistance of the only woman she had seen in the housethe servant who

The moment he appeared she asked anxiously how long the meeting between her sister and herself was to be

still delayed. At first he returned an evasive answer, but on being pressed, he acknowledged, with great

apparent reluctance, that Miss Halcombe was by no means so well as he had hitherto represented her to be.

His tone and manner, in making this reply, so alarmed Lady Glyde, or rather so painfully increased the

uneasiness which she had felt in the company of the two strangers, that a sudden faintness overcame her, and

she was obliged to ask for a glass of water. The Count called from the door for water, and for a bottle of

smellingsalts. Both were brought in by the foreignlooking man with the beard. The water, when Lady

Glyde attempted to drink it, had so strange a taste that it increased her faintness, and she hastily took the

bottle of salts from Count Fosco, and smelt at it. Her head became giddy on the instant. The Count caught the

bottle as it dropped out of her hand, and the last impression of which she was conscious was that he held it to

From this point her recollections were found to be confused, fragmentary, and difficult to reconcile with any

Her own impression was that she recovered her senses later in the evening, that she then left the house, that

she went (as she had previously arranged to go, at Blackwater Park) to Mrs. Vesey's that she drank tea

there, and that she passed the night under Mrs. Vesey's roof. She was totally unable to say how, or when, or

in what company she left the house to which Count Fosco had brought her. But she persisted in asserting that

she had been to Mrs. Vesey's, and still more extraordinary, that she had been helped to undress and get to bed

by Mrs. Rubelle! She could not remember what the conversation was at Mrs. Vesey's or whom she saw there

besides that lady, or why Mrs. Rubelle should have been present in the house to help her.

Her recollection of what happened to her the next morning was still more vague and unreliable.

She had some dim idea of driving out (at what hour she could not say) with Count Fosco, and with Mrs.

Rubelle again for a female attendant. But when, and why, she left Mrs. Vesey she could not tell; neither did

she know what direction the carriage drove in, or where it set her down, or whether the Count and Mrs.

Rubelle did or did not remain with her all the time she was out. At this point in her sad story there was a total

blank. She had no impressions of the faintest kind to communicateno idea whether one day, or more than

one day, had passeduntil she came to herself suddenly in a strange place, surrounded by women who were

This was the Asylum. Here she first heard herself called by Anne Catherick's name, and here, as a last

remarkable circumstance in the story of the conspiracy, her own eyes informed her that she had Anne

Catherick's clothes on. The nurse, on the first night in the Asylum, had shown her the marks on each article of

her underclothing as it was taken off, and had said, not at all irritably or unkindly, "Look at your own name

on your own clothes, and don't worry us all any more about being Lady Glyde. She's dead and buried, and

you're alive and hearty. Do look at your clothes now! There it is, in good marking ink, and there you will find

it on all your old things, which we have kept in the house Anne Catherick, as plain as print!" And there it

was, when Miss Halcombe examined the linen her sister wore, on the night of their arrival at Limmeridge

These were the only recollectionsall of them uncertain, and some of them contradictorywhich could be

extracted from Lady Glyde by careful questioning on the journey to Cumberland. Miss Halcombe abstained

from pressing her with any inquiries relating to events in the Asylumher mind being but too evidently unfit

to bear the trial of reverting to them. It was known, by the voluntary admission of the owner of the

madhouse, that she was received there on the twentyseventh of July. From that date until the fifteenth of

October (the day of her rescue) she had been under restraint, her identity with Anne Catherick systematically

asserted, and her sanity, from first to last, practically denied. Faculties less delicately balanced, constitutions

less tenderly organised, must have suffered under such an ordeal as this. No man could have gone through it

Arriving at Limmeridge late on the evening of the fifteenth, Miss Halcombe wisely resolved not to attempt

The first thing in the morning she went to Mr. Fairlie's room, and using all possible cautions and preparations

beforehand, at last told him in so many words what had happened. As soon as his first astonishment and

alarm had subsided, he angrily declared that Miss Halcombe had allowed herself to be duped by Anne

Catherick. He referred her to Count Fosco's letter, and to what she had herself told him of the personal

resemblance between Anne and his deceased niece, and he positively declined to admit to his presence, even

for one minute only, a madwoman, whom it was an insult and an outrage to have brought into his house at all.

Miss Halcombe left the roomwaited till the first heat of her indignation had passed awaydecided on

reflection that Mr. Fairlie should see his niece in the interests of common humanity before he closed his doors

on her as a strangerand thereupon, without a word of previous warning, took Lady Glyde with her to his

room. The servant was posted at the door to prevent their entrance, but Miss Halcombe insisted on passing

him, and made her way into Mr. Fairlie's presence, leading her sister by the hand.

The scene that followed, though it only lasted for a few minutes, was too painful to be describedMiss

Halcombe herself shrank from referring to it. Let it be enough to say that Mr. Fairlie declared, in the most

positive terms, that he did not recognise the woman who had been brought into his roomthat he saw

nothing in her face and manner to make him doubt for a moment that his niece lay buried in Limmeridge

churchyard, and that he would call on the law to protect him if before the day was over she was not removed

Taking the very worst view of Mr. Fairlie's selfishness, indolence, and habitual want of feeling, it was

manifestly impossible to suppose that he was capable of such infamy as secretly recognising and openly

disowning his brother's child. Miss Halcombe humanely and sensibly allowed all due force to the influence of

prejudice and alarm in preventing him from fairly exercising his perceptions, and accounted for what had

happened in that way. But when she next put the servants to the test, and found that they too were, in every

case, uncertain, to say the least of it, whether the lady presented to them was their young mistress or Anne

Catherick, of whose resemblance to her they had all heard, the sad conclusion was inevitable that the change

produced in Lady Glyde's face and manner by her imprisonment in the Asylum was far more serious than

Miss Halcombe had at first supposed. The vile deception which had asserted her death defied exposure even

In a less critical situation the effort need not have been given up as hopeless even yet.

For example, the maid, Fanny, who happened to be then absent from Limmeridge, was expected back in two

days, and there would be a chance of gaining her recognition to start with, seeing that she had been in much

more constant communication with her mistress, and had been much more heartily attached to her than the

other servants. Again, Lady Glyde might have been privately kept in the house or in the village to wait until

her health was a little recovered and her mind was a little steadied again. When her memory could be once

more trusted to serve her, she would naturally refer to persons and events in the past with a certainty and a

familiarity which no impostor could simulate, and so the fact of her identity, which her own appearance had

failed to establish, might subsequently be proved, with time to help her, by the surer test of her own words.

But the circumstances under which she had regained her freedom rendered all recourse to such means as

these simply impracticable. The pursuit from the Asylum, diverted to Hampshire for the time only, would

infallibly next take the direction of Cumberland. The persons appointed to seek the fugitive might arrive at

Limmeridge House at a few hours' notice, and in Mr. Fairlie's present temper of mind they might count on the

immediate exertion of his local influence and authority to assist them. The commonest consideration for Lady

Glyde's safety forced on Miss Halcombe the necessity of resigning the struggle to do her justice, and of

removing her at once from the place of all others that was now most dangerous to herthe neighbourhood of

An immediate return to London was the first and wisest measure of security which suggested itself. In the

great city all traces of them might be most speedily and most surely effaced. There were no preparations to

makeno farewell words of kindness to exchange with any one. On the afternoon of that memorable day of

the sixteenth Miss Halcombe roused her sister to a last exertion of courage, and without a living soul to wish

them well at parting, the two took their way into the world alone, and turned their backs for ever on

They had passed the hill above the churchyard, when Lady Glyde insisted on turning back to look her last at

her mother's grave. Miss Halcombe tried to shake her resolution, but, in this one instance, tried in vain. She

was immovable. Her dim eyes lit with a sudden fire, and flashed through the veil that hung over themher

wasted fingers strengthened moment by moment round the friendly arm by which they had held so listlessly

till this time. I believe in my soul that the hand of God was pointing their way back to them, and that the most

innocent and the most afflicted of His creatures was chosen in that dread moment to see it.

They retraced their steps to the burialground, and by that act sealed the future of our three lives.

Two obvious conclusions presented themselves to my mind after hearing it. In the first place, I saw darkly

what the nature of the conspiracy had been, how chances had been watched, and how circumstances had been

handled to ensure impunity to a daring and an intricate crime. While all details were still a mystery to me, the

vile manner in which the personal resemblance between the woman in white and Lady Glyde had been turned

to account was clear beyond a doubt. It was plain that Anne Catherick had been introduced into Count

Fosco's house as Lady Glydeit was plain that Lady Glyde had taken the dead woman's place in the

Asylum the substitution having been so managed as to make innocent people (the doctor and the two

servants certainly, and the owner of the madhouse in all probability) accomplices in the crime

The second conclusion came as the necessary consequence of the first. We three had no mercy to expect from

Count Fosco and Sir Percival Glyde. The success of the conspiracy had brought with it a clear gain to those

two men of thirty thousand poundstwenty thousand to one, ten thousand to the other through his wife.

They had that interest, as well as other interests, in ensuring their impunity from exposure, and they would

leave no stone unturned, no sacrifice unattempted, no treachery untried, to discover the place in which their

victim was concealed, and to part her from the only friends she had in the worldMarian Halcombe and

The sense of this serious perila peril which every day and every hour might bring nearer and nearer to

uswas the one influence that guided me in fixing the place of our retreat. I chose it in the far east of

London, where there were fewest idle people to lounge and look about them in the streets. I chose it in a poor

and a populous neighbourhoodbecause the harder the struggle for existence among the men and women

about us, the less the risk of their having the time or taking the pains to notice chance strangers who came

among them. These were the great advantages I looked to, but our locality was a gain to us also in another

and a hardly less important respect. We could live cheaply by the daily work of my hands, and could save

every farthing we possessed to forward the purpose, the righteous purpose, of redressing an infamous

In a week's time Marian Halcombe and I had settled how the course of our new lives should be directed.

There were no other lodgers in the house, and we had the means of going in and out without passing through

the shop. I arranged, for the present at least, that neither Marian nor Laura should stir outside the door

without my being with them, and that in my absence from home they should let no one into their rooms on

any pretence whatever. This rule established, I went to a friend whom I had known in former daysa wood

engraver in large practiceto seek for employment, telling him, at the same time, that I had reasons for

He at once concluded that I was in debt, expressed his regret in the usual forms, and then promised to do what

he could to assist me. I left his false impression undisturbed, and accepted the work he had to give. He knew

that he could trust my experience and my industry. I had what he wanted, steadiness and facility, and though

my earnings were but small, they sufficed for our necessities. As soon as we could feel certain of this, Marian

Halcombe and I put together what we possessed. She had between two and three hundred pounds left of her

own property, and I had nearly as much remaining from the purchasemoney obtained by the sale of my

drawingmaster's practice before I left England. Together we made up between us more than four hundred

pounds. I deposited this little fortune in a bank, to be kept for the expense of those secret inquiries and

investigations which I was determined to set on foot, and to carry on by myself if I could find no one to help

me. We calculated our weekly expenditure to the last farthing, and we never touched our little fund except in

The housework, which, if we had dared trust a stranger near us, would have been done by a servant, was

taken on the first day, taken as her own right, by Marian Halcombe. "What a woman's hands ARE fit for," she

said, "early and late, these hands of mine shall do." They trembled as she held them out. The wasted arms

told their sad story of the past, as she turned up the sleeves of the poor plain dress that she wore for safety's

sake; but the unquenchable spirit of the woman burnt bright in her even yet. I saw the big tears rise thick in

her eyes, and fall slowly over her cheeks as she looked at me. She dashed them away with a touch of her old

energy, and smiled with a faint reflection of her old good spirits. "Don't doubt my courage, Walter," she

pleaded, "it's my weakness that cries, not ME. The housework shall conquer it if I can't." And she kept her

wordthe victory was won when we met in the evening, and she sat down to rest. Her large steady black

eyes looked at me with a flash of their bright firmness of bygone days. "I am not quite broken down yet," she

said. "I am worth trusting with my share of the work." Before I could answer, she added in a whisper, "And

worth trusting with my share in the risk and the danger too. Remember that, if the time comes!"

As early as the end of October the daily course of our lives had assumed its settled direction, and we three

were as completely isolated in our place of concealment as if the house we lived in had been a desert island,

and the great network of streets and the thousands of our fellowcreatures all round us the waters of an

illimitable sea. I could now reckon on some leisure time for considering what my future plan of action should

be, and how I might arm myself most securely at the outset for the coming struggle with Sir Percival and the

I gave up all hope of appealing to my recognition of Laura, or to Marian's recognition of her, in proof of her

identity. If we had loved her less dearly, if the instinct implanted in us by that love had not been far more

certain than any exercise of reasoning, far keener than any process of observation, even we might have

The outward changes wrought by the suffering and the terror of the past had fearfully, almost hopelessly,

strengthened the fatal resemblance between Anne Catherick and herself. In my narrative of events at the time

of my residence in Limmeridge House, I have recorded, from my own observation of the two, how the

likeness, striking as it was when viewed generally, failed in many important points of similarity when tested

in detail. In those former days, if they had both been seen together side by side, no person could for a moment

have mistaken them one for the otheras has happened often in the instances of twins. I could not say this

now. The sorrow and suffering which I had once blamed myself for associating even by a passing thought

with the future of Laura Fairlie, HAD set their profaning marks on the youth and beauty of her face; and the

fatal resemblance which I had once seen and shuddered at seeing, in idea only, was now a real and living

resemblance which asserted itself before my own eyes. Strangers, acquaintances, friends even who could not

look at her as we looked, if she had been shown to them in the first days of her rescue from the Asylum,

might have doubted if she were the Laura Fairlie they had once seen, and doubted without blame.

The one remaining chance, which I had at first thought might be trusted to serve usthe chance of appealing

to her recollection of persons and events with which no impostor could be familiar, was proved, by the sad

test of our later experience, to be hopeless. Every little caution that Marian and I practised towards

herevery little remedy we tried, to strengthen and steady slowly the weakened, shaken faculties, was a

fresh protest in itself against the risk of turning her mind back on the troubled and the terrible past.

The only events of former days which we ventured on encouraging her to recall were the little trivial

domestic events of that happy time at Limmeridge, when I first went there and taught her to draw. The day

when I roused those remembrances by showing her the sketch of the summerhouse which she had given me

on the morning of our farewell, and which had never been separated from me since, was the birthday of our

first hope. Tenderly and gradually, the memory of the old walks and drives dawned upon her, and the poor

weary pining eyes looked at Marian and at me with a new interest, with a faltering thoughtfulness in them,

which from that moment we cherished and kept alive. I bought her a little box of colours, and a sketchbook

like the old sketchbook which I had seen in her hands on the morning that we first met. Once againoh me,

once again!at spare hours saved from my work, in the dull London light, in the poor London room, I sat by

her side to guide the faltering touch, to help the feeble hand. Day by day I raised and raised the new interest

till its place in the blank of her existence was at last assuredtill she could think of her drawing and talk of

it, and patiently practise it by herself, with some faint reflection of the innocent pleasure in my

encouragement, the growing enjoyment in her own progress, which belonged to the lost life and the lost

We helped her mind slowly by this simple means, we took her out between us to walk on fine days, in a quiet

old City square near at hand, where there was nothing to confuse or alarm herwe spared a few pounds from

the fund at the banker's to get her wine, and the delicate strengthening food that she requiredwe amused

her in the evenings with children's games at cards, with scrap books full of prints which I borrowed from the

engraver who employed meby these, and other trifling attentions like them, we composed her and steadied

her, and hoped all things, as cheerfully as we could from time and care, and love that never neglected and

never despaired of her. But to take her mercilessly from seclusion and reposeto confront her with

strangers, or with acquaintances who were little better than strangersto rouse the painful impressions of her

past life which we had so carefully hushed to restthis, even in her own interests, we dared not do.

Whatever sacrifices it cost, whatever long, weary, heartbreaking delays it involved, the wrong that had been

inflicted on her, if mortal means could grapple it, must be redressed without her knowledge and without her

This resolution settled, it was next necessary to decide how the first risk should be ventured, and what the

After consulting with Marian, I resolved to begin by gathering together as many facts as could be

collectedthen to ask the advice of Mr. Kyrle (whom we knew we could trust), and to ascertain from him, in

the first instance, if the legal remedy lay fairly within our reach. I owed it to Laura's interests not to stake her

whole future on my own unaided exertions, so long as there was the faintest prospect of strengthening our

The first source of information to which I applied was the journal kept at Blackwater Park by Marian

Halcombe. There were passages in this diary relating to myself which she thought it best that I should not see.

Accordingly, she read to me from the manuscript, and I took the notes I wanted as she went on. We could

only find time to pursue this occupation by sitting up late at night. Three nights were devoted to the purpose,

My next proceeding was to gain as much additional evidence as I could procure from other people without

exciting suspicion. I went myself to Mrs. Vesey to ascertain if Laura's impression of having slept there was

correct or not. In this case, from consideration for Mrs. Vesey's age and infirmity, and in all subsequent cases

of the same kind from considerations of caution, I kept our real position a secret, and was always careful to

Mrs. Vesey's answer to my inquiries only confirmed the apprehensions which I had previously felt. Laura had

certainly written to say she would pass the night under the roof of her old friendbut she had never been

Her mind in this instance, and, as I feared, in other instances besides, confusedly presented to her something

which she had only intended to do in the false light of something which she had really done. The unconscious

contradiction of herself was easy to account for in this waybut it was likely to lead to serious results. It was

a stumble on the threshold at startingit was a flaw in the evidence which told fatally against us.

When I next asked for the letter which Laura had written to Mrs. Vesey from Blackwater Park, it was given

to me without the envelope, which had been thrown into the wastepaper basket, and long since destroyed. In

the letter itself no date was mentioned not even the day of the week. It only contained these lines:

"Dearest Mrs. Vesey, I am in sad distress and anxiety, and I may come to your house tomorrow night, and

ask for a bed. I can't tell you what is the matter in this letterI write it in such fear of being found out that I

can fix my mind on nothing. Pray be at home to see me. I will give you a thousand kisses, and tell you

On returning from Mrs. Vesey's, I instructed Marian to write (observing the same caution which I practised

myself) to Mrs. Michelson. She was to express, if she pleased, some general suspicion of Count Fosco's

conduct, and she was to ask the housekeeper to supply us with a plain statement of events, in the interests of

truth. While we were waiting for the answer, which reached us in a week's time, I went to the doctor in St.

John's Wood, introducing myself as sent by Miss Halcombe to collect, if possible, more particulars of her

sister's last illness than Mr. Kyrle had found the time to procure. By Mr. Goodricke's assistance, I obtained a

copy of the certificate of death, and an interview with the woman (Jane Gould) who had been employed to

prepare the body for the grave. Through this person I also discovered a means of communicating with the

servant, Hester Pinhorn. She had recently left her place in consequence of a disagreement with her mistress,

and she was lodging with some people in the neighbourhood whom Mrs. Gould knew. In the manner here

indicated I obtained the Narratives of the housekeeper, of the doctor, of Jane Gould, and of Hester Pinhorn,

Furnished with such additional evidence as these documents afforded, I considered myself to be sufficiently

prepared for a consultation with Mr. Kyrle, and Marian wrote accordingly to mention my name to him, and to

There was time enough in the morning for me to take Laura out for her walk as usual, and to see her quietly

settled at her drawing afterwards. She looked up at me with a new anxiety in her face as I rose to leave the

room, and her fingers began to toy doubtfully, in the old way, with the brushes and pencils on the table.

"You are not tired of me yet?" she said. "You are not going away because you are tired of me? I will try to do

betterI will try to get well. Are you as fond of me, Walter as you used to be, now I am so pale and thin, and

She spoke as a child might have spoken, she showed me her thoughts as a child might have shown them. I

waited a few minutes longer waited to tell her that she was dearer to me now than she had ever been in the

past times. "Try to get well again," I said, encouraging the new hope in the future which I saw dawning in her

"Yes," she said to herself, returning to her drawing. "I must try, because they are both so fond of me." She

suddenly looked up again. "Don't be gone long! I can't get on with my drawing, Walter, when you are not

My voice faltered a little in spite of me. I forced myself from the room. It was no time, then, for parting with

As I opened the door, I beckoned to Marian to follow me to the stairs. It was necessary to prepare her for a

result which I felt might sooner or later follow my showing myself openly in the streets.

"I shall, in all probability, be back in a few hours," I said, "and you will take care, as usual, to let no one

"What can happen?" she interposed quickly. "Tell me plainly, Walter, if there is any danger, and I shall know

"The only danger," I replied, "is that Sir Percival Glyde may have been recalled to London by the news of

Laura's escape. You are aware that he had me watched before I left England, and that he probably knows me

She laid her hand on my shoulder and looked at me in anxious silence. I saw she understood the serious risk

"It is not likely," I said, "that I shall be seen in London again so soon, either by Sir Percival himself or by the

persons in his employ. But it is barely possible that an accident may happen. In that case, you will not be

alarmed if I fail to return to night, and you will satisfy any inquiry of Laura's with the best excuse that you

can make for me? If I find the least reason to suspect that I am watched, I will take good care that no spy

follows me back to this house. Don't doubt my return, Marian, however it may be delayedand fear

"Nothing!" she answered firmly. "You shall not regret, Walter, that you have only a woman to help you." She

paused, and detained me for a moment longer. "Take care!" she said, pressing my hand anxiously"take

I left her, and set forth to pave the way for discoverythe dark and doubtful way, which began at the

No circumstance of the slightest importance happened on my way to the offices of Messrs. Gilmore Kyrle, in

While my card was being taken in to Mr. Kyrle, a consideration occurred to me which I deeply regretted not

having thought of before. The information derived from Marian's diary made it a matter of certainty that

Count Fosco had opened her first letter from Blackwater Park to Mr. Kyrle, and had, by means of his wife,

intercepted the second. He was therefore well aware of the address of the office, and he would naturally infer

that if Marian wanted advice and assistance, after Laura's escape from the Asylum, she would apply once

more to the experience of Mr. Kyrle. In this case the office in Chancery Lane was the very first place which

he and Sir Percival would cause to be watched, and if the same persons were chosen for the purpose who had

been employed to follow me, before my departure from England, the fact of my return would in all

probability be ascertained on that very day. I had thought, generally, of the chances of my being recognised in

the streets, but the special risk connected with the office had never occurred to me until the present moment.

It was too late now to repair this unfortunate error in judgmenttoo late to wish that I had made

arrangements for meeting the lawyer in some place privately appointed beforehand. I could only resolve to be

cautious on leaving Chancery Lane, and not to go straight home again under any circumstances whatever.

After waiting a few minutes I was shown into Mr. Kyrle's private room. He was a pale, thin, quiet,

selfpossessed man, with a very attentive eye, a very low voice, and a very undemonstrative mannernot

(as I judged) ready with his sympathy where strangers were concerned, and not at all easy to disturb in his

professional composure. A better man for my purpose could hardly have been found. If he committed himself

to a decision at all, and if the decision was favourable, the strength of our case was as good as proved from

"Before I enter on the business which brings me here," I said, "I ought to warn you, Mr. Kyrle, that the

"My time is at Miss Halcombe's disposal," he replied. "Where any interests of hers are concerned, I represent

my partner personally, as well as professionally. It was his request that I should do so, when he ceased to take

"He is not, he is living with his relatives in Germany. His health has improved, but the period of his return is

While we were exchanging these few preliminary words, he had been searching among the papers before

him, and he now produced from them a sealed letter. I thought he was about to hand the letter to me, but,

apparently changing his mind, he placed it by itself on the table, settled himself in his chair, and silently

Without wasting a moment in prefatory words of any sort, I entered on my narrative, and put him in full

Lawyer as he was to the very marrow of his bones, I startled him out of his professional composure.

Expressions of incredulity and surprise, which he could not repress, interrupted me several times before I had

done. I persevered, however, to the end, and as soon as I reached it, boldly asked the one important

He was too cautious to commit himself to an answer without taking time to recover his selfpossession first.

"Before I give my opinion," he said, "I must beg permission to clear the ground by a few questions."

He put the questionssharp, suspicious, unbelieving questions, which clearly showed me, as they proceeded,

that he thought I was the victim of a delusion, and that he might even have doubted, but for my introduction

to him by Miss Halcombe, whether I was not attempting the perpetration of a cunninglydesigned fraud.

"Do you believe that I have spoken the truth, Mr. Kyrle?" I asked, when he had done examining me.

"So far as your own convictions are concerned, I am certain you have spoken the truth," he replied. "I have

the highest esteem for Miss Halcombe, and I have therefore every reason to respect a gentleman whose

mediation she trusts in a matter of this kind. I will even go farther, if you like, and admit, for courtesy's sake

and for argument's sake, that the identity of Lady Glyde as a living person is a proved fact to Miss Halcombe

and yourself. But you come to me for a legal opinion. As a lawyer, and as a lawyer only, it is my duty to tell

"I will try to put it plainly as well. The evidence of Lady Glyde's death is, on the face of it, clear and

satisfactory. There is her aunt's testimony to prove that she came to Count Fosco's house, that she fell ill, and

that she died. There is the testimony of the medical certificate to prove the death, and to show that it took

place under natural circumstances. There is the fact of the funeral at Limmeridge, and there is the assertion of

the inscription on the tomb. That is the case you want to overthrow. What evidence have you to support the

declaration on your side that the person who died and was buried was not Lady Glyde? Let us run through the

main points of your statement and see what they are worth. Miss Halcombe goes to a certain private Asylum,

and there sees a certain female patient. It is known that a woman named Anne Catherick, and bearing an

extraordinary personal resemblance to Lady Glyde, escaped from the Asylum; it is known that the person

received there last July was received as Anne Catherick brought back; it is known that the gentleman who

brought her back warned Mr. Fairlie that it was part of her insanity to be bent on personating his dead niece;

and it is known that she did repeatedly declare herself in the Asylum (where no one believed her) to be Lady

Glyde. These are all facts. What have you to set against them? Miss Halcombe's recognition of the woman,

which recognition afterevents invalidate or contradict. Does Miss Halcombe assert her supposed sister's

identity to the owner of the Asylum, and take legal means for rescuing her? No, she secretly bribes a nurse to

let her escape. When the patient has been released in this doubtful manner, and is taken to Mr. Fairlie, does

he recognise her? Is he staggered for one instant in his belief of his niece's death? No. Do the servants

recognise her? No. Is she kept in the neighbourhood to assert her own identity, and to stand the test of further

proceedings? No, she is privately taken to London. In the meantime you have recognised her also, but you are

not a relativeyou are not even an old friend of the family. The servants contradict you, and Mr. Fairlie

contradicts Miss Halcombe, and the supposed Lady Glyde contradicts herself. She declares she passed the

night in London at a certain house. Your own evidence shows that she has never been near that house, and

your own admission is that her condition of mind prevents you from producing her anywhere to submit to

investigation, and to speak for herself. I pass over minor points of evidence on both sides to save time, and I

ask you, if this case were to go now into a court of lawto go before a jury, bound to take facts as they

I was obliged to wait and collect myself before I could answer him. It was the first time the story of Laura

and the story of Marian had been presented to me from a stranger's point of view the first time the terrible

obstacles that lay across our path had been made to show themselves in their true character.

"There can be no doubt," I said, "that the facts, as you have stated them, appear to tell against us, but"

"But you think those facts can be explained away," interposed Mr. Kyrle. "Let me tell you the result of my

experience on that point. When an English jury has to choose between a plain fact ON the surface and a long

explanation UNDER the surface, it always takes the fact in preference to the explanation. For example, Lady

Glyde (I call the lady you represent by that name for argument's sake) declares she has slept at a certain

house, and it is proved that she has not slept at that house. You explain this circumstance by entering into the

state of her mind, and deducing from it a metaphysical conclusion. I don't say the conclusion is wrongI

only say that the jury will take the fact of her contradicting herself in preference to any reason for the

"But is it not possible," I urged, "by dint of patience and exertion, to discover additional evidence? Miss

"Consider the subject, Mr. Hartright, from your own point of view," he said. "If you are right about Sir

Percival Glyde and Count Fosco (which I don't admit, mind), every imaginable difficulty would be thrown in

the way of your getting fresh evidence. Every obstacle of litigation would be raisedevery point in the case

would be systematically contestedand by the time we had spent our thousands instead of our hundreds, the

final result would, in all probability, be against us. Questions of identity, where instances of personal

resemblance are concerned, are, in themselves, the hardest of all questions to settlethe hardest, even when

they are free from the complications which beset the case we are now discussing. I really see no prospect of

throwing any light whatever on this extraordinary affair. Even if the person buried in Limmeridge churchyard

be not Lady Glyde, she was, in life, on your own showing, so like her, that we should gain nothing, if we

applied for the necessary authority to have the body exhumed. In short, there is no case, Mr. Hartright

I was determined to believe that there WAS a case, and in that determination shifted my ground, and

"Are there not other proofs that we might produce besides the proof of identity?" I asked.

"Not as you are situated," he replied. "The simplest and surest of all proofs, the proof by comparison of dates,

is, as I understand, altogether out of your reach. If you could show a discrepancy between the date of the

doctor's certificate and the date of Lady Glyde's journey to London, the matter would wear a totally different

"On the day when it is recovered, Mr. Hartright, you will have a case. If you have any prospect, at this

I considered. The housekeeper could not help usLaura could not help usMarian could not help us. In all

probability, the only persons in existence who knew the date were Sir Percival and the Count.

"I can think of no means of ascertaining the date at present," I said, "because I can think of no persons who

"With your opinion of the conduct of those two gentlemen," he said, "you don't expect help in that quarter, I

presume? If they have combined to gain large sums of money by a conspiracy, they are not likely to confess

We both rose. He looked me attentively in the face with more appearance of interest than he had shown yet. I

"You are very determined," he said. "You have, no doubt, a personal motive for proceeding, into which it is

not my business to inquire. If a case can be produced in the future, I can only say, my best assistance is at

your service. At the same time I must warn you, as the money question always enters into the law question,

that I see little hope, even if you ultimately established the fact of Lady Glyde's being alive, of recovering her

fortune. The foreigner would probably leave the country before proceedings were commenced, and Sir

Percival's embarrassments are numerous enough and pressing enough to transfer almost any sum of money he

"Let me beg that we may not discuss Lady Glyde's affairs," I said. "I have never known anything about them

in former times, and I know nothing of them nowexcept that her fortune is lost. You are right in assuming

that I have personal motives for stirring in this matter. I wish those motives to be always as disinterested as

He tried to interpose and explain. I was a little heated, I suppose, by feeling that he had doubted me, and I

"There shall be no money motive," I said, "no idea of personal advantage in the service I mean to render to

Lady Glyde. She has been cast out as a stranger from the house in which she was born a lie which records

her death has been written on her mother's tomband there are two men, alive and unpunished, who are

responsible for it. That house shall open again to receive her in the presence of every soul who followed the

false funeral to the gravethat lie shall be publicly erased from the tombstone by the authority of the head of

the family, and those two men shall answer for their crime to ME, though the justice that sits in tribunals is

powerless to pursue them. I have given my life to that purpose, and, alone as I stand, if God spares me, I will

He drew back towards his table, and said nothing. His face showed plainly that he thought my delusion had

got the better of my reason, and that he considered it totally useless to give me any more advice.

"We each keep our opinion, Mr. Kyrle," I said, "and we must wait till the events of the future decide between

us. In the meantime, I am much obliged to you for the attention you have given to my statement. You have

shown me that the legal remedy lies, in every sense of the word, beyond our means. We cannot produce the

law proof, and we are not rich enough to pay the law expenses. It is something gained to know that."

I bowed and walked to the door. He called me back and gave me the letter which I had seen him place on the

"This came by post a few days ago," he said. "Perhaps you will not mind delivering it? Pray tell Miss

Halcombe, at the same time, that I sincerely regret being, thus far, unable to help her, except by advice, which

I looked at the letter while he was speaking. It was addressed to "Miss Halcombe. Care of Messrs. Gilmore

"He has returned to London," replied Mr. Kyrle. "At least I heard so from his solicitor, whom I met

On leaving the office the first precaution to be observed was to abstain from attracting attention by stopping

to look about me. I walked towards one of the quietest of the large squares on the north of Holborn, then

suddenly stopped and turned round at a place where a long stretch of pavement was left behind me.

There were two men at the corner of the square who had stopped also, and who were standing talking

together. After a moment's reflection I turned back so as to pass them. One moved as I came near, and turned

the corner leading from the square into the street. The other remained stationary. I looked at him as I passed

and instantly recognised one of the men who had watched me before I left England.

If I had been free to follow my own instincts, I should probably have begun by speaking to the man, and have

ended by knocking him down. But I was bound to consider consequences. If I once placed myself publicly in

the wrong, I put the weapons at once into Sir Percival's hands. There was no choice but to oppose cunning by

cunning. I turned into the street down which the second man had disappeared, and passed him, waiting in a

doorway. He was a stranger to me, and I was glad to make sure of his personal appearance in case of future

annoyance. Having done this, I again walked northward till I reached the New Road. There I turned aside to

the west (having the men behind me all the time), and waited at a point where I knew myself to be at some

distance from a cabstand, until a fast twowheel cab, empty, should happen to pass me. One passed in a few

minutes. I jumped in and told the man to drive rapidly towards Hyde Park. There was no second fast cab for

the spies behind me. I saw them dart across to the other side of the road, to follow me by running, until a cab

or a cab stand came in their way. But I had the start of them, and when I stopped the driver and got out, they

were nowhere in sight. I crossed Hyde Park and made sure, on the open ground, that I was free. When I at last

I found Marian waiting for me alone in the little sittingroom. She had persuaded Laura to go to rest, after

first promising to show me her drawing the moment I came in. The poor little dim faint sketchso trifling in

itself, so touching in its associationswas propped up carefully on the table with two books, and was placed

where the faint light of the one candle we allowed ourselves might fall on it to the best advantage. I sat down

to look at the drawing, and to tell Marian, in whispers, what had happened. The partition which divided us

from the next room was so thin that we could almost hear Laura's breathing, and we might have disturbed her

Marian preserved her composure while I described my interview with Mr. Kyrle. But her face became

troubled when I spoke next of the men who had followed me from the lawyer's office, and when I told her of

"Bad news, Walter," she said, "the worst news you could bring. Have you nothing more to tell me?"

"I have something to give you," I replied, handing her the note which Mr. Kyrle had confided to my care.

With that reply she opened the note. Her face flushed deeply while she read ither eyes brightened with

"Impelled by honourable admirationhonourable to myself, honourable to youI write, magnificent

"Exercise your fine natural sense and remain in retirement. Dear and admirable woman, invite no dangerous

publicity. Resignation is sublimeadopt it. The modest repose of home is eternally freshenjoy it. The

storms of life pass harmless over the valley of Seclusiondwell, dear lady, in the valley.

"Do this and I authorise you to fear nothing. No new calamity shall lacerate your sensibilitiessensibilities

precious to me as my own. You shall not be molested, the fair companion of your retreat shall not be pursued.

She has found a new asylum in your heart. Priceless asylum!I envy her and leave her there.

"One last word of affectionate warning, of paternal caution, and I tear myself from the charm of addressing

"Advance no farther than you have gone already, compromise no serious interests, threaten nobody. Do not, I

implore you, force me into actionME, the Man of Actionwhen it is the cherished object of my ambition

to be passive, to restrict the vast reach of my energies and my combinations for your sake. If you have rash

friends, moderate their deplorable ardour. If Mr. Hartright returns to England, hold no communication with

him. I walk on a path of my own, and Percival follows at my heels. On the day when Mr. Hartright crosses

The only signature to these lines was the initial letter F, surrounded by a circle of intricate flourishes. I threw

"He is trying to frighten youa sure sign that he is frightened himself," I said.

She was too genuine a woman to treat the letter as I treated it. The insolent familiarity of the language was

too much for her selfcontrol. As she looked at me across the table, her hands clenched themselves in her lap,

and the old quick fiery temper flamed out again brightly in her cheeks and her eyes.

"Walter!" she said, "if ever those two men are at your mercy, and if you are obliged to spare one of them,

"When the time comes?" she repeated. "Can you speak of the future as if you were certain of it?certain

after what you have heard in Mr. Kyrle's office, after what has happened to you today?"

"I don't count the time from today, Marian. All I have done to day is to ask another man to act for me. I

"Yes. I have had time to think since I left Mr. Kyrle. His opinion on one point confirms my own. We must

persist to the last in hunting down the date of Laura's journey. The one weak point in the conspiracy, and

probably the one chance of proving that she is a living woman, centre in the discovery of that date."

"You mean," said Marian, "the discovery that Laura did not leave Blackwater Park till after the date of her

"What makes you think it might have been AFTER? Laura can tell us nothing of the time she was in

"But the owner of the Asylum told you that she was received there on the twentyseventh of July. I doubt

Count Fosco's ability to keep her in London, and to keep her insensible to all that was passing around her,

more than one night. In that case, she must have started on the twentysixth, and must have come to London

one day after the date of her own death on the doctor's certificate. If we can prove that date, we prove our

"Mrs. Michelson's narrative has suggested to me two ways of trying to obtain it. One of them is to question

the doctor, Mr. Dawson, who must know when he resumed his attendance at Blackwater Park after Laura left

the house. The other is to make inquiries at the inn to which Sir Percival drove away by himself at night. We

know that his departure followed Laura's after the lapse of a few hours, and we may get at the date in that

way. The attempt is at least worth making, and tomorrow I am determined it shall be made."

"And suppose it failsI look at the worst now, Walter; but I will look at the best if disappointments come to

"There are two men who can help me, and shall help me in London Sir Percival and the Count. Innocent

people may well forget the datebut THEY are guilty, and THEY know it. If I fail everywhere else, I mean

"Begin with the Count," she whispered eagerly. "For my sake, begin with the Count."

"We must begin, for Laura's sake, where there is the best chance of success," I replied.

"Yes," she said, "you are rightit was mean and miserable of me to say that. I try to be patient, Walter, and

succeed better now than I did in happier times. But I have a little of my old temper still left, and it will get the

"His turn will come," I said. "But, remember, there is no weak place in his life that we know of yet." I waited

a little to let her recover her selfpossession, and then spoke the decisive words

"Yes: the Secret. It is our only sure hold on him. I can force him from his position of security, I can drag him

and his villainy into the face of day, by no other means. Whatever the Count may have done, Sir Percival has

consented to the conspiracy against Laura from another motive besides the motive of gain. You heard him tell

the Count that he believed his wife knew enough to ruin him? You heard him say that he was a lost man if the

"Well, Marian, when our other resources have failed us, I mean to know the Secret. My old superstition

clings to me, even yet. I say again the woman in white is a living influence in our three lives. The End is

appointedthe End is drawing us onand Anne Catherick, dead in her grave, points the way to it still!"

My early departure from London enabled me to reach Mr. Dawson's house in the forenoon. Our interview, so

Mr. Dawson's books certainly showed when he had resumed his attendance on Miss Halcombe at Blackwater

Park, but it was not possible to calculate back from this date with any exactness, without such help from Mrs.

Michelson as I knew she was unable to afford. She could not say from memory (who, in similar cases, ever

can?) how many days had elapsed between the renewal of the doctor's attendance on his patient and the

previous departure of Lady Glyde. She was almost certain of having mentioned the circumstance of the

departure to Miss Halcombe, on the day after it happenedbut then she was no more able to fix the date of

the day on which this disclosure took place, than to fix the date of the day before, when Lady Glyde had left

for London. Neither could she calculate, with any nearer approach to exactness, the time that had passed from

the departure of her mistress, to the period when the undated letter from Madame Fosco arrived. Lastly, as if

to complete the series of difficulties, the doctor himself, having been ill at the time, had omitted to make his

usual entry of the day of the week and month when the gardener from Blackwater Park had called on him to

Hopeless of obtaining assistance from Mr. Dawson, I resolved to try next if I could establish the date of Sir

It seemed like a fatality! When I reached Knowlesbury the inn was shut up, and bills were posted on the

walls. The speculation had been a bad one, as I was informed, ever since the time of the railway. The new

hotel at the station had gradually absorbed the business, and the old inn (which we knew to be the inn at

which Sir Percival had put up), had been closed about two months since. The proprietor had left the town

with all his goods and chattels, and where he had gone I could not positively ascertain from any one. The four

people of whom I inquired gave me four different accounts of his plans and projects when he left

There were still some hours to spare before the last train left for London, and I drove back again in a fly from

the Knowlesbury station to Blackwater Park, with the purpose of questioning the gardener and the person

who kept the lodge. If they, too, proved unable to assist me, my resources for the present were at an end, and

I dismissed the fly a mile distant from the park, and getting my directions from the driver, proceeded by

As I turned into the lane from the highroad, I saw a man, with a carpetbag, walking before me rapidly on

the way to the lodge. He was a little man, dressed in shabby black, and wearing a remarkably large hat. I set

him down (as well as it was possible to judge) for a lawyer's clerk, and stopped at once to widen the distance

between us. He had not heard me, and he walked on out of sight, without looking back. When I passed

through the gates myself, a little while afterwards, he was not visiblehe had evidently gone on to the

There were two women in the lodge. One of them was old, the other I knew at once, by Marian's description

I asked first if Sir Percival was at the Park, and receiving a reply in the negative, inquired next when he had

left it. Neither of the women could tell me more than that he had gone away in the summer. I could extract

nothing from Margaret Porcher but vacant smiles and shakings of the head. The old woman was a little more

intelligent, and I managed to lead her into speaking of the manner of Sir Percival's departure, and of the alarm

that it caused her. She remembered her master calling her out of bed, and remembered his frightening her by

swearingbut the date at which the occurrence happened was, as she honestly acknowledged, "quite beyond

On leaving the lodge I saw the gardener at work not far off. When I first addressed him, he looked at me

rather distrustfully, but on my using Mrs. Michelson's name, with a civil reference to himself, he entered into

conversation readily enough. There is no need to describe what passed between usit ended, as all my other

attempts to discover the date had ended. The gardener knew that his master had driven away, at night, "some

time in July, the last fortnight or the last ten days in the month"and knew no more.

While we were speaking together I saw the man in black, with the large hat, come out from the house, and

Certain suspicions of his errand at Blackwater Park had already crossed my mind. They were now increased

by the gardener's inability (or unwillingness) to tell me who the man was, and I determined to clear the way

before me, if possible, by speaking to him. The plainest question I could put as a stranger would be to inquire

if the house was allowed to be shown to visitors. I walked up to the man at once, and accosted him in those

His look and manner unmistakably betrayed that he knew who I was, and that he wanted to irritate me into

quarrelling with him. His reply was insolent enough to have answered the purpose, if I had been less

determined to control myself. As it was, I met him with the most resolute politeness, apologised for my

involuntary intrusion (which he called a "trespass,") and left the grounds. It was exactly as I suspected. The

recognition of me when I left Mr. Kyrle's office had been evidently communicated to Sir Percival Glyde, and

the man in black had been sent to the Park in anticipation of my making inquiries at the house or in the

neighbourhood. If I had given him the least chance of lodging any sort of legal complaint against me, the

interference of the local magistrate would no doubt have been turned to account as a clog on my proceedings,

I was prepared to be watched on the way from Blackwater Park to the station, exactly as I had been watched

in London the day before. But I could not discover at the time, whether I was really followed on this occasion

or not. The man in black might have had means of tracking me at his disposal of which I was not aware, but I

certainly saw nothing of him, in his own person, either on the way to the station, or afterwards on my arrival

at the London terminus in the evening. I reached home on foot, taking the precaution, before I approached our

own door, of walking round by the loneliest street in the neighbourhood, and there stopping and looking back

more than once over the open space behind me. I had first learnt to use this stratagem against suspected

treachery in the wilds of Central Americaand now I was practising it again, with the same purpose and

Nothing had happened to alarm Marian during my absence. She asked eagerly what success I had met with.

When I told her she could not conceal her surprise at the indifference with which I spoke of the failure of my

The truth was, that the illsuccess of my inquiries had in no sense daunted me. I had pursued them as a

matter of duty, and I had expected nothing from them. In the state of my mind at that time, it was almost a

relief to me to know that the struggle was now narrowed to a trial of strength between myself and Sir Percival

Glyde. The vindictive motive had mingled itself all along with my other and better motives, and I confess it

was a satisfaction to me to feel that the surest way, the only way left, of serving Laura's cause, was to fasten

While I acknowledge that I was not strong enough to keep my motives above the reach of this instinct of

revenge, I can honestly say something in my own favour on the other side. No base speculation on the future

relations of Laura and myself, and on the private and personal concessions which I might force from Sir

Percival if I once had him at my mercy, ever entered my mind. I never said to myself, "If I do succeed, it

shall be one result of my success that I put it out of her husband's power to take her from me again." I could

not look at her and think of the future with such thoughts as those. The sad sight of the change in her from her

former self, made the one interest of my love an interest of tenderness and compassion which her father or

her brother might have felt, and which I felt, God knows, in my inmost heart. All my hopes looked no farther

on now than to the day of her recovery. There, till she was strong again and happy againthere, till she

could look at me as she had once looked, and speak to me as she had once spokenthe future of my happiest

These words are written under no prompting of idle self contemplation. Passages in this narrative are soon

to come which will set the minds of others in judgment on my conduct. It is right that the best and the worst

On the morning after my return from Hampshire I took Marian upstairs into my workingroom, and there

laid before her the plan that I had matured thus far, for mastering the one assailable point in the life of Sir

The way to the Secret lay through the mystery, hitherto impenetrable to all of us, of the woman in white. The

approach to that in its turn might be gained by obtaining the assistance of Anne Catherick's mother, and the

only ascertainable means of prevailing on Mrs. Catherick to act or to speak in the matter depended on the

chance of my discovering local particulars and family particulars first of all from Mrs. Clements. After

thinking the subject over carefully, I felt certain that I could only begin the new inquiries by placing myself in

I was indebted to Marian's quick perception for meeting this necessity at once by the best and simplest

means. She proposed to write to the farm near Limmeridge (Todd's Corner), to inquire whether Mrs.

Clements had communicated with Mrs. Todd during the past few months. How Mrs. Clements had been

separated from Anne it was impossible for us to say, but that separation once effected, it would certainly

occur to Mrs. Clements to inquire after the missing woman in the neighbourhood of all others to which she

was known to be most attachedthe neighbourhood of Limmeridge. I saw directly that Marian's proposal

offered us a prospect of success, and she wrote to Mrs. Todd accordingly by that day's post.

While we were waiting for the reply, I made myself master of all the information Marian could afford on the

subject of Sir Percival's family, and of his early life. She could only speak on these topics from hearsay, but

Sir Percival was an only child. His father, Sir Felix Glyde, had suffered from his birth under a painful and

incurable deformity, and had shunned all society from his earliest years. His sole happiness was in the

enjoyment of music, and he had married a lady with tastes similar to his own, who was said to be a most

accomplished musician. He inherited the Blackwater property while still a young man. Neither he nor his

wife after taking possession, made advances of any sort towards the society of the neighbourhood, and no one

endeavoured to tempt them into abandoning their reserve, with the one disastrous exception of the rector of

The rector was the worst of all innocent mischiefmakersan over zealous man. He had heard that Sir

Felix had left College with the character of being little better than a revolutionist in politics and an infidel in

religion, and he arrived conscientiously at the conclusion that it was his bounden duty to summon the lord of

the manor to hear sound views enunciated in the parish church. Sir Felix fiercely resented the clergyman's

well meant but illdirected interference, insulting him so grossly and so publicly, that the families in the

neighbourhood sent letters of indignant remonstrance to the Park, and even the tenants of the Blackwater

property expressed their opinion as strongly as they dared. The baronet, who had no country tastes of any

kind, and no attachment to the estate or to any one living on it, declared that society at Blackwater should

never have a second chance of annoying him, and left the place from that moment.

After a short residence in London he and his wife departed for the Continent, and never returned to England

again. They lived part of the time in France and part in Germanyalways keeping themselves in the strict

retirement which the morbid sense of his own personal deformity had made a necessity to Sir Felix. Their

son, Percival, had been born abroad, and had been educated there by private tutors. His mother was the first

of his parents whom he lost. His father had died a few years after her, either in 1825 or 1826. Sir Percival had

been in England, as a young man, once or twice before that period, but his acquaintance with the late Mr.

Fairlie did not begin till after the time of his father's death. They soon became very intimate, although Sir

Percival was seldom, or never, at Limmeridge House in those days. Mr. Frederick Fairlie might have met him

once or twice in Mr. Philip Fairlie's company, but he could have known little of him at that or at any other

time. Sir Percival's only intimate friend in the Fairlie family had been Laura's father.

These were all the particulars that I could gain from Marian. They suggested nothing which was useful to my

present purpose, but I noted them down carefully, in the event of their proving to be of importance at any

Mrs. Todd's reply (addressed, by our own wish, to a postoffice at some distance from us) had arrived at its

destination when I went to apply for it. The chances, which had been all against us hitherto, turned from this

moment in our favour. Mrs. Todd's letter contained the first item of information of which we were in search.

Mrs. Clements, it appeared, had (as we had conjectured) written to Todd's Corner, asking pardon in the first

place for the abrupt manner in which she and Anne had left their friends at the farm house (on the morning

after I had met the woman in white in Limmeridge churchyard), and then informing Mrs. Todd of Anne's

disappearance, and entreating that she would cause inquiries to be made in the neighbourhood, on the chance

that the lost woman might have strayed back to Limmeridge. In making this request, Mrs. Clements had been

careful to add to it the address at which she might always be heard of, and that address Mrs. Todd now

transmitted to Marian. It was in London, and within half an hour's walk of our own lodging.

In the words of the proverb, I was resolved not to let the grass grow under my feet. The next morning I set

forth to seek an interview with Mrs. Clements. This was my first step forward in the investigation. The story

The address communicated by Mrs. Todd took me to a lodginghouse situated in a respectable street near the

When I knocked the door was opened by Mrs. Clements herself. She did not appear to remember me, and

asked what my business was. I recalled to her our meeting in Limmeridge churchyard at the close of my

interview there with the woman in white, taking special care to remind her that I was the person who assisted

Anne Catherick (as Anne had herself declared) to escape the pursuit from the Asylum. This was my only

claim to the confidence of Mrs. Clements. She remembered the circumstance the moment I spoke of it, and

asked me into the parlour, in the greatest anxiety to know if I had brought her any news of Anne.

It was impossible for me to tell her the whole truth without, at the same time, entering into particulars on the

subject of the conspiracy, which it would have been dangerous to confide to a stranger. I could only abstain

most carefully from raising any false hopes, and then explain that the object of my visit was to discover the

persons who were really responsible for Anne's disappearance. I even added, so as to exonerate myself from

any afterreproach of my own conscience, that I entertained not the least hope of being able to trace

herthat I believed we should never see her alive againand that my main interest in the affair was to bring

to punishment two men whom I suspected to be concerned in luring her away, and at whose hands I and some

dear friends of mine had suffered a grievous wrong. With this explanation I left it to Mrs. Clements to say

whether our interest in the matter (whatever difference there might be in the motives which actuated us) was

not the same, and whether she felt any reluctance to forward my object by giving me such information on the

The poor woman was at first too much confused and agitated to understand thoroughly what I said to her. She

could only reply that I was welcome to anything she could tell me in return for the kindness I had shown to

Anne; but as she was not very quick and ready, at the best of times, in talking to strangers, she would beg me

Knowing by experience that the plainest narrative attainable from persons who are not accustomed to arrange

their ideas, is the narrative which goes far enough back at the beginning to avoid all impediments of

retrospection in its course, I asked Mrs. Clements to tell me first what had happened after she had left

Limmeridge, and so, by watchful questioning, carried her on from point to point, till we reached the period of

On leaving the farm at Todd's Corner, Mrs. Clements and Anne had travelled that day as far as Derby, and

had remained there a week on Anne's account. They had then gone on to London, and had lived in the

lodging occupied by Mrs. Clements at that time for a month or more, when circumstances connected with the

house and the landlord had obliged them to change their quarters. Anne's terror of being discovered in

London or its neighbourhood, whenever they ventured to walk out, had gradually communicated itself to

Mrs. Clements, and she had determined on removing to one of the most outoftheway places in

Englandto the town of Grimsby in Lincolnshire, where her deceased husband had passed all his early life.

His relatives were respectable people settled in the town they had always treated Mrs. Clements with great

kindness, and she thought it impossible to do better than go there and take the advice of her husband's friends.

Anne would not hear of returning to her mother at Welmingham, because she had been removed to the

Asylum from that place, and because Sir Percival would be certain to go back there and find her again. There

was serious weight in this objection, and Mrs. Clements felt that it was not to be easily removed.

At Grimsby the first serious symptoms of illness had shown themselves in Anne. They appeared soon after

the news of Lady Glyde's marriage had been made public in the newspapers, and had reached her through

The medical man who was sent for to attend the sick woman discovered at once that she was suffering from a

serious affection of the heart. The illness lasted long, left her very weak, and returned at intervals, though

with mitigated severity, again and again. They remained at Grimsby, in consequence, during the first half of

the new year, and there they might probably have stayed much longer, but for the sudden resolution which

Anne took at this time to venture back to Hampshire, for the purpose of obtaining a private interview with

Mrs. Clements did all in her power to oppose the execution of this hazardous and unaccountable project. No

explanation of her motives was offered by Anne, except that she believed the day of her death was not far off,

and that she had something on her mind which must be communicated to Lady Glyde, at any risk, in secret.

Her resolution to accomplish this purpose was so firmly settled that she declared her intention of going to

Hampshire by herself if Mrs. Clements felt any unwillingness to go with her. The doctor, on being consulted,

was of opinion that serious opposition to her wishes would, in all probability, produce another and perhaps a

fatal fit of illness, and Mrs. Clements, under this advice, yielded to necessity, and once more, with sad

forebodings of trouble and danger to come, allowed Anne Catherick to have her own way.

On the journey from London to Hampshire Mrs. Clements discovered that one of their fellowpassengers

was well acquainted with the neighbourhood of Blackwater, and could give her all the information she

needed on the subject of localities. In this way she found out that the only place they could go to, which was

not dangerously near to Sir Percival's residence, was a large village called Sandon. The distance here from

Blackwater Park was between three and four milesand that distance, and back again, Anne had walked on

For the few days during which they were at Sandon without being discovered they had lived a little away

from the village, in the cottage of a decent widowwoman who had a bedroom to let, and whose discreet

silence Mrs. Clements had done her best to secure, for the first week at least. She had also tried hard to

induce Anne to be content with writing to Lady Glyde, in the first instance; but the failure of the warning

contained in the anonymous letter sent to Limmeridge had made Anne resolute to speak this time, and

Mrs. Clements, nevertheless, followed her privately on each occasion when she went to the lake, without,

however, venturing near enough to the boathouse to be witness of what took place there. When Anne

returned for the last time from the dangerous neighbourhood, the fatigue of walking, day after day, distances

which were far too great for her strength, added to the exhausting effect of the agitation from which she had

suffered, produced the result which Mrs. Clements had dreaded all along. The old pain over the heart and the

other symptoms of the illness at Grimsby returned, and Anne was confined to her bed in the cottage.

In this emergency the first necessity, as Mrs. Clements knew by experience, was to endeavour to quiet Anne's

anxiety of mind, and for this purpose the good woman went herself the next day to the lake, to try if she could

find Lady Glyde (who would be sure, as Anne said, to take her daily walk to the boathouse), and prevail on

her to come back privately to the cottage near Sandon. On reaching the outskirts of the plantation Mrs.

Clements encountered, not Lady Glyde, but a tall, stout, elderly gentleman, with a book in his handin other

The Count, after looking at her very attentively for a moment, asked if she expected to see any one in that

place, and added, before she could reply, that he was waiting there with a message from Lady Glyde, but that

he was not quite certain whether the person then before him answered the description of the person with

Upon this Mrs. Clements at once confided her errand to him, and entreated that he would help to allay Anne's

anxiety by trusting his message to her. The Count most readily and kindly complied with her request. The

message, he said, was a very important one. Lady Glyde entreated Anne and her good friend to return

immediately to London, as she felt certain that Sir Percival would discover them if they remained any longer

in the neighbourhood of Blackwater. She was herself going to London in a short time, and if Mrs. Clements

and Anne would go there first, and would let her know what their address was, they should hear from her and

see her in a fortnight or less. The Count added that he had already attempted to give a friendly warning to

Anne herself, but that she had been too much startled by seeing that he was a stranger to let him approach and

To this Mrs. Clements replied, in the greatest alarm and distress, that she asked nothing better than to take

Anne safely to London, but that there was no present hope of removing her from the dangerous

neighbourhood, as she lay ill in her bed at that moment. The Count inquired if Mrs. Clements had sent for

medical advice, and hearing that she had hitherto hesitated to do so, from the fear of making their position

publicly known in the village, informed her that he was himself a medical man, and that he would go back

with her if she pleased, and see what could be done for Anne. Mrs. Clements (feeling a natural confidence in

the Count, as a person trusted with a secret message from Lady Glyde) gratefully accepted the offer, and they

Anne was asleep when they got there. The Count started at the sight of her (evidently from astonishment at

her resemblance to Lady Glyde). Poor Mrs. Clements supposed that he was only shocked to see how ill she

was. He would not allow her to be awakenedhe was contented with putting questions to Mrs. Clements

about her symptoms, with looking at her, and with lightly touching her pulse. Sandon was a large enough

place to have a grocer's and druggist's shop in it, and thither the Count went to write his prescription and to

get the medicine made up. He brought it back himself, and told Mrs. Clements that the medicine was a

powerful stimulant, and that it would certainly give Anne strength to get up and bear the fatigue of a journey

to London of only a few hours. The remedy was to be administered at stated times on that day and on the day

after. On the third day she would be well enough to travel, and he arranged to meet Mrs. Clements at the

Blackwater station, and to see them off by the midday train. If they did not appear he would assume that

This medicine had an extraordinary effect on Anne, and the good results of it were helped by the assurance

Mrs. Clements could now give her that she would soon see Lady Glyde in London. At the appointed day and

time (when they had not been quite so long as a week in Hampshire altogether), they arrived at the station.

The Count was waiting there for them, and was talking to an elderly lady, who appeared to be going to travel

by the train to London also. He most kindly assisted them, and put them into the carriage himself, begging

Mrs. Clements not to forget to send her address to Lady Glyde. The elderly lady did not travel in the same

compartment, and they did not notice what became of her on reaching the London terminus. Mrs. Clements

secured respectable lodgings in a quiet neighbourhood, and then wrote, as she had engaged to do, to inform

At the end of that time a lady (the same elderly lady whom they had seen at the station) called in a cab, and

said that she came from Lady Glyde, who was then at an hotel in London, and who wished to see Mrs.

Clements, for the purpose of arranging a future interview with Anne. Mrs. Clements expressed her

willingness (Anne being present at the time, and entreating her to do so) to forward the object in view,

especially as she was not required to be away from the house for more than half an hour at the most. She and

the elderly lady (clearly Madame Fosco) then left in the cab. The lady stopped the cab, after it had driven

some distance, at a shop before they got to the hotel, and begged Mrs. Clements to wait for her for a few

minutes while she made a purchase that had been forgotten. She never appeared again.

After waiting some time Mrs. Clements became alarmed, and ordered the cabman to drive back to her

lodgings. When she got there, after an absence of rather more than half an hour, Anne was gone.

The only information to be obtained from the people of the house was derived from the servant who waited

on the lodgers. She had opened the door to a boy from the street, who had left a letter for "the young woman

who lived on the second floor" (the part of the house which Mrs. Clements occupied). The servant had

delivered the letter, had then gone downstairs, and five minutes afterwards had observed Anne open the front

door and go out, dressed in her bonnet and shawl. She had probably taken the letter with her, for it was not to

be found, and it was therefore impossible to tell what inducement had been offered to make her leave the

house. It must have been a strong one, for she would never stir out alone in London of her own accord. If

Mrs. Clements had not known this by experience nothing would have induced her to go away in the cab, even

As soon as she could collect her thoughts, the first idea that naturally occurred to Mrs. Clements was to go

and make inquiries at the Asylum, to which she dreaded that Anne had been taken back.

She went there the next day, having been informed of the locality in which the house was situated by Anne

herself. The answer she received (her application having in all probability been made a day or two before the

false Anne Catherick had really been consigned to safe keeping in the Asylum) was, that no such person had

been brought back there. She had then written to Mrs. Catherick at Welmingham to know if she had seen or

heard anything of her daughter, and had received an answer in the negative. After that reply had reached her,

she was at the end of her resources, and perfectly ignorant where else to inquire or what else to do. From that

time to this she had remained in total ignorance of the cause of Anne's disappearance and of the end of Anne's

Thus far the information which I had received from Mrs. Clements though it established facts of which I

It was clear that the series of deceptions which had removed Anne Catherick to London, and separated her

from Mrs. Clements, had been accomplished solely by Count Fosco and the Countess, and the question

whether any part of the conduct of husband or wife had been of a kind to place either of them within reach of

the law might be well worthy of future consideration. But the purpose I had now in view led me in another

direction than this. The immediate object of my visit to Mrs. Clements was to make some approach at least to

the discovery of Sir Percival's secret, and she had said nothing as yet which advanced me on my way to that

important end. I felt the necessity of trying to awaken her recollections of other times, persons, and events

than those on which her memory had hitherto been employed, and when I next spoke I spoke with that object

"I wish I could be of any help to you in this sad calamity," I said. "All I can do is to feel heartily for your

distress. If Anne had been your own child, Mrs. Clements, you could have shown her no truer kindnessyou

"There's no great merit in that, sir," said Mrs. Clements simply. "The poor thing was as good as my own child

to me. I nursed her from a baby, sir, bringing her up by handand a hard job it was to rear her. It wouldn't

go to my heart so to lose her if I hadn't made her first short clothes and taught her to walk. I always said she

was sent to console me for never having chick or child of my own. And now she's lost the old times keep

coming back to my mind, and even at my age I can't help crying about her I can't indeed, sir!"

I waited a little to give Mrs. Clements time to compose herself. Was the light that I had been looking for so

long glimmering on mefar off, as yetin the good woman's recollections of Anne's early life?

"Not very long, sirnot above four months. We saw a great deal of each other in that time, but we were

Her voice was steadier as she made that reply. Painful as many of her recollections might be, I observed that

it was unconsciously a relief to her mind to revert to the dimlyseen troubles of the past, after dwelling so

"Were you and Mrs. Catherick neighbours?" I inquired, leading her memory on as encouragingly as I could.

"Well, sir, there used to be in those daysbetter than threeand twenty years ago. They built a new town

about two miles off, convenient to the riverand Old Welmingham, which was never much more than a

village, got in time to be deserted. The new town is the place they call Welmingham nowbut the old parish

church is the parish church still. It stands by itself, with the houses pulled down or gone to ruin all round it.

"No, sirI'm a Norfolk woman. It wasn't the place my husband belonged to either. He was from Grimsby, as

I told you, and he served his apprenticeship there. But having friends down south, and hearing of an opening,

he got into business at Southampton. It was in a small way, but he made enough for a plain man to retire on,

and settled at Old Welmingham. I went there with him when he married me. We were neither of us young,

but we lived very happy togetherhappier than our neighbour, Mr. Catherick, lived along with his wife

"With Catherick, sirnot with his wife. She was a stranger to both of us. Some gentlemen had made interest

for Catherick, and he got the situation of clerk at Welmingham church, which was the reason of his coming to

settle in our neighbourhood. He brought his newlymarried wife along with him, and we heard in course of

time she had been lady'smaid in a family that lived at Varneck Hall, near Southampton. Catherick had found

it a hard matter to get her to marry him, in consequence of her holding herself uncommonly high. He had

asked and asked, and given the thing up at last, seeing she was so contrary about it. When he HAD given it up

she turned contrary just the other way, and came to him of her own accord, without rhyme or reason

seemingly. My poor husband always said that was the time to have given her a lesson. But Catherick was too

fond of her to do anything of the sorthe never checked her either before they were married or after. He was

a quick man in his feelings, letting them carry him a deal too far, now in one way and now in another, and he

would have spoilt a better wife than Mrs. Catherick if a better had married him. I don't like to speak ill of any

one, sir, but she was a heartless woman, with a terrible will of her ownfond of foolish admiration and fine

clothes, and not caring to show so much as decent outward respect to Catherick, kindly as he always treated

her. My husband said he thought things would turn out badly when they first came to live near us, and his

words proved true. Before they had been quite four months in our neighbourhood there was a dreadful

scandal and a miserable breakup in their household. Both of them were in faultI am afraid both of them

"Oh, no, sir! I don't mean Catherickhe was only to be pitied. I meant his wife and the person"

"Yes, sir. A gentleman born and brought up, who ought to have set a better example. You know him,

My heart beat fastI thought I had my hand on the clue. How little I knew then of the windings of the

"No, sir. He came among us as a stranger. His father had died not long before in foreign parts. I remember he

was in mourning. He put up at the little inn on the river (they have pulled it down since that time), where

gentlemen used to go to fish. He wasn't much noticed when he first cameit was a common thing enough

"Yes, sir. Anne was born in the June month of eighteen hundred and twentysevenand I think he came at

"Came as a stranger to all of you? A stranger to Mrs. Catherick as well as to the rest of the neighbours?"

"So we thought at first, sir. But when the scandal broke out, nobody believed they were strangers. I remember

how it happened as well as if it was yesterday. Catherick came into our garden one night, and woke us by

throwing up a handful of gravel from the walk at our window. I heard him beg my husband, for the Lord's

sake, to come down and speak to him. They were a long time together talking in the porch. When my

husband came back upstairs he was all of a tremble. He sat down on the side of the bed and he says to me,

'Lizzie! I always told you that woman was a bad oneI always said she would end ill, and I'm afraid in my

own mind that the end has come already. Catherick has found a lot of lace handkerchiefs, and two fine rings,

and a new gold watch and chain, hid away in his wife's drawerthings that nobody but a born lady ought

ever to haveand his wife won't say how she came by them.' 'Does he think she stole them?' says I. 'No,'

says he, 'stealing would be bad enough. But it's worse than that, she's had no chance of stealing such things as

those, and she's not a woman to take them if she had. They're gifts, Lizziethere's her own initials engraved

inside the watchand Catherick has seen her talking privately, and carrying on as no married woman should,

with that gentleman in mourning, Sir Percival Glyde. Don't you say anything about itI've quieted Catherick

for tonight. I've told him to keep his tongue to himself, and his eyes and his ears open, and to wait a day or

two, till he can be quite certain.' 'I believe you are both of you wrong,' says I. 'It's not in nature, comfortable

and respectable as she is here, that Mrs. Catherick should take up with a chance stranger like Sir Percival

Glyde.' 'Ay, but is he a stranger to her?' says my husband. 'You forget how Catherick's wife came to marry

him. She went to him of her own accord, after saying No over and over again when he asked her. There have

been wicked women before her time, Lizzie, who have used honest men who loved them as a means of

saving their characters, and I'm sorely afraid this Mrs. Catherick is as wicked as the worst of them. We shall

see,' says my husband, 'we shall soon see.' And only two days afterwards we did see."

Mrs. Clements waited for a moment before she went on. Even in that moment, I began to doubt whether the

clue that I thought I had found was really leading me to the central mystery of the labyrinth after all. Was this

common, too common, story of a man's treachery and a woman's frailty the key to a secret which had been

"Well, sir, Catherick took my husband's advice and waited," Mrs. Clements continued. "And as I told you, he

hadn't long to wait. On the second day he found his wife and Sir Percival whispering together quite familiar,

close under the vestry of the church. I suppose they thought the neighbourhood of the vestry was the last

place in the world where anybody would think of looking after them, but, however that may be, there they

were. Sir Percival, being seemingly surprised and confounded, defended himself in such a guilty way that

poor Catherick (whose quick temper I have told you of already) fell into a kind of frenzy at his own disgrace,

and struck Sir Percival. He was no match (and I am sorry to say it) for the man who had wronged him, and he

was beaten in the cruelest manner, before the neighbours, who had come to the place on hearing the

disturbance, could run in to part them. All this happened towards evening, and before nightfall, when my

husband went to Catherick's house, he was gone, nobody knew where. No living soul in the village ever saw

him again. He knew too well, by that time, what his wife's vile reason had been for marrying him, and he felt

his misery and disgrace, especially after what had happened to him with Sir Percival, too keenly. The

clergyman of the parish put an advertisement in the paper begging him to come back, and saying that he

should not lose his situation or his friends. But Catherick had too much pride and spirit, as some people

saidtoo much feeling, as I think, sirto face his neighbours again, and try to live down the memory of his

disgrace. My husband heard from him when he had left England, and heard a second time, when he was

settled and doing well in America. He is alive there now, as far as I know, but none of us in the old

"Not he, sir. The place was too hot to hold him. He was heard at high words with Mrs. Catherick the same

"And Mrs. Catherick? Surely she never remained in the village among the people who knew of her disgrace?"

"She did, sir. She was hard enough and heartless enough to set the opinions of all her neighbours at flat

defiance. She declared to everybody, from the clergyman downwards, that she was the victim of a dreadful

mistake, and that all the scandalmongers in the place should not drive her out of it, as if she was a guilty

woman. All through my time she lived at Old Welmingham, and after my time, when the new town was

building, and the respectable neighbours began moving to it, she moved too, as if she was determined to live

among them and scandalise them to the very last. There she is now, and there she will stop, in defiance of the

"But how has she lived through all these years?" I asked. "Was her husband able and willing to help her?"

"Both able and willing, sir," said Mrs. Clements. "In the second letter he wrote to my good man, he said she

had borne his name, and lived in his home, and, wicked as she was, she must not starve like a beggar in the

street. He could afford to make her some small allowance, and she might draw for it quarterly at a place in

"Not a farthing of it, sir. She said she would never be beholden to Catherick for bit or drop, if she lived to be

a hundred. And she has kept her word ever since. When my poor dear husband died, and left all to me,

Catherick's letter was put in my possession with the other things, and I told her to let me know if she was ever

in want. 'I'll let all England know I'm in want,' she said, 'before I tell Catherick, or any friend of Catherick's.

Take that for your answer, and give it to HIM for an answer, if he ever writes again.' "

"Very little, if any, sir. It was said, and said truly, I am afraid, that her means of living came privately from

After that last reply I waited a little, to reconsider what I had heard. If I unreservedly accepted the story so

far, it was now plain that no approach, direct or indirect, to the Secret had yet been revealed to me, and that

the pursuit of my object had ended again in leaving me face to face with the most palpable and the most

But there was one point in the narrative which made me doubt the propriety of accepting it unreservedly, and

I could not account to myself for the circumstance of the clerk's guilty wife voluntarily living out all her

afterexistence on the scene of her disgrace. The woman's own reported statement that she had taken this

strange course as a practical assertion of her innocence did not satisfy me. It seemed, to my mind, more

natural and more probable to assume that she was not so completely a free agent in this matter as she had

herself asserted. In that case, who was the likeliest person to possess the power of compelling her to remain at

Welmingham? The person unquestionably from whom she derived the means of living. She had refused

assistance from her husband, she had no adequate resources of her own, she was a friendless, degraded

womanfrom what source should she derive help but from the source at which report pointedSir Percival

Reasoning on these assumptions, and always bearing in mind the one certain fact to guide me, that Mrs.

Catherick was in possession of the Secret, I easily understood that it was Sir Percival's interest to keep her at

Welmingham, because her character in that place was certain to isolate her from all communication with

female neighbours, and to allow her no opportunities of talking incautiously in moments of free intercourse

with inquisitive bosom friends. But what was the mystery to be concealed? Not Sir Percival's infamous

connection with Mrs. Catherick's disgrace, for the neighbours were the very people who knew of itnot the

suspicion that he was Anne's father, for Welmingham was the place in which that suspicion must inevitably

exist. If I accepted the guilty appearances described to me as unreservedly as others had accepted them, if I

drew from them the same superficial conclusion which Mr. Catherick and all his neighbours had drawn,

where was the suggestion, in all that I had heard, of a dangerous secret between Sir Percival and Mrs.

And yet, in those stolen meetings, in those familiar whisperings between the clerk's wife and "the gentleman

Was it possible that appearances in this case had pointed one way while the truth lay all the while

unsuspected in another direction? Could Mrs. Catherick's assertion, that she was the victim of a dreadful

mistake, by any possibility be true? Or, assuming it to be false, could the conclusion which associated Sir

Percival with her guilt have been founded in some inconceivable error? Had Sir Percival, by any chance,

courted the suspicion that was wrong for the sake of diverting from himself some other suspicion that was

right? Hereif I could find ithere was the approach to the Secret, hidden deep under the surface of the

My next questions were now directed to the one object of ascertaining whether Mr. Catherick had or had not

arrived truly at the conviction of his wife's misconduct. The answers I received from Mrs. Clements left me in

no doubt whatever on that point. Mrs. Catherick had, on the clearest evidence, compromised her reputation,

while a single woman, with some person unknown, and had married to save her character. It had been

positively ascertained, by calculations of time and place into which I need not enter particularly, that the

The next object of inquiry, whether it was equally certain that Sir Percival must have been the father of Anne,

was beset by far greater difficulties. I was in no position to try the probabilities on one side or on the other in

"Not like her mother either, sir. Mrs. Catherick was dark, and full in the face."

Not like her mother and not like her (supposed) father. I knew that the test by personal resemblance was not

to be implicitly trusted, but, on the other hand, it was not to be altogether rejected on that account. Was it

possible to strengthen the evidence by discovering any conclusive facts in relation to the lives of Mrs.

Catherick and Sir Percival before they either of them appeared at Old Welmingham? When I asked my next

"When Sir Percival first arrived in your neighbourhood," I said, "did you hear where he had come from last?"

"No, sir. Some said from Blackwater Park, and some said from Scotlandbut nobody knew."

"Was Mrs. Catherick living in service at Varneck Hall immediately before her marriage?"

"Did you ever hear the name of the gentleman to whom Varneck Hall belonged at that time?"

"Did Mr. Catherick, or did any one else you knew, ever hear that Sir Percival was a friend of Major

"Catherick never did, sir, that I can remembernor any one else either, that I know of."

I noted down Major Donthorne's name and address, on the chance that he might still be alive, and that it

might be useful at some future time to apply to him. Meanwhile, the impression on my mind was now

decidedly adverse to the opinion that Sir Percival was Anne's father, and decidedly favourable to the

conclusion that the secret of his stolen interviews with Mrs. Catherick was entirely unconnected with the

disgrace which the woman had inflicted on her husband's good name. I could think of no further inquiries

which I might make to strengthen this impressionI could only encourage Mrs. Clements to speak next of

Anne's early days, and watch for any chancesuggestion which might in this way offer itself to me.

"I have not heard yet," I said, "how the poor child, born in all this sin and misery, came to be trusted, Mrs.

"There was nobody else, sir, to take the little helpless creature in hand," replied Mrs. Clements. "The wicked

mother seemed to hate itas if the poor baby was in fault!from the day it was born. My heart was heavy

for the child, and I made the offer to bring it up as tenderly as if it was my own."

"Not quite entirely, sir. Mrs. Catherick had her whims and fancies about it at times, and used now and then to

lay claim to the child, as if she wanted to spite me for bringing it up. But these fits of hers never lasted for

long. Poor little Anne was always returned to me, and was always glad to get backthough she led but a

gloomy life in my house, having no playmates, like other children, to brighten her up. Our longest separation

was when her mother took her to Limmeridge. Just at that time I lost my husband, and I felt it was as well, in

that miserable affliction, that Anne should not be in the house. She was between ten and eleven years old

then, slow at her lessons, poor soul, and not so cheerful as other childrenbut as pretty a little girl to look at

as you would wish to see. I waited at home till her mother brought her back, and then I made the offer to take

her with me to Londonthe truth being, sir, that I could not find it in my heart to stop at Old Welmingham

"No, sir. She came back from the north harder and bitterer than ever. Folks did say that she had been obliged

to ask Sir Percival's leave to go, to begin with; and that she only went to nurse her dying sister at Limmeridge

because the poor woman was reported to have saved moneythe truth being that she hardly left enough to

bury her. These things may have soured Mrs. Catherick likely enough, but however that may be, she wouldn't

hear of my taking the child away. She seemed to like distressing us both by parting us. All I could do was to

give Anne my direction, and to tell her privately, if she was ever in trouble, to come to me. But years passed

before she was free to come. I never saw her again, poor soul, till the night she escaped from the

"I only know what Anne herself told me, sir. The poor thing used to ramble and wander about it sadly. She

said her mother had got some secret of Sir Percival's to keep, and had let it out to her long after I left

Hampshireand when Sir Percival found she knew it, he shut her up. But she never could say what it was

when I asked her. All she could tell me was, that her mother might be the ruin and destruction of Sir Percival

if she chose. Mrs. Catherick may have let out just as much as that, and no more. I'm next to certain I should

have heard the whole truth from Anne, if she had really known it as she pretended to do, and as she very

This idea had more than once occurred to my own mind. I had already told Marian that I doubted whether

Laura was really on the point of making any important discovery when she and Anne Catherick were

disturbed by Count Fosco at the boathouse. It was perfectly in character with Anne's mental affliction that

she should assume an absolute knowledge of the secret on no better grounds than vague suspicion, derived

from hints which her mother had incautiously let drop in her presence. Sir Percival's guilty distrust would, in

that case, infallibly inspire him with the false idea that Anne knew all from her mother, just as it had

afterwards fixed in his mind the equally false suspicion that his wife knew all from Anne.

The time was passing, the morning was wearing away. It was doubtful, if I stayed longer, whether I should

hear anything more from Mrs. Clements that would be at all useful to my purpose. I had already discovered

those local and family particulars, in relation to Mrs. Catherick, of which I had been in search, and I had

arrived at certain conclusions, entirely new to me, which might immensely assist in directing the course of

my future proceedings. I rose to take my leave, and to thank Mrs. Clements for the friendly readiness she had

"I am afraid you must have thought me very inquisitive," I said. "I have troubled you with more questions

"You are heartily welcome, sir, to anything I can tell you," answered Mrs. Clements. She stopped and looked

at me wistfully. "But I do wish," said the poor woman, "you could have told me a little more about Anne, sir.

I thought I saw something in your face when you came in which looked as if you could. You can't think how

hard it is not even to know whether she is living or dead. I could bear it better if I was only certain. You said

you never expected we should see her alive again. Do you know, sir do you know for truththat it has

I was not proof against this appeal, it would have been unspeakably mean and cruel of me if I had resisted it.

"I am afraid there is no doubt of the truth," I answered gently; "I have the certainty in my own mind that her

The poor woman dropped into her chair and hid her face from me. "Oh, sir," she said, "how do you know it?

"No one has told me, Mrs. Clements. But I have reasons for feeling sure of itreasons which I promise you

shall know as soon as I can safely explain them. I am certain she was not neglected in her last momentsI

am certain the heart complaint from which she suffered so sadly was the true cause of her death. You shall

feel as sure of this as I do, soonyou shall know, before long, that she is buried in a quiet country

churchyardin a pretty, peaceful place, which you might have chosen for her yourself."

"Dead!" said Mrs. Clements, "dead so young, and I am left to hear it! I made her first short frocks. I taught

her to walk. The first time she ever said Mother she said it to meand now I am left and Anne is taken! Did

you say, sir," said the poor woman, removing the handkerchief from her face, and looking up at me for the

first time, "did you say that she had been nicely buried? Was it the sort of funeral she might have had if she

I assured her that it was. She seemed to take an inexplicable pride in my answerto find a comfort in it

which no other and higher considerations could afford. "It would have broken my heart," she said simply, "if

Anne had not been nicely buriedbut how do you know it, sir? who told you?" I once more entreated her to

wait until I could speak to her unreservedly. "You are sure to see me again," I said, "for I have a favour to ask

"Don't keep it waiting, sir, on my account," said Mrs. Clements. "Never mind my crying if I can be of use. If

"I only wish to ask you one last question," I said. "I only want to know Mrs. Catherick's address at

My request so startled Mrs. Clements, that, for the moment, even the tidings of Anne's death seemed to be

driven from her mind. Her tears suddenly ceased to flow, and she sat looking at me in blank amazement.

"I want this, Mrs. Clements," I replied, "I want to know the secret of those private meetings of hers with Sir

Percival Glyde. There is something more in what you have told me of that woman's past conduct, and of that

man's past relations with her, than you or any of your neighbours ever suspected. There is a secret we none of

us know between those two, and I am going to Mrs. Catherick with the resolution to find it out."

"Think twice about it, sir!" said Mrs. Clements, rising in her earnestness and laying her hand on my arm.

"I am sure your warning is kindly meant, Mrs. Clements. But I am determined to see the woman, whatever

"You shall hear from me soon," I said; "you shall know all that I have promised to tell you."

"An old woman's advice is sometimes worth taking, sir," she said. "Think twice before you go to

When I reached home again after my interview with Mrs. Clements, I was struck by the appearance of a

The unvarying gentleness and patience which long misfortune had tried so cruelly and had never conquered

yet, seemed now to have suddenly failed her. Insensible to all Marian's attempts to soothe and amuse her, she

sat, with her neglected drawing pushed away on the table, her eyes resolutely cast down, her fingers twining

and untwining themselves restlessly in her lap. Marian rose when I came in, with a silent distress in her face,

waited for a moment to see if Laura would look up at my approach, whispered to me, "Try if you can rouse

I sat down in the vacant chairgently unclasped the poor, worn, restless fingers, and took both her hands in

"What are you thinking of, Laura? Tell me, my darlingtry and tell me what it is."

She struggled with herself, and raised her eyes to mine. "I can't feel happy," she said, "I can't help

thinking" She stopped, bent forward a little, and laid her head on my shoulder, with a terrible mute

"I am so uselessI am such a burden on both of you," she answered, with a weary, hopeless sigh. "You work

and get money, Walter, and Marian helps you. Why is there nothing I can do? You will end in liking Marian

better than you like meyou will, because I am so helpless! Oh, don't, don't, don't treat me like a child!"

I raised her head, and smoothed away the tangled hair that fell over her face, and kissed hermy poor, faded

flower! my lost, afflicted sister! "You shall help us, Laura," I said, "you shall begin, my darling, today."

She looked at me with a feverish eagerness, with a breathless interest, that made me tremble for the new life

"You know that I work and get money by drawing," I said. "Now you have taken such pains, now you are so

much improved, you shall begin to work and get money too. Try to finish this little sketch as nicely and

prettily as you can. When it is done I will take it away with me, and the same person will buy it who buys all

that I do. You shall keep your own earnings in your own purse, and Marian shall come to you to help us, as

often as she comes to me. Think how useful you are going to make yourself to both of us, and you will soon

Her face grew eager, and brightened into a smile. In the moment while it lasted, in the moment when she

again took up the pencils that had been laid aside, she almost looked like the Laura of past days.

I had rightly interpreted the first signs of a new growth and strength in her mind, unconsciously expressing

themselves in the notice she had taken of the occupations which filled her sister's life and mine. Marian

(when I told her what had passed) saw, as I saw, that she was longing to assume her own little position of

importance, to raise herself in her own estimation and in ours and, from that day, we tenderly helped the

new ambition which gave promise of the hopeful, happier future, that might now not be far off. Her drawings,

as she finished them, or tried to finish them, were placed in my hands. Marian took them from me and hid

them carefully, and I set aside a little weekly tribute from my earnings, to be offered to her as the price paid

by strangers for the poor, faint, valueless sketches, of which I was the only purchaser. It was hard sometimes

to maintain our innocent deception, when she proudly brought out her purse to contribute her share towards

the expenses, and wondered with serious interest, whether I or she had earned the most that week. I have all

those hidden drawings in my possession stillthey are my treasures beyond pricethe dear remembrances

that I love to keep alivethe friends in past adversity that my heart will never part from, my tenderness

Am I trifling, here, with the necessities of my task? am I looking forward to the happier time which my

narrative has not yet reached? Yes. Back againback to the days of doubt and dread, when the spirit within

me struggled hard for its life, in the icy stillness of perpetual suspense. I have paused and rested for a while

on my forward course. It is not, perhaps, time wasted, if the friends who read these pages have paused and

I took the first opportunity I could find of speaking to Marian in private, and of communicating to her the

result of the inquiries which I had made that morning. She seemed to share the opinion on the subject of my

proposed journey to Welmingham, which Mrs. Clements had already expressed to me.

"Surely, Walter," she said, "you hardly know enough yet to give you any hope of claiming Mrs. Catherick's

confidence? Is it wise to proceed to these extremities, before you have really exhausted all safer and simpler

means of attaining your object? When you told me that Sir Percival and the Count were the only two people

in existence who knew the exact date of Laura's journey, you forgot, and I forgot, that there was a third

person who must surely know itI mean Mrs. Rubelle. Would it not be far easier, and far less dangerous, to

"It might be easier," I replied, "but we are not aware of the full extent of Mrs. Rubelle's connivance and

interest in the conspiracy, and we are therefore not certain that the date has been impressed on her mind, as it

has been assuredly impressed on the minds of Sir Percival and the Count. It is too late, now, to waste the time

on Mrs. Rubelle, which may be allimportant to the discovery of the one assailable point in Sir Percival's

life? Are you thinking a little too seriously, Marian, of the risk I may run in returning to Hampshire? Are you

beginning to doubt whether Sir Percival Glyde may not in the end be more than a match for me?"

"He will not be more than your match," she replied decidedly, "because he will not be helped in resisting you

"My own knowledge of Sir Percival's obstinacy and impatience of the Count's control," she answered. "I

believe he will insist on meeting you singlehandedjust as he insisted at first on acting for himself at

Blackwater Park. The time for suspecting the Count's interference will be the time when you have Sir

Percival at your mercy. His own interests will then be directly threatened, and he will act, Walter, to terrible

"We may deprive him of his weapons beforehand," I said. "Some of the particulars I have heard from Mrs.

Clements may yet be turned to account against him, and other means of strengthening the case may be at our

disposal. There are passages in Mrs. Michelson's narrative which show that the Count found it necessary to

place himself in communication with Mr. Fairlie, and there may be circumstances which compromise him in

that proceeding. While I am away, Marian, write to Mr. Fairlie and say that you want an answer describing

exactly what passed between the Count and himself, and informing you also of any particulars that may have

come to his knowledge at the same time in connection with his niece. Tell him that the statement you request

will, sooner or later, be insisted on, if he shows any reluctance to furnish you with it of his own accord."

"The letter shall be written, Walter. But are you really determined to go to Welmingham?"

"Absolutely determined. I will devote the next two days to earning what we want for the week to come, and

As it was possible that I might be absent for some little time, I arranged with Marian that we were to

correspond every dayof course addressing each other by assumed names, for caution's sake. As long as I

heard from her regularly, I should assume that nothing was wrong. But if the morning came and brought me

no letter, my return to London would take place, as a matter of course, by the first train. I contrived to

reconcile Laura to my departure by telling her that I was going to the country to find new purchasers for her

drawings and for mine, and I left her occupied and happy. Marian followed me downstairs to the street door.

"Remember what anxious hearts you leave here," she whispered, as we stood together in the passage.

"Remember all the hopes that hang on your safe return. If strange things happen to you on this journeyif

"I don't knowI have fears and fancies that I cannot account for. Laugh at them, Walter, if you likebut,

I walked briskly to the station. There was a glow of hope in me. There was a growing conviction in my mind

that my journey this time would not be taken in vain. It was a fine, clear, cold morning. My nerves were

firmly strung, and I felt all the strength of my resolution stirring in me vigorously from head to foot.

As I crossed the railway platform, and looked right and left among the people congregated on it, to search for

any faces among them that I knew, the doubt occurred to me whether it might not have been to my advantage

if I had adopted a disguise before setting out for Hampshire. But there was something so repellent to me in

the ideasomething so meanly like the common herd of spies and informers in the mere act of adopting a

disguisethat I dismissed the question from consideration almost as soon as it had risen in my mind. Even

as a mere matter of expediency the proceeding was doubtful in the extreme. If I tried the experiment at home

the landlord of the house would sooner or later discover me, and would have his suspicions aroused

immediately. If I tried it away from home the same persons might see me, by the commonest accident, with

the disguise and without it, and I should in that way be inviting the notice and distrust which it was my most

pressing interest to avoid. In my own character I had acted thus farand in my own character I was resolved

Is there any wilderness of sand in the deserts of Arabia, is there any prospect of desolation among the ruins of

Palestine, which can rival the repelling effect on the eye, and the depressing influence on the mind, of an

English country town in the first stage of its existence, and in the transition state of its prosperity? I asked

myself that question as I passed through the clean desolation, the neat ugliness, the prim torpor of the streets

of Welmingham. And the tradesmen who stared after me from their lonely shopsthe trees that drooped

helpless in their arid exile of unfinished crescents and squaresthe dead house carcasses that waited in vain

for the vivifying human element to animate them with the breath of lifeevery creature that I saw, every

object that I passed, seemed to answer with one accord: The deserts of Arabia are innocent of our civilised

I inquired my way to the quarter of the town in which Mrs. Catherick lived, and on reaching it found myself

in a square of small houses, one story high. There was a bare little plot of grass in the middle, protected by a

cheap wire fence. An elderly nursemaid and two children were standing in a corner of the enclosure, looking

at a lean goat tethered to the grass. Two footpassengers were talking together on one side of the pavement

before the houses, and an idle little boy was leading an idle little dog along by a string on the other. I heard

the dull tinkling of a piano at a distance, accompanied by the intermittent knocking of a hammer nearer at

hand. These were all the sights and sounds of life that encountered me when I entered the square.

I walked at once to the door of Number Thirteenthe number of Mrs. Catherick's houseand knocked,

without waiting to consider beforehand how I might best present myself when I got in. The first necessity was

to see Mrs. Catherick. I could then judge, from my own observation, of the safest and easiest manner of

The door was opened by a melancholy middleaged woman servant. I gave her my card, and asked if I could

see Mrs. Catherick. The card was taken into the front parlour, and the servant returned with a message

"Say, if you please, that my business relates to Mrs. Catherick's daughter," I replied. This was the best pretext

The servant again retired to the parlour, again returned, and this time begged me, with a look of gloomy

I entered a little room, with a flaring paper of the largest pattern on the walls. Chairs, tables, cheffonier, and

sofa, all gleamed with the glutinous brightness of cheap upholstery. On the largest table, in the middle of the

room, stood a smart Bible, placed exactly in the centre on a red and yellow woollen mat and at the side of the

table nearest to the window, with a little knittingbasket on her lap, and a wheezing, bleareyed old spaniel

crouched at her feet, there sat an elderly woman, wearing a black net cap and a black silk gown, and having

slatecoloured mittens on her hands. Her irongrey hair hung in heavy bands on either side of her faceher

dark eyes looked straight forward, with a hard, defiant, implacable stare. She had full square cheeks, a long,

firm chin, and thick, sensual, colourless lips. Her figure was stout and sturdy, and her manner aggressively

"You have come to speak to me about my daughter," she said, before I could utter a word on my side. "Be so

The tone of her voice was as hard, as defiant, as implacable as the expression of her eyes. She pointed to a

chair, and looked me all over attentively, from head to foot, as I sat down in it. I saw that my only chance

with this woman was to speak to her in her own tone, and to meet her, at the outset of our interview, on her

"Have you felt any apprehension that the misfortune of her loss might be followed by the misfortune of her

She put that extraordinary question without the slightest change in her voice, her face, or her manner. She

could not have appeared more perfectly unconcerned if I had told her of the death of the goat in the enclosure

"Why?" I repeated. "Do you ask why I come here to tell you of your daughter's death?"

"Yes. What interest have you in me, or in her? How do you come to know anything about my daughter?"

"In this way. I met her on the night when she escaped from the Asylum, and I assisted her in reaching a place

As she was determined to have her answer, I gave it to her in the plainest possible form.

"I came," I said, "because I thought Anne Catherick's mother might have some natural interest in knowing

"Just so," said Mrs. Catherick, with additional selfpossession. "Had you no other motive?"

I hesitated. The right answer to that question was not easy to find at a moment's notice.

"If you have no other motive," she went on, deliberately taking off her slatecoloured mittens, and rolling

them up, "I have only to thank you for your visit, and to say that I will not detain you here any longer. Your

information would be more satisfactory if you were willing to explain how you became possessed of it.

However, it justifies me, I suppose, in going into mourning. There is not much alteration necessary in my

She searched in the pocket of her gown, drew out a pair of black lace mittens, put them on with the stoniest

The cool contempt of her manner irritated me into directly avowing that the purpose of my visit had not been

"Your daughter's death has been made the pretext for inflicting serious injury on a person who is very dear to

me. Two men have been concerned, to my certain knowledge, in doing that wrong. One of them is Sir

I looked attentively to see if she flinched at the sudden mention of that name. Not a muscle of her

stirredthe hard, defiant, implacable stare in her eyes never wavered for an instant.

"You may wonder," I went on, "how the event of your daughter's death can have been made the means of

"No," said Mrs. Catherick; "I don't wonder at all. This appears to be your affair. You are interested in my

"I mention it because I am determined to bring Sir Percival Glyde to account for the wickedness he has

"You shall hear. There are certain events in Sir Percival's past life which it is necessary for my purpose to be

"Events that occurred at Old Welmingham when your husband was parishclerk at that place, and before the

I had reached the woman at last through the barrier of impenetrable reserve that she had tried to set up

between us. I saw her temper smouldering in her eyesas plainly as I saw her hands grow restless, then

There was a momentary flush on her firm square face, a momentary stillness in her restless hands, which

seemed to betoken a coming outburst of anger that might throw her off her guard. But noshe mastered the

rising irritation, leaned back in her chair, crossed her arms on her broad bosom, and with a smile of grim

"Ah! I begin to understand it all now," she said, her tamed and disciplined anger only expressing itself in the

elaborate mockery of her tone and manner. "You have got a grudge of your own against Sir Percival Glyde,

and I must help you to wreak it. I must tell you this, that, and the other about Sir Percival and myself, must I?

Yes, indeed? You have been prying into my private affairs. You think you have found a lost woman to deal

with, who lives here on sufferance, and who will do anything you ask for fear you may injure her in the

opinions of the town'speople. I see through you and your precious speculationI do! and it amuses me. Ha!

She stopped for a moment, her arms tightened over her bosom, and she laughed to herselfa hard, harsh,

"You don't know how I have lived in this place, and what I have done in this place, Mr. What'syourname,"

she went on. "I'll tell you, before I ring the bell and have you shown out. I came here a wronged womanI

came here robbed of my character and determined to claim it back. I've been years and years about it and I

HAVE claimed it back. I have matched the respectable people fairly and openly on their own ground. If they

say anything against me now they must say it in secretthey can't say it, they daren't say it, openly. I stand

high enough in this town to be out of your reach. THE CLERGYMAN BOWS TO ME. Aha! you didn't

bargain for that when you came here. Go to the church and inquire about meyou will find Mrs. Catherick

has her sitting like the rest of them, and pays the rent on the day it's due. Go to the townhall. There's a

petition lying therea petition of the respectable inhabitants against allowing a circus to come and perform

here and corrupt our moralsyes! OUR morals. I signed that petition this morning. Go to the bookseller's

shop. The clergyman's Wednesday evening Lectures on Justification by Faith are publishing there by

subscriptionI'm down on the list. The doctor's wife only put a shilling in the plate at our last charity

sermonI put halfacrown. Mr. Churchwarden Soward held the plate, and bowed to me. Ten years ago he

told Pigrum the chemist I ought to be whipped out of the town at the cart's tail. Is your mother alive? Has she

got a better Bible on her table than I have got on mine? Does she stand better with her tradespeople than I

do with mine? Has she always lived within her income? I have always lived within mine. Ah! there IS the

clergyman coming along the square. Look, Mr. What'syournamelook, if you please!"

She started up with the activity of a young woman, went to the window, waited till the clergyman passed, and

bowed to him solemnly. The clergyman ceremoniously raised his hat, and walked on. Mrs. Catherick returned

"There!" she said. "What do you think of that for a woman with a lost character? How does your speculation

The singular manner in which she had chosen to assert herself, the extraordinary practical vindication of her

position in the town which she had just offered, had so perplexed me that I listened to her in silent surprise. I

was not the less resolved, however, to make another effort to throw her off her guard. If the woman's fierce

temper once got beyond her control, and once flamed out on me, she might yet say the words which would

"Exactly as it looked when I first came in," I answered. "I don't doubt the position you have gained in the

town, and I don't wish to assail it even if I could. I came here because Sir Percival Glyde is, to my certain

knowledge, your enemy, as well as mine. If I have a grudge against him, you have a grudge against him too.

You may deny it if you like, you may distrust me as much as you please, you may be as angry as you

willbut, of all the women in England, you, if you have any sense of injury, are the woman who ought to

"Crush him for yourself," she said; "then come back here, and see what I say to you."

She spoke those words as she had not spoken yet, quickly, fiercely, vindictively. I had stirred in its lair the

serpent hatred of years, but only for a moment. Like a lurking reptile it leaped up at me as she eagerly bent

forward towards the place in which I was sitting. Like a lurking reptile it dropped out of sight again as she

Her colour was rising, and her hands were at work again smoothing her gown. I pressed the point farther and

"Sir Percival has a high position in the world," I said; "it would be no wonder if you were afraid of him. Sir

Percival is a powerful man, a baronet, the possessor of a fine estate, the descendant of a great family"

"Yes," she repeated, in tones of the bitterest, steadiest contempt. "A baronet, the possessor of a fine estate, the

descendant of a great family. Yes, indeed! A great family especially by the mother's side."

There was no time to reflect on the words that had just escaped her, there was only time to feel that they were

"I am not here to dispute with you about family questions," I said. "I know nothing of Sir Percival's

"I advise you not to be too sure of that," I rejoined. "I know some things about him, and I suspect many

"I'll tell you what I DON'T suspect. I DON'T suspect him of being Anne's father."

"How dare you talk to me about Anne's father! How dare you say who was her father, or who wasn't!" she

"The secret between you and Sir Percival is not THAT secret," I persisted. "The mystery which darkens Sir

Percival's life was not born with your daughter's birth, and has not died with your daughter's death."

"There was no thought of the child in your heart or in his,' I went on, determined to press her back to her last

defences. "There was no bond of guilty love between you and him when you held those stolen meetings,

when your husband found you whispering together under the vestry of the church."

Her pointing hand instantly dropped to her side, and the deep flush of anger faded from her face while I

spoke. I saw the change pass over herI saw that hard, firm, fearless, self possessed woman quail under a

terror which her utmost resolution was not strong enough to resist when I said those five last words, "the

She could not call the colour that had left it back to her face, but she had steadied her voice, she had

I walked to the door, waited a moment before I opened it, and turned round to look at her again.

"I may have news to bring you of Sir Percival which you don't expect," I said, "and in that case I shall come

She stopped, her pale face darkened, and she stole back with a quiet, stealthy, catlike step to her chair.

"Except the news of his death," she said, sitting down again, with the mockery of a smile just hovering on her

As I opened the door of the room to go out, she looked round at me quickly. The cruel smile slowly widened

her lipsshe eyed me, with a strange stealthy interest, from head to footan unutterable expectation

showed itself wickedly all over her face. Was she speculating, in the secrecy of her own heart, on my youth

and strength, on the force of my sense of injury and the limits of my selfcontrol, and was she considering

the lengths to which they might carry me, if Sir Percival and I ever chanced to meet? The bare doubt that it

might be so drove me from her presence, and silenced even the common forms of farewell on my lips.

As I opened the outer door, I saw the same clergyman who had already passed the house once, about to pass

it again, on his way back through the square. I waited on the doorstep to let him go by, and looked round, as

Mrs. Catherick had heard his footsteps approaching, in the silence of that lonely place, and she was on her

feet at the window again, waiting for him. Not all the strength of all the terrible passions I had roused in that

woman's heart, could loosen her desperate hold on the one fragment of social consideration which years of

resolute effort had just dragged within her grasp. There she was again, not a minute after I had left her, placed

purposely in a position which made it a matter of common courtesy on the part of the clergyman to bow to

her for a second time. He raised his hat once more. I saw the hard ghastly face behind the window soften, and

light up with gratified prideI saw the head with the grim black cap bend ceremoniously in return. The

I Left the house, feeling that Mrs. Catherick had helped me a step forward, in spite of herself. Before I had

reached the turning which led out of the square, my attention was suddenly aroused by the sound of a closing

I looked round, and saw an undersized man in black on the door step of a house, which, as well as I could

judge, stood next to Mrs. Catherick's place of abodenext to it, on the side nearest to me. The man did not

hesitate a moment about the direction he should take. He advanced rapidly towards the turning at which I had

stopped. I recognised him as the lawyer's clerk, who had preceded me in my visit to Blackwater Park, and

who had tried to pick a quarrel with me, when I asked him if I could see the house.

I waited where I was, to ascertain whether his object was to come to close quarters and speak on this

occasion. To my surprise he passed on rapidly, without saying a word, without even looking up in my face as

he went by. This was such a complete inversion of the course of proceeding which I had every reason to

expect on his part, that my curiosity, or rather my suspicion, was aroused, and I determined on my side to

keep him cautiously in view, and to discover what the business might be in which he was now employed.

Without caring whether he saw me or not, I walked after him. He never looked back, and he led me straight

The train was on the point of starting, and two or three passengers who were late were clustering round the

small opening through which the tickets were issued. I joined them, and distinctly heard the lawyer's clerk

demand a ticket for the Blackwater station I satisfied myself that he had actually left by the train before I

There was only one interpretation that I could place on what I had just seen and heard. I had unquestionably

observed the man leaving a house which closely adjoined Mrs. Catherick's residence. He had been probably

placed there, by Sir Percival's directions, as a lodger, in anticipation of my inquiries leading me, sooner or

later, to communicate with Mrs. Catherick. He had doubtless seen me go in and come out, and he had hurried

away by the first train to make his report at Blackwater Park, to which place Sir Percival would naturally

betake himself (knowing what he evidently knew of my movements), in order to be ready on the spot, if I

returned to Hampshire. Before many days were over, there seemed every likelihood now that he and I might

Whatever result events might be destined to produce, I resolved to pursue my own course, straight to the end

in view, without stopping or turning aside for Sir Percival or for any one. The great responsibility which

weighed on me heavily in Londonthe responsibility of so guiding my slightest actions as to prevent them

from leading accidentally to the discovery of Laura's place of refugewas removed, now that I was in

Hampshire. I could go and come as I pleased at Welmingham, and if I chanced to fail in observing any

necessary precautions, the immediate results, at least, would affect no one but myself.

When I left the station the winter evening was beginning to close in. There was little hope of continuing my

inquiries after dark to any useful purpose in a neighbourhood that was strange to me. Accordingly, I made my

way to the nearest hotel, and ordered my dinner and my bed. This done, I wrote to Marian, to tell her that I

was safe and well, and that I had fair prospects of success. I had directed her, on leaving home, to address the

first letter she wrote to me (the letter I expected to receive the next morning) to "The PostOffice,

Welmingham," and I now begged her to send her second day's letter to the same address.

I could easily receive it by writing to the postmaster if I happened to be away from the town when it arrived.

The coffeeroom of the hotel, as it grew late in the evening, became a perfect solitude. I was left to reflect on

what I had accomplished that afternoon as uninterruptedly as if the house had been my own. Before I retired

to rest I had attentively thought over my extraordinary interview with Mrs. Catherick from beginning to end,

and had verified at my leisure the conclusions which I had hastily drawn in the earlier part of the day.

The vestry of Old Welmingham church was the startingpoint from which my mind slowly worked its way

back through all that I had heard Mrs. Catherick say, and through all I had seen Mrs. Catherick do.

At the time when the neighbourhood of the vestry was first referred to in my presence by Mrs. Clements, I

had thought it the strangest and most unaccountable of all places for Sir Percival to select for a clandestine

meeting with the clerk's wife. Influenced by this impression, and by no other, I had mentioned "the vestry of

the church" before Mrs. Catherick on pure speculationit represented one of the minor peculiarities of the

story which occurred to me while I was speaking. I was prepared for her answering me confusedly or angrily,

but the blank terror that seized her when I said the words took me completely by surprise. I had long before

associated Sir Percival's Secret with the concealment of a serious crime which Mrs. Catherick knew of, but I

had gone no further than this. Now the woman's paroxysm of terror associated the crime, either directly or

indirectly, with the vestry, and convinced me that she had been more than the mere witness of itshe was

What had been the nature of the crime? Surely there was a contemptible side to it, as well as a dangerous

side, or Mrs. Catherick would not have repeated my own words, referring to Sir Percival's rank and power,

with such marked disdain as she had certainly displayed. It was a contemptible crime then and a dangerous

crime, and she had shared in it, and it was associated with the vestry of the church.

Mrs. Catherick's undisguised contempt for Sir Percival plainly extended to his mother as well. She had

referred with the bitterest sarcasm to the great family he had descended from" especially by the mother's

There appeared to be only two explanations of it. Either his mother's birth had been low, or his mother's

reputation was damaged by some hidden flaw with which Mrs. Catherick and Sir Percival were both privately

acquainted? I could only put the first explanation to the test by looking at the register of her marriage, and so

ascertaining her maiden name and her parentage as a preliminary to further inquiries.

On the other hand, if the second case supposed were the true one, what had been the flaw in her reputation?

Remembering the account which Marian had given me of Sir Percival's father and mother, and of the

suspiciously unsocial secluded life they had both led, I now asked myself whether it might not be possible

that his mother had never been married at all. Here again the register might, by offering written evidence of

the marriage, prove to me, at any rate, that this doubt had no foundation in truth. But where was the register

to be found? At this point I took up the conclusions which I had previously formed, and the same mental

process which had discovered the locality of the concealed crime, now lodged the register also in the vestry

These were the results of my interview with Mrs. Catherickthese were the various considerations, all

steadily converging to one point, which decided the course of my proceedings on the next day.

The morning was cloudy and lowering, but no rain fell. I left my bag at the hotel to wait there till I called for

It was a walk of rather more than two miles, the ground rising slowly all the way.

On the highest point stood the churchan ancient, weatherbeaten building, with heavy buttresses at its

sides, and a clumsy square tower in front. The vestry at the back was built out from the church, and seemed to

be of the same age. Round the building at intervals appeared the remains of the village which Mrs. Clements

had described to me as her husband's place of abode in former years, and which the principal inhabitants had

long since deserted for the new town. Some of the empty houses had been dismantled to their outer walls,

some had been left to decay with time, and some were still inhabited by persons evidently of the poorest

class. It was a dreary scene, and yet, in the worst aspect of its ruin, not so dreary as the modern town that I

had just left. Here there was the brown, breezy sweep of surrounding fields for the eye to repose onhere

the trees, leafless as they were, still varied the monotony of the prospect, and helped the mind to look forward

As I moved away from the back of the church, and passed some of the dismantled cottages in search of a

person who might direct me to the clerk, I saw two men saunter out after me from behind a wall. The tallest

of the twoa stout muscular man in the dress of a gamekeeperwas a stranger to me. The other was one of

the men who had followed me in London on the day when I left Mr. Kyrle's office. I had taken particular

notice of him at the time; and I felt sure that I was not mistaken in identifying the fellow on this occasion.

Neither he nor his companion attempted to speak to me, and both kept themselves at a respectful distance, but

the motive of their presence in the neighbourhood of the church was plainly apparent. It was exactly as I had

supposedSir Percival was already prepared for me. My visit to Mrs. Catherick had been reported to him

the evening before, and those two men had been placed on the lookout near the church in anticipation of my

appearance at Old Welmingham. If I had wanted any further proof that my investigations had taken the right

I walked on away from the church till I reached one of the inhabited houses, with a patch of kitchen garden

attached to it on which a labourer was at work. He directed me to the clerk's abode, a cottage at some little

distance off, standing by itself on the outskirts of the forsaken village. The clerk was indoors, and was just

putting on his greatcoat. He was a cheerful, familiar, loudlytalkative old man, with a very poor opinion (as I

soon discovered) of the place in which he lived, and a happy sense of superiority to his neighbours in virtue

"It's well you came so early, sir," said the old man, when I had mentioned the object of my visit. "I should

have been away in ten minutes more. Parish business, sir, and a goodish long trot before it's all done for a

man at my age. But, bless you, I'm strong on my legs still! As long as a man don't give at his legs, there's a

He took his keys down while he was talking from a hook behind the fireplace, and locked his cottage door

"Nobody at home to keep house for me," said the clerk, with a cheerful sense of perfect freedom from all

family encumbrances. "My wife's in the churchyard there, and my children are all married. A wretched place

this, isn't it, sir? But the parish is a large oneevery man couldn't get through the business as I do. It's

learning does it, and I've had my share, and a little more. I can talk the Queen's English (God bless the

Queen!), and that's more than most of the people about here can do. You're from London, I suppose, sir? I've

been in London a matter of fiveand twenty year ago. What's the news there now, if you please?"

Chattering on in this way, he led me back to the vestry. I looked about to see if the two spies were still in

sight. They were not visible anywhere. After having discovered my application to the clerk, they had

probably concealed themselves where they could watch my next proceedings in perfect freedom.

The vestry door was of stout old oak, studded with strong nails, and the clerk put his large heavy key into the

lock with the air of a man who knew that he had a difficulty to encounter, and who was not quite certain of

"I'm obliged to bring you this way, sir," he said, "because the door from the vestry to the church is bolted on

the vestry side. We might have got in through the church otherwise. This is a perverse lock, if ever there was

one yet. It's big enough for a prisondoorit's been hampered over and over again, and it ought to be

changed for a new one. I've mentioned that to the churchwarden fifty times over at leasthe's always saying,

'I'll see about it'and he never does see. Ah, It's a sort of lost corner, this place. Not like Londonis it, sir?

After some twisting and turning of the key, the heavy lock yielded, and he opened the door.

The vestry was larger than I should have supposed it to be, judging from the outside only. It was a dim,

mouldy, melancholy old room, with a low, raftered ceiling. Round two sides of it, the sides nearest to the

interior of the church, ran heavy wooden presses, wormeaten and gaping with age. Hooked to the inner

corner of one of these presses hung several surplices, all bulging out at their lower ends in an

irreverentlooking bundle of limp drapery. Below the surplices, on the floor, stood three packing cases,

with the lids half off, half on, and the straw profusely bursting out of their cracks and crevices in every

direction. Behind them, in a corner, was a litter of dusty papers, some large and rolled up like architects'

plans, some loosely strung together on files like bills or letters. The room had once been lighted by a small

side window, but this had been bricked up, and a lantern skylight was now substituted for it. The atmosphere

of the place was heavy and mouldy, being rendered additionally oppressive by the closing of the door which

led into the church. This door also was composed of solid oak, and was bolted at the top and bottom on the

"We might be tidier, mightn't we, sir?" said the cheerful clerk; "but when you're in a lost corner of a place

like this, what are you to do? Why, look here now, just look at these packingcases. There they've been, for a

year or more, ready to go down to Londonthere they are, littering the place, and there they'll stop as long

as the nails hold them together. I'll tell you what, sir, as I said before, this is not London. We are all asleep

"Bits of old wood carvings from the pulpit, and panels from the chancel, and images from the organloft,"

said the clerk. "Portraits of the twelve apostles in wood, and not a whole nose among 'em. All broken, and

wormeaten, and crumbling to dust at the edges. As brittle as crockery, sir, and as old as the church, if not

"That's it, sir, to be repaired, and where they were past repair, to be copied in sound wood. But, bless you, the

money fell short, and there they are, waiting for new subscriptions, and nobody to subscribe. It was all done a

year ago, sir. Six gentlemen dined together about it, at the hotel in the new town. They made speeches, and

passed resolutions, and put their names down, and printed off thousands of prospectuses. Beautiful

prospectuses, sir, all flourished over with Gothic devices in red ink, saying it was a disgrace not to restore the

church and repair the famous carvings, and so on. There are the prospectuses that couldn't be distributed, and

the architect's plans and estimates, and the whole correspondence which set everybody at loggerheads and

ended in a dispute, all down together in that corner, behind the packingcases. The money dribbled in a little

at firstbut what CAN you expect out of London? There was just enough, you know, to pack the broken

carvings, and get the estimates, and pay the printer's bill, and after that there wasn't a halfpenny left. There

the things are, as I said before. We have nowhere else to put themnobody in the new town cares about

accommodating us we're in a lost cornerand this is an untidy vestryand who's to help it?that's what

My anxiety to examine the register did not dispose me to offer much encouragement to the old man's

talkativeness. I agreed with him that nobody could help the untidiness of the vestry, and then suggested that

"Ay, ay, the marriageregister, to be sure," said the clerk, taking a little bunch of keys from his pocket. "How

Marian had informed me of Sir Percival's age at the time when we had spoken together of his marriage

engagement with Laura. She had then described him as being fortyfive years old. Calculating back from

this, and making due allowance for the year that had passed since I had gained my information, I found that

he must have been born in eighteen hundred and four, and that I might safely start on my search through the

"Which way after that, sir?" asked the clerk. "Forwards to our time or backwards away from us?"

He opened the door of one of the pressesthe press from the side of which the surplices were hangingand

produced a large volume bound in greasy brown leather. I was struck by the insecurity of the place in which

the register was kept. The door of the press was warped and cracked with age, and the lock was of the

smallest and commonest kind. I could have forced it easily with the walkingstick I carried in my hand.

"Is that considered a sufficiently secure place for the register?" I inquired. "Surely a book of such importance

as this ought to be protected by a better lock, and kept carefully in an iron safe?"

"Well, now, that's curious!" said the clerk, shutting up the book again, just after he had opened it, and

smacking his hand cheerfully on the cover. "Those were the very words my old master was always saying

years and years ago, when I was a lad. 'Why isn't the register' (meaning this register here, under my hand)

'why isn't it kept in an iron safe?' If I've heard him say that once, I've heard him say it a hundred times. He

was the solicitor in those days, sir, who had the appointment of vestryclerk to this church. A fine hearty old

gentleman, and the most particular man breathing. As long as he lived he kept a copy of this book in his

office at Knowlesbury, and had it posted up regular, from time to time, to correspond with the fresh entries

here. You would hardly think it, but he had his own appointed days, once or twice in every quarter, for riding

over to this church on his old white pony, to check the copy, by the register, with his own eyes and hands.

'How do I know?' (he used to say) 'how do I know that the register in this vestry may not be stolen or

destroyed? Why isn't it kept in an iron safe? Why can't I make other people as careful as I am myself? Some

of these days there will be an accident happen, and when the register's lost, then the parish will find out the

value of my copy.' He used to take his pinch of snuff after that, and look about him as bold as a lord. Ah! the

like of him for doing business isn't easy to find now. You may go to London and not match him, even

"Eighteen hundred and four," I replied, mentally resolving to give the old man no more opportunities of

The clerk put on his spectacles, and turned over the leaves of the register, carefully wetting his finger and

thumb at every third page. "There it is, sir," said he, with another cheerful smack on the open volume.

As I was ignorant of the month in which Sir Percival was born, I began my backward search with the early

part of the year. The registerbook was of the oldfashioned kind, the entries being all made on blank pages

in manuscript, and the divisions which separated them being indicated by ink lines drawn across the page at

I reached the beginning of the year eighteen hundred and four without encountering the marriage, and then

travelled back through December eighteen hundred and threethrough November and October

No! not through September also. Under the heading of that month in the year I found the marriage.

I looked carefully at the entry. It was at the bottom of a page, and was for want of room compressed into a

smaller space than that occupied by the marriages above. The marriage immediately before it was impressed

on my attention by the circumstance of the bridegroom's Christian name being the same as my own. The

entry immediately following it (on the top of the next page) was noticeable in another way from the large

space it occupied, the record in this case registering the marriages of two brothers at the same time. The

space into which it was compressed at the bottom of the page. The information about his wife was the usual

information given in such cases. She was described as "Cecilia Jane Elster, of ParkView Cottages,

I noted down these particulars in my pocketbook, feeling as I did so both doubtful and disheartened about

my next proceedings. The Secret which I had believed until this moment to be within my grasp seemed now

What suggestions of any mystery unexplained had arisen out of my visit to the vestry? I saw no suggestions

anywhere. What progress had I made towards discovering the suspected stain on the reputation of Sir

Percival's mother? The one fact I had ascertained vindicated her reputation. Fresh doubts, fresh difficulties,

fresh delays began to open before me in interminable prospect. What was I to do next? The one immediate

resource left to me appeared to be this. I might institute inquiries about "Miss Elster of Knowlesbury," on the

chance of advancing towards the main object of my investigation, by first discovering the secret of Mrs.

"Have you found what you wanted, sir?" said the clerk, as I closed the registerbook.

"Yes," I replied, "but I have some inquiries still to make. I suppose the clergyman who officiated here in the

"No, no, sir, he was dead three or four years before I came here, and that was as long ago as the year

twentyseven. I got this place, sir," persisted my talkative old friend, "through the clerk before me leaving it.

They say he was driven out of house and home by his wifeand she's living still down in the new town

there. I don't know the rights of the story myselfall I know is I got the place. Mr. Wansborough got it for

methe son of my old master that I was tell you of. He's a free pleasant gentleman as ever livedrides to

the hounds, keeps his pointers and all that. He's vestryclerk here now as his father was before him."

"Did you not tell me your former master lived at Knowlesbury?" I asked, calling to mind the long story about

the precise gentleman of the old school with which my talkative friend had wearied me before he opened the

"Yes, to be sure, sir," replied the clerk. "Old Mr. Wansborough lived at Knowlesbury, and young Mr.

"You said just now he was vestryclerk, like his father before him. I am not quite sure that I know what a

"Don't you indeed, sir?and you come from London too! Every parish church, you know, has a vestryclerk

and a parishclerk. The parishclerk is a man like me (except that I've got a deal more learning than most of

themthough I don't boast of it). The vestryclerk is a sort of an appointment that the lawyers get, and if

there's any business to be done for the vestry, why there they are to do it. It's just the same in London. Every

parish church there has got its vestryclerkand you may take my word for it he's sure to be a lawyer."

"Of course he is, sir! A lawyer in High Street, Knowlesburythe old offices that his father had before him.

The number of times I've swept those offices out, and seen the old gentleman come trotting in to business on

his white pony, looking right and left all down the street and nodding to everybody! Bless you, he was a

"A long stretch, sir," said the clerk, with that exaggerated idea of distances, and that vivid perception of

difficulties in getting from place to place, which is peculiar to all country people. "Nigh on five mile, I can

It was still early in the forenoon. There was plenty of time for a walk to Knowlesbury and back again to

Welmingham; and there was no person probably in the town who was fitter to assist my inquiries about the

character and position of Sir Percival's mother before her marriage than the local solicitor. Resolving to go at

"Thank you kindly, sir," said the clerk, as I slipped my little present into his hand. "Are you really going to

walk all the way to Knowlesbury and back? Well! you're strong on your legs, too and what a blessing that

is, isn't it? There's the road, you can't miss it. I wish I was going your wayit's pleasant to meet with

gentlemen from London in a lost corner like this. One hears the news. Wish you goodmorning, sir, and

We parted. As I left the church behind me I looked back, and there were the two men again on the road

below, with a third in their company, that third person being the short man in black whom I had traced to the

The three stood talking together for a little while, then separated. The man in black went away by himself

towards Welminghamthe other two remained together, evidently waiting to follow me as soon as I walked

I proceeded on my way without letting the fellows see that I took any special notice of them. They caused me

no conscious irritation of feeling at that momenton the contrary, they rather revived my sinking hopes. In

the surprise of discovering the evidence of the marriage, I had forgotten the inference I had drawn on first

perceiving the men in the neighbourhood of the vestry. Their reappearance reminded me that Sir Percival had

anticipated my visit to Old Welmingham church as the next result of my interview with Mrs.

Catherickotherwise he would never have placed his spies there to wait for me. Smoothly and fairly as

appearances looked in the vestry, there was something wrong beneath themthere was something in the

Once out of sight of the church, I pressed forward briskly on my way to Knowlesbury.

The road was, for the most part, straight and level. Whenever I looked back over it I saw the two spies

steadily following me. For the greater part of the way they kept at a safe distance behind. But once or twice

they quickened their pace, as if with the purpose of overtaking me, then stopped, consulted together, and fell

back again to their former position. They had some special object evidently in view, and they seemed to be

hesitating or differing about the best means of accomplishing it. I could not guess exactly what their design

might be, but I felt serious doubts of reaching Knowlesbury without some mischance happening to me on the

I had just entered on a lonely part of the road, with a sharp turn at some distance ahead, and had just

concluded (calculating by time) that I must be getting near to the town, when I suddenly heard the steps of the

Before I could look round, one of them (the man by whom I had been followed in London) passed rapidly on

my left side and hustled me with his shoulder. I had been more irritated by the manner in which he and his

companion had dogged my steps all the way from Old Welmingham than I was myself aware of, and I

unfortunately pushed the fellow away smartly with my open hand. He instantly shouted for help. His

companion, the tall man in the gamekeeper's clothes, sprang to my right side, and the next moment the two

The conviction that a trap had been laid for me, and the vexation of knowing that I had fallen into it,

fortunately restrained me from making my position still worse by an unavailing struggle with two men, one

of whom would, in all probability, have been more than a match for me singlehanded. I repressed the first

natural movement by which I had attempted to shake them off, and looked about to see if there was any

A labourer was at work in an adjoining field who must have witnessed all that had passed. I called to him to

which stood back from the high road. At the same time the men who held me between them declared their

intention of charging me with an assault. I was cool enough and wise enough now to make no opposition.

"Drop your hold of my arms," I said, "and I will go with you to the town." The man in the gamekeeper's dress

roughly refused. But the shorter man was sharp enough to look to consequences, and not to let his companion

commit himself by unnecessary violence. He made a sign to the other, and I walked on between them with

We reached the turning in the road, and there, close before us, were the suburbs of Knowlesbury. One of the

local policemen was walking along the path by the roadside. The men at once appealed to him. He replied

that the magistrate was then sitting at the townhall, and recommended that we should appear before him

We went on to the townhall. The clerk made out a formal summons, and the charge was preferred against

me, with the customary exaggeration and the customary perversion of the truth on such occasions. The

magistrate (an illtempered man, with a sour enjoyment in the exercise of his own power) inquired if any one

on or near the road had witnessed the assault, and, greatly to my surprise, the complainant admitted the

presence of the labourer in the field. I was enlightened, however, as to the object of the admission by the

magistrate's next words. He remanded me at once for the production of the witness, expressing, at the same

time, his willingness to take bail for my reappearance if I could produce one responsible surety to offer it. If I

had been known in the town he would have liberated me on my own recognisances, but as I was a total

The whole object of the stratagem was now disclosed to me. It had been so managed as to make a remand

necessary in a town where I was a perfect stranger, and where I could not hope to get my liberty on bail. The

remand merely extended over three days, until the next sitting of the magistrate. But in that time, while I was

in confinement, Sir Percival might use any means he pleased to embarrass my future proceedingsperhaps

to screen himself from detection altogetherwithout the slightest fear of any hindrance on my part. At the

end of the three days the charge would, no doubt, be withdrawn, and the attendance of the witness would be

My indignation, I may almost say, my despair, at this mischievous check to all further progressso base and

trifling in itself, and yet so disheartening and so serious in its probable resultsquite unfitted me at first to

reflect on the best means of extricating myself from the dilemma in which I now stood. I had the folly to call

for writing materials, and to think of privately communicating my real position to the magistrate. The

hopelessness and the imprudence of this proceeding failed to strike me before I had actually written the

opening lines of the letter. It was not till I had pushed the paper awaynot till, I am ashamed to say, I had

almost allowed the vexation of my helpless position to conquer methat a course of action suddenly

occurred to my mind, which Sir Percival had probably not anticipated, and which might set me free again in a

few hours. I determined to communicate the situation in which I was placed to Mr. Dawson, of Oak Lodge.

I had visited this gentleman's house, it may be remembered, at the time of my first inquiries in the Blackwater

Park neighbourhood, and I had presented to him a letter of introduction from Miss Halcombe, in which she

recommended me to his friendly attention in the strongest terms. I now wrote, referring to this letter, and to

what I had previously told Mr. Dawson of the delicate and dangerous nature of my inquiries. I had not

revealed to him the truth about Laura, having merely described my errand as being of the utmost importance

to private family interests with which Miss Halcombe was concerned. Using the same caution still, I now

accounted for my presence at Knowlesbury in the same manner, and I put it to the doctor to say whether the

trust reposed in me by a lady whom he well knew, and the hospitality I had myself received in his house,

justified me or not in asking him to come to my assistance in a place where I was quite friendless.

I obtained permission to hire a messenger to drive away at once with my letter in a conveyance which might

be used to bring the doctor back immediately. Oak Lodge was on the Knowlesbury side of Blackwater. The

man declared he could drive there in forty minutes, and could bring Mr. Dawson back in forty more. I

directed him to follow the doctor wherever he might happen to be, if he was not at home, and then sat down

to wait for the result with all the patience and all the hope that I could summon to help me.

It was not quite halfpast one when the messenger departed. Before halfpast three he returned, and brought

the doctor with him. Mr. Dawson's kindness, and the delicacy with which he treated his prompt assistance

quite as a matter of course, almost overpowered me. The bail required was offered, and accepted

immediately. Before four o'clock, on that afternoon, I was shaking hands warmly with the good old

Mr. Dawson hospitably invited me to go back with him to Oak Lodge, and take up my quarters there for the

night. I could only reply that my time was not my own, and I could only ask him to let me pay my visit in a

few days, when I might repeat my thanks, and offer to him all the explanations which I felt to be only his due,

but which I was not then in a position to make. We parted with friendly assurances on both sides, and I turned

The news of my being free on bail would reach Sir Percival, to an absolute certainty, before night. If the next

few hours did not put me in a position to justify his worst fears, and to hold him helpless at my mercy, I

might lose every inch of the ground I had gained, never to recover it again. The unscrupulous nature of the

man, the local influence he possessed, the desperate peril of exposure with which my blindfold inquiries

threatened himall warned me to press on to positive discovery, without the useless waste of a single

minute. I had found time to think while I was waiting for Mr. Dawson's arrival, and I had well employed it.

Certain portions of the conversation of the talkative old clerk, which had wearied me at the time, now

recurred to my memory with a new significance, and a suspicion crossed my mind darkly which had not

occurred to me while I was in the vestry. On my way to Knowlesbury, I had only proposed to apply to Mr.

Wansborough for information on the subject of Sir Percival's mother. My object now was to examine the

He was a jovial, redfaced, easylooking manmore like a country squire than a lawyerand he seemed to

be both surprised and amused by my application. He had heard of his father's copy of the register, but had not

even seen it himself. It had never been inquired after, and it was no doubt in the strong room among other

papers that had not been disturbed since his father's death. It was a pity (Mr. Wansborough said) that the old

gentleman was not alive to hear his precious copy asked for at last. He would have ridden his favourite hobby

harder than ever now. How had I come to hear of the copy? was it through anybody in the town?

I parried the question as well as I could. It was impossible at this stage of the investigation to be too cautious,

and it was just as well not to let Mr. Wansborough know prematurely that I had already examined the original

saving of time was of great importance. I was anxious to send certain particulars to London by that day's post,

and one look at the duplicate register (paying, of course, the necessary fees) might supply what I required,

and save me a further journey to Old Welmingham. I added that, in the event of my subsequently requiring a

copy of the original register, I should make application to Mr. Wansborough's office to furnish me with the

After this explanation no objection was made to producing the copy. A clerk was sent to the strong room, and

after some delay returned with the volume. It was of exactly the same size as the volume in the vestry, the

only difference being that the copy was more smartly bound. I took it with me to an unoccupied desk. My

hands were tremblingmy head was burning hotI felt the necessity of concealing my agitation as well as I

could from the persons about me in the room, before I ventured on opening the book.

On the blank page at the beginning, to which I first turned, were traced some lines in faded ink. They

"Copy of the Marriage Register of Welmingham Parish Church. Executed under my orders, and afterwards

I turned to the month of September, eighteen hundred and three. I found the marriage of the man whose

Christian name was the same as my own. I found the double register of the marriages of the two brothers.

Nothing! Not a vestige of the entry which recorded the marriage of Sir Felix Glyde and Cecilia Jane Elster in

My heart gave a great bound, and throbbed as if it would stifle me. I looked againI was afraid to believe

the evidence of my own eyes. No! not a doubt. The marriage was not there. The entries on the copy occupied

exact]y the same places on the page as the entries in the original. The last entry on one page recorded the

marriage of the man with my Christian name. Below it there was a blank spacea space evidently left

because it was too narrow to contain the entry of the marriages of the two brothers, which in the copy, as in

the original, occupied the top of the next page. That space told the whole story! There it must have remained

in the church register from eighteen hundred and three (when the marriages had been solemnised and the

copy had been made) to eighteen hundred and twentyseven, when Sir Percival appeared at Old

Welmingham. Here, at Knowlesbury, was the chance of committing the forgery shown to me in the copy, and

there, at Old Welmingham) was the forgery committed in the register of the church.

My head turned giddyI held by the desk to keep myself from falling. Of all the suspicions which had

The idea that he was not Sir Percival Glyde at all, that he had no more claim to the baronetcy and to

Blackwater Park than the poorest labourer who worked on the estate, had never once occurred to my mind. At

one time I had thought he might be Anne Catherick's fatherat another time I had thought he might have

been Anne Catherick's husbandthe offence of which he was really guilty had been, from first to last,

The paltry means by which the fraud had been effected, the magnitude and daring of the crime that it

represented, the horror of the consequences involved in its discovery, overwhelmed me. Who could wonder

now at the bruterestlessness of the wretch's lifeat his desperate alternations between abject duplicity and

reckless violenceat the madness of guilty distrust which had made him imprison Anne Catherick in the

Asylum, and had given him over to the vile conspiracy against his wife, on the bare suspicion that the one

and the other knew his terrible secret? The disclosure of that secret might, in past years, have hanged him

might now transport him for life. The disclosure of that secret, even if the sufferers by his deception spared

him the penalties of the law, would deprive him at one blow of the name, the rank, the estate, the whole social

existence that he had usurped. This was the Secret, and it was mine! A word from me, and house, lands,

baronetcy, were gone from him for evera word from me, and he was driven out into the world, a nameless,

penniless, friendless outcast! The man's whole future hung on my lipsand he knew it by this time as

That last thought steadied me. Interests far more precious than my own depended on the caution which must

now guide my slightest actions. There was no possible treachery which Sir Percival might not attempt against

me. In the danger and desperation of his position he would be staggered by no risks, he would recoil at no

I considered for a minute. My first necessity was to secure positive evidence in writing of the discovery that I

had just made, and in the event of any personal misadventure happening to me, to place that evidence beyond

Sir Percival's reach. The copy of the register was sure to be safe in Mr. Wansborough's strong room. But the

position of the original in the vestry was, as I had seen with my own eyes, anything but secure.

In this emergency I resolved to return to the church, to apply again to the clerk, and to take the necessary

extract from the register before I slept that night. I was not then aware that a legallycertified copy was

necessary, and that no document merely drawn out by myself could claim the proper importance as a proof. I

was not aware of this, and my determination to keep my present proceedings a secret prevented me from

asking any questions which might have procured the necessary information. My one anxiety was the anxiety

to get back to Old Welmingham. I made the best excuses I could for the discomposure in my face and manner

which Mr. Wansborough had already noticed, laid the necessary fee on his table, arranged that I should write

to him in a day or two, and left the office, with my head in a whirl and my blood throbbing through my veins

It was just getting dark. The idea occurred to me that I might be followed again and attacked on the

My walkingstick was a light one, of little or no use for purposes of defence. I stopped before leaving

Knowlesbury and bought a stout country cudgel, short, and heavy at the head. With this homely weapon, if

any one man tried to stop me I was a match for him. If more than one attacked me I could trust to my heels.

In my schooldays I had been a noted runner, and I had not wanted for practice since in the later time of my

A small misty rain was falling, and it was impossible for the first half of the way to make sure whether I was

followed or not. But at the last half of my journey, when I supposed myself to be about two miles from the

church, I saw a man run by me in the rain, and then heard the gate of a field by the roadside shut to sharply. I

kept straight on, with my cudgel ready in my hand, my ears on the alert, and my eyes straining to see through

the mist and the darkness. Before I had advanced a hundred yards there was a rustling in the hedge on my

I drew aside on the instant to the footpath. The two foremost men were carried beyond me before they could

check themselves. The third was as quick as lightning. He stopped, half turned, and struck at me with his

stick. The blow was aimed at hazard, and was not a severe one. It fell on my left shoulder. I returned it

heavily on his head. He staggered back and jostled his two companions just as they were both rushing at me.

This circumstance gave me a moment's start. I slipped by them, and took to the middle of the road again at

The two unhurt men pursued me. They were both good runnersthe road was smooth and level, and for the

first five minutes or more I was conscious that I did not gain on them. It was perilous work to run for long in

the darkness. I could barely see the dim black line of the hedges on either side, and any chance obstacle in the

road would have thrown me down to a certainty. Ere long I felt the ground changingit descended from the

level at a turn, and then rose again beyond. Downhill the men rather gained on me, but uphill I began to

distance them. The rapid, regular thump of their feet grew fainter on my ear, and I calculated by the sound

that I was far enough in advance to take to the fields with a good chance of their passing me in the darkness.

Diverging to the footpath, I made for the first break that I could guess at, rather than see, in the hedge. It

proved to be a closed gate. I vaulted over, and finding myself in a field, kept across it steadily with my back

to the road. I heard the men pass the gate, still running, then in a minute more heard one of them call to the

other to come back. It was no matter what they did now, I was out of their sight and out of their hearing. I

kept straight across the field, and when I had reached the farther extremity of it, waited there for a minute to

It was impossible to venture back to the road, but I was determined nevertheless to get to Old Welmingham

Neither moon nor stars appeared to guide me. I only knew that I had kept the wind and rain at my back on

leaving Knowlesbury, and if I now kept them at my back still, I might at least be certain of not advancing

Proceeding on this plan, I crossed the countrymeeting with no worse obstacles than hedges, ditches, and

thickets, which every now and then obliged me to alter my course for a little while until I found myself on

a hillside, with the ground sloping away steeply before me. I descended to the bottom of the hollow, squeezed

my way through a hedge, and got out into a lane. Having turned to the right on leaving the road, I now turned

to the left, on the chance of regaining the line from which I had wandered. After following the muddy

windings of the lane for ten minutes or more, I saw a cottage with a light in one of the windows. The garden

Before I could knock at the door it was suddenly opened, and a man came running out with a lighted lantern

in his hand. He stopped and held it up at the sight of me. We both started as we saw each other. My

wanderings had led me round the outskirts of the village, and had brought me out at the lower end of it. I was

back at Old Welmingham, and the man with the lantern was no other than my acquaintance of the morning,

His manner appeared to have altered strangely in the interval since I had last seen him. He looked suspicious

and confusedhis ruddy cheeks were deeply flushedand his first words, when he spoke, were quite

"What keys?" I repeated. "I have this moment come from Knowlesbury. What keys do you mean?"

"The keys of the vestry. Lord save us and help us! what shall I do? The keys are gone! Do you hear?" cried

"I don't know," said the clerk, staring about him wildly in the darkness. "I've only just got back. I told you I

had a long day's work this morningI locked the door and shut the window downit's open now, the

He turned to the casement window to show me that it was wide open. The door of the lantern came loose

from its fastening as he swayed it round, and the wind blew the candle out instantly.

"Get another light," I said, "and let us both go to the vestry together. Quick! quick!"

I hurried him into the house. The treachery that I had every reason to expect, the treachery that might deprive

me of every advantage I had gained, was at that moment, perhaps, in process of accomplishment. My

impatience to reach the church was so great that I could not remain inactive in the cottage while the clerk lit

Before I had advanced ten paces a man approached me from the direction leading to the church. He spoke

respectfully as we met. I could not see his face, but judging by his voice only, he was a perfect stranger to

With that answer he retraced his steps. I looked back at the cottage and saw the clerk coming out, with the

lantern lighted once more. I took the old man's arm to help him on the more quickly. We hastened along the

lane, and passed the person who had accosted me. As well as I could see by the light of the lantern, he was a

The church was not visible, even by daytime, until the end of the lane was reached. As we mounted the rising

ground which led to the building from that point, one of the village childrena boy came close up to us,

"I say, measter," said the boy, pulling officiously at the clerk's coat, "there be summun up yander in the

church. I heerd un lock the door on hisselfI heerd un strike a loight wi' a match."

"Come! come!" I said encouragingly. "We are not too late. We will catch the man, whoever he is. Keep the

I mounted the hill rapidly. The dark mass of the churchtower was the first object I discerned dimly against

the night sky. As I turned aside to get round to the vestry, I heard heavy footsteps close to me. The servant

had ascended to the church after us. "I don't mean any harm," he said, when I turned round on him, "I'm only

looking for my master." The tones in which he spoke betrayed unmistakable fear. I took no notice of him and

The instant I turned the corner and came in view of the vestry, I saw the lanternskylight on the roof

brilliantly lit up from within. It shone out with dazzling brightness against the murky, starless sky.

As I got near there was a strange smell stealing out on the damp night air. I heard a snapping noise insideI

saw the light above grow brighter and brightera pane of the glass crackedI ran to the door and put my

Before I could move, before I could draw my breath after that discovery, I was horrorstruck by a heavy

thump against the door from the inside. I heard the key worked violently in the lockI heard a man's voice

The servant who had followed me staggered back shuddering, and dropped to his knees. "Oh, my God!" he

As the words passed his lips the clerk joined us, and at the same moment there was another and a last grating

"The Lord have mercy on his soul!" said the old man. "He is doomed and dead. He has hampered the lock."

I rushed to the door. The one absorbing purpose that had filled all my thoughts, that had controlled all my

actions, for weeks and weeks past, vanished in an instant from my mind. All remembrance of the heartless

injury the man's crimes had inflictedof the love, the innocence, the happiness he had pitilessly laid

waste of the oath I had sworn in my own heart to summon him to the terrible reckoning that he

deservedpassed from my memory like a dream. I remembered nothing but the horror of his situation. I felt

"Try the other door!" I shouted. "Try the door into the church! The lock's hampered. You're a dead man if you

There had been no renewed cry for help when the key was turned for the last time. There was no sound now

of any kind, to give token that he was still alive. I heard nothing but the quickening crackle of the flames, and

I looked round at my two companions. The servant had risen to his feethe had taken the lantern, and was

holding it up vacantly at the door. Terror seemed to have struck him with downright idiocy he waited at

my heels, he followed me about when I moved like a dog. The clerk sat crouched up on one of the

tombstones, shivering, and moaning to himself. The one moment in which I looked at them was enough to

Hardly knowing what I did, acting desperately on the first impulse that occurred to me, I seized the servant

and pushed him against the vestry wall. "Stoop!" I said, "and hold by the stones. I am going to climb over you

The man trembled from head to foot, but he held firm. I got on his back, with my cudgel in my mouth, seized

the parapet with both hands, and was instantly on the roof. In the frantic hurry and agitation of the moment, it

never struck me that I might let out the flame instead of letting in the air. I struck at the skylight, and battered

in the cracked, loosened glass at a blow. The fire leaped out like a wild beast from its lair. If the wind had not

chanced, in the position I occupied, to set it away from me, my exertions might have ended then and there. I

crouched on the roof as the smoke poured out above me with the flame. The gleams and flashes of the light

showed me the servant's face staring up vacantly under the wallthe clerk risen to his feet on the tombstone,

wringing his hands in despairand the scanty population of the village, haggard men and terrified women,

clustered beyond in the churchyardall appearing and disappearing, in the red of the dreadful glare, in the

black of the choking smoke. And the man beneath my feet!the man, suffocating, burning, dying so near us

The thought half maddened me. I lowered myself from the roof, by my hands, and dropped to the ground.

"The key of the church!" I shouted to the clerk. "We must try it that waywe may save him yet if we can

"No, no, no!" cried the old man. "No hope! the church key and the vestry key are on the same ringboth

"They'll see the fire from the town," said a voice from among the men behind me. "There's a ingine in the

I called to that manHE had his wits about himI called to him to come and speak to me. It would be a

quarter of an hour at least before the town engine could reach us. The horror of remaining inactive all that

time was more than I could face. In defiance of my own reason I persuaded myself that the doomed and lost

wretch in the vestry might still be lying senseless on the floor, might not be dead yet. If we broke open the

door, might we save him? I knew the strength of the heavy lockI knew the thickness of the nailed oakI

knew the hopelessness of assailing the one and the other by ordinary means. But surely there were beams still

left in the dismantled cottages near the church? What if we got one, and used it as a batteringram against the

The thought leaped through me like the fire leaping out of the shattered skylight. I appealed to the man who

had spoken first of the fireengine in the town. "Have you got your pickaxes handy?" Yes, they had. "And a

hatchet, and a saw, and a bit of rope?" Yes! yes! yes! I ran down among the villagers, with the lantern in my

hand. "Five shillings apiece to every man who helps me!" They started into life at the words. That ravenous

second hunger of povertythe hunger for moneyroused them into tumult and activity in a moment. "Two

of you for more lanterns, if you have them! Two of you for the pickaxes and the tools! The rest after me to

find the beam!" They cheeredwith shrill starveling voices they cheered. The women and the children fled

back on either side. We rushed in a body down the churchyard path to the first empty cottage. Not a man was

left behind but the clerkthe poor old clerk standing on the flat tombstone sobbing and wailing over the

church. The servant was still at my heelshis white, helpless, panicstricken face was close over my

shoulder as we pushed into the cottage. There were rafters from the torndown floor above, lying loose on

the groundbut they were too light. A beam ran across over our heads, but not out of reach of our arms and

our pickaxesa beam fast at each end in the ruined wall, with ceiling and flooring all ripped away, and a

great gap in the roof above, open to the sky. We attacked the beam at both ends at once. God! how it

heldhow the brick and mortar of the wall resisted us! We struck, and tugged, and tore. The beam gave at

one endit came down with a lump of brickwork after it. There was a scream from the women all huddled

in the doorway to look at usa shout from the mentwo of them down but not hurt. Another tug all

togetherand the beam was loose at both ends. We raised it, and gave the word to clear the doorway. Now

for the work! now for the rush at the door! There is the fire streaming into the sky, streaming brighter than

ever to light us! Steady along the churchyard pathsteady with the beam for a rush at the door. One, two,

threeand off. Out rings the cheering again, irrepressibly. We have shaken it already, the hinges must give if

the lock won't. Another run with the beam! One, two, threeand off. It's loose! the stealthy fire darts at us

through the crevice all round it. Another, and a last rush! The door falls in with a crash. A great hush of awe,

a stillness of breathless expectation, possesses every living soul of us. We look for the body. The scorching

heat on our faces drives us back: we see nothingabove, below, all through the room, we see nothing but a

"He's dust and ashes," said the clerk. "And the books are dust and ashesand oh, sirs! the church will be

Those were the only two who spoke. When they were silent again, nothing stirred in the stillness but the

A harsh rattling sound in the distancethen the hollow beat of horses' hoofs at full gallopthen the low

roar, the all predominant tumult of hundreds of human voices clamouring and shouting together. The engine

The people about me all turned from the fire, and ran eagerly to the brow of the hill. The old clerk tried to go

with the rest, but his strength was exhausted. I saw him holding by one of the tombstones. "Save the church!"

The only man who never moved was the servant. There he stood, his eyes still fastened on the flames in a

changeless, vacant stare. I spoke to him, I shook him by the arm. He was past rousing. He only whispered

In ten minutes the engine was in position, the well at the back of the church was feeding it, and the hose was

carried to the doorway of the vestry. If help had been wanted from me I could not have afforded it now. My

energy of will was gonemy strength was exhaustedthe turmoil of my thoughts was fearfully and

I saw the fire slowly conquered. The brightness of the glare fadedthe steam rose in white clouds, and the

smouldering heaps of embers showed red and black through it on the floor. There was a pausethen an

advance all together of the firemen and the police which blocked up the doorwaythen a consultation in low

voicesand then two men were detached from the rest, and sent out of the churchyard through the crowd.

After a while a great shudder ran through the people, and the living lane widened slowly. The men came back

along it with a door from one of the empty houses. They carried it to the vestry and went in. The police

closed again round the doorway, and men stole out from among the crowd by twos and threes and stood

behind them to be the first to see. Others waited near to be the first to hear. Women and children were among

The tidings from the vestry began to flow out among the crowd they dropped slowly from mouth to mouth

till they reached the place where I was standing. I heard the questions and answers repeated again and again

"Have they found him?" "Yes."" Where?" "Against the door, on his face.""Which door?" "The door that

goes into the church. His head was against ithe was down on his face.""Is his face burnt?" "No." "Yes, it

is." "No, scorched, not burnthe lay on his face, I tell you.""Who was he? A lord, they say." "No, not a

lord. SIR Something; Sir means Knight." "And Baronight, too." "No." "Yes, it does.""What did he want in

there?" "No good, you may depend on it.""Did he do it on purpose?"" Burn himself on purpose!""I

don't mean himself, I mean the vestry.""Is he dreadful to look at?" "Dreadful!""Not about the face,

though?" "No, no, not so much about the face. Don't anybody know him?" "There's a man says he

does.""Who?" "A servant, they say. But he's struck stupidlike, and the police don't believe him."

The loud, clear voice of a man in authority silenced the low hum of talking all round me in an instant.

"Here, sirhere he is!" Dozens of eager faces pressed about me dozens of eager arms parted the crowd.

I was unable to speak to him, I was unable to resist him when he took my arm. I tried to say that I had never

seen the dead man in his lifetimethat there was no hope of identifying him by means of a stranger like me.

I was standing inside a circle of men. Three of them opposite to me were holding lanterns low down to the

ground. Their eyes, and the eyes of all the rest, were fixed silently and expectantly on my face. I knew what

My eyes dropped slowly. At first I saw nothing under them but a coarse canvas cloth. The dripping of the rain

on it was audible in the dreadful silence. I looked up, along the cloth, and there at the end, stark and grim and

So, for the first and last time, I saw him. So the Visitation of God ruled it that he and I should meet.

The inquest was hurried for certain local reasons which weighed with the coroner and the town authorities. It

was held on the afternoon of the next day. I was necessarily one among the witnesses summoned to assist the

My first proceeding in the morning was to go to the postoffice, and inquire for the letter which I expected

from Marian. No change of circumstances, however extraordinary, could affect the one great anxiety which

weighed on my mind while I was away from London. The morning's letter, which was the only assurance I

could receive that no misfortune had happened in my absence, was still the absorbing interest with which my

Nothing had happenedthey were both as safe and as well as when I had left them. Laura sent her love, and

begged that I would let her know of my return a day beforehand. Her sister added, in explanation of this

message, that she had saved "nearly a sovereign" out of her own private purse, and that she had claimed the

privilege of ordering the dinner and giving the dinner which was to celebrate the day of my return. I read

these little domestic confidences in the bright morning with the terrible recollection of what had happened the

evening before vivid in my memory. The necessity of sparing Laura any sudden knowledge of the truth was

the first consideration which the letter suggested to me. I wrote at once to Marian to tell her what I have told

in these pagespresenting the tidings as gradually and gently as I could, and warning her not to let any such

thing as a newspaper fall in Laura's way while I was absent. In the case of any other woman, less courageous

and less reliable, I might have hesitated before I ventured on unreservedly disclosing the whole truth. But I

owed it to Marian to be faithful to my past experience of her, and to trust her as I trusted herself.

My letter was necessarily a long one. It occupied me until the time came for proceeding to the inquest.

The objects of the legal inquiry were necessarily beset by peculiar complications and difficulties. Besides the

investigation into the manner in which the deceased had met his death, there were serious questions to be

settled relating to the cause of the fire, to the abstraction of the keys, and to the presence of a stranger in the

vestry at the time when the flames broke out. Even the identification of the dead man had not yet been

accomplished. The helpless condition of the servant had made the police distrustful of his asserted

recognition of his master. They had sent to Knowlesbury overnight to secure the attendance of witnesses

who were well acquainted with the personal appearance of Sir Percival Glyde, and they had communicated,

the first thing in the morning, with Blackwater Park. These precautions enabled the coroner and jury to settle

the question of identity, and to confirm the correctness of the servant's assertion; the evidence offered by

competent witnesses, and by the discovery of certain facts, being subsequently strengthened by an

examination of the dead man's watch. The crest and the name of Sir Percival Glyde were engraved inside it.

The servant and I, and the boy who had heard the light struck in the vestry, were the first witnesses called.

The boy gave his evidence clearly enough, but the servant's mind had not yet recovered the shock inflicted on

ithe was plainly incapable of assisting the objects of the inquiry, and he was desired to stand down.

To my own relief, my examination was not a long one. I had not known the deceasedI had never seen

himI was not aware of his presence at Old Welminghamand I had not been in the vestry at the finding

of the body. All I could prove was that I had stopped at the clerk's cottage to ask my waythat I had heard

from him of the loss of the keysthat I had accompanied him to the church to render what help I

couldthat I had seen the firethat I had heard some person unknown, inside the vestry, trying vainly to

unlock the doorand that I had done what I could, from motives of humanity, to save the man. Other

witnesses, who had been acquainted with the deceased, were asked if they could explain the mystery of his

presumed abstraction of the keys, and his presence in the burning room. But the coroner seemed to take it for

granted, naturally enough, that I, as a total stranger in the neighbourhood, and a total stranger to Sir Percival

The course that I was myself bound to take, when my formal examination had closed, seemed clear to me. I

did not feel called on to volunteer any statement of my own private convictions, in the first place, because my

doing so could serve no practical purpose, now that all proof in support of any surmises of mine was burnt

with the burnt register; in the second place, because I could not have intelligibly stated my opinionmy

unsupported opinionwithout disclosing the whole story of the conspiracy, and producing beyond a doubt

the same unsatisfactory effect an the mind of the coroner and the jury, which I had already produced on the

In these pages, however, and after the time that has now elapsed, no such cautions and restraints as are here

described need fetter the free expression of my opinion. I will state briefly, before my pen occupies itself with

other events, how my own convictions lead me to account for the abstraction of the keys, for the outbreak of

The news of my being free on bail drove Sir Percival, as I believe, to his last resources. The attempted attack

on the road was one of those resources, and the suppression of all practical proof of his crime, by destroying

the page of the register on which the forgery had been committed, was the other, and the surest of the two. If I

could produce no extract from the original book to compare with the certified copy at Knowlesbury, I could

produce no positive evidence, and could threaten him with no fatal exposure. All that was necessary to the

attainment of his end was, that he should get into the vestry unperceived, that he should tear out the page in

the register, and that he should leave the vestry again as privately as he had entered it.

On this supposition, it is easy to understand why he waited until nightfall before he made the attempt, and

why he took advantage of the clerk's absence to possess himself of the keys. Necessity would oblige him to

strike a light to find his way to the right register, and common caution would suggest his locking the door on

the inside in case of intrusion on the part of any inquisitive stranger, or on my part, if I happened to be in the

I cannot believe that it was any part of his intention to make the destruction of the register appear to be the

result of accident, by purposely setting the vestry on fire. The bare chance that prompt assistance might

arrive, and that the books might, by the remotest possibility, be saved, would have been enough, on a

moment's consideration, to dismiss any idea of this sort from his mind. Remembering the quantity of

combustible objects in the vestrythe straw, the papers, the packingcases, the dry wood, the old

wormeaten pressesall the probabilities, in my estimation, point to the fire as the result of an accident with

His first impulse, under these circumstances, was doubtless to try to extinguish the flames, and failing in that,

his second impulse (ignorant as he was of the state of the lock) had been to attempt to escape by the door

which had given him entrance. When I had called to him, the flames must have reached across the door

leading into the church, on either side of which the presses extended, and close to which the other

combustible objects were placed. In all probability, the smoke and flame (confined as they were to the room)

had been too much for him when he tried to escape by the inner door. He must have dropped in his death

swoon, he must have sunk in the place where he was found, just as I got on the roof to break the skylight

window. Even if we had been able, afterwards, to get into the church, and to burst open the door from that

side, the delay must have been fatal. He would have been past saving, long past saving, by that time. We

should only have given the flames free ingress into the churchthe church, which was now preserved, but

which, in that event, would have shared the fate of the vestry. There is no doubt in my mind, there can be no

doubt in the mind of any one, that he was a dead man before ever we got to the empty cottage, and worked

This is the nearest approach that any theory of mine can make towards accounting for a result which was

visible matter of fact. As I have described them, so events passed to us outside. As I have related it, so his

The inquest was adjourned over one dayno explanation that the eye of the law could recognise having been

It was arranged that more witnesses should be summoned, and that the London solicitor of the deceased

should be invited to attend. A medical man was also charged with the duty of reporting on the mental

condition of the servant, which appeared at present to debar him from giving any evidence of the least

importance. He could only declare, in a dazed way, that he had been ordered, on the night of the fire, to wait

in the lane, and that he knew nothing else, except that the deceased was certainly his master.

My own impression was, that he had been first used (without any guilty knowledge on his own part) to

ascertain the fact of the clerk's absence from home on the previous day, and that he had been afterwards

ordered to wait near the church (but out of sight of the vestry) to assist his master, in the event of my escaping

the attack on the road, and of a collision occurring between Sir Percival and myself. It is necessary to add,

that the man's own testimony was never obtained to confirm this view. The medical report of him declared

that what little mental faculty he possessed was seriously shaken; nothing satisfactory was extracted from him

at the adjourned inquest, and for aught I know to the contrary, he may never have recovered to this day.

I returned to the hotel at Welmingham so jaded in body and mind, so weakened and depressed by all that I

had gone through, as to be quite unfit to endure the local gossip about the inquest, and to answer the trivial

questions that the talkers addressed to me in the coffeeroom. I withdrew from my scanty dinner to my cheap

garretchamber to secure myself a little quiet, and to think undisturbed of Laura and Marian.

If I had been a richer man I would have gone back to London, and would have comforted myself with a sight

of the two dear faces again that night. But I was bound to appear, if called on, at the adjourned inquest, and

doubly bound to answer my bail before the magistrate at Knowlesbury. Our slender resources had suffered

already, and the doubtful futuremore doubtful than ever now made me dread decreasing our means

unnecessarily by allowing myself an indulgence even at the small cost of a double railway journey in the

The next daythe day immediately following the inquestwas left at my own disposal. I began the

morning by again applying at the postoffice for my regular report from Marian. It was waiting for me as

before, and it was written throughout in good spirits. I read the letter thankfully, and then set forth with my

mind at ease for the day to go to Old Welmingham, and to view the scene of the fire by the morning light.

Through all the ways of our unintelligible world the trivial and the terrible walk hand in hand together. The

irony of circumstances holds no mortal catastrophe in respect. When I reached the church, the trampled

condition of the burialground was the only serious trace left to tell of the fire and the death. A rough

hoarding of boards had been knocked up before the vestry doorway. Rude caricatures were scrawled on it

already, and the village children were fighting and shouting for the possession of the best peephole to see

through. On the spot where I had heard the cry for help from the burning room, on the spot where the

panicstricken servant had dropped on his knees, a fussy flock of poultry was now scrambling for the first

choice of worms after the rain; and on the ground at my feet, where the door and its dreadful burden had been

laid, a workman's dinner was waiting for him, tied up in a yellow basin, and his faithful cur in charge was

yelping at me for coming near the food. The old clerk, looking idly at the slow commencement of the repairs,

had only one interest that he could talk about nowthe interest of escaping all blame for his own part on

account of the accident that had happened. One of the village women, whose white wild face I remembered

the picture of terror when we pulled down the beam, was giggling with another woman, the picture of inanity,

over an old washingtub. There is nothing serious in mortality! Solomon in all his glory was Solomon with

the elements of the contemptible lurking in every fold of his robes and in every corner of his palace.

As I left the place, my thoughts turned, not for the first time, to the complete overthrow that all present hope

of establishing Laura's identity had now suffered through Sir Percival's death. He was goneand with him

the chance was gone which had been the one object of all my labours and all my hopes.

Suppose he had lived, would that change of circumstance have altered the result? Could I have made my

discovery a marketable commodity, even for Laura's sake, after I had found out that robbery of the rights of

others was the essence of Sir Percival's crime? Could I have offered the price of MY silence for HIS

confession of the conspiracy, when the effect of that silence must have been to keep the right heir from the

estates, and the right owner from the name? Impossible! If Sir Percival had lived, the discovery, from which

(In my ignorance of the true nature of the Secret) I had hoped so much, could not have been mine to suppress

or to make public, as I thought best, for the vindication of Laura's rights. In common honesty and common

honour I must have gone at once to the stranger whose birthright had been usurpedI must have renounced

the victory at the moment when it was mine by placing my discovery unreservedly in that stranger's

handsand I must have faced afresh all the difficulties which stood between me and the one object of my

I returned to Welmingham with my mind composed, feeling more sure of myself and my resolution than I

On my way to the hotel I passed the end of the square in which Mrs. Catherick lived. Should I go back to the

house, and make another attempt to see her. No. That news of Sir Percival's death, which was the last news

she ever expected to hear, must have reached her hours since. All the proceedings at the inquest had been

reported in the local paper that morningthere was nothing I could tell her which she did not know already.

My interest in making her speak had slackened. I remembered the furtive hatred in her face when she said,

"There is no news of Sir Percival that I don't expectexcept the news of his death." I remembered the

stealthy interest in her eyes when they settled on me at parting, after she had spoken those words. Some

instinct, deep in my heart, which I felt to be a true one, made the prospect of again entering her presence

repulsive to meI turned away from the square, and went straight back to the hotel.

Some hours later, while I was resting in the coffeeroom, a letter was placed in my hands by the waiter. It

was addressed to me by name, and I found on inquiry that it had been left at the bar by a woman just as it was

near dusk, and just before the gas was lighted. She had said nothing, and she had gone away again before

I opened the letter. It was neither dated nor signed, and the handwriting was palpably disguised. Before I had

read the first sentence, however, I knew who my correspondent wasMrs. Catherick.

SIR,You have not come back, as you said you would. No matterI know the news, and I write to tell you

so. Did you see anything particular in my face when you left me? I was wondering, in my own mind, whether

the day of his downfall had come at last, and whether you were the chosen instrument for working it. You

You were weak enough, as I have heard, to try and save his life. If you had succeeded, I should have looked

upon you as my enemy. Now you have failed, I hold you as my friend. Your inquiries frightened him into the

vestry by nightyour inquiries, without your privity and against your will, have served the hatred and

wreaked the vengeance of threeandtwenty vears. Thank you, sir, in spite of yourself.

I owe something to the man who has done this. How can I pay my debt? If I was a young woman still I might

say, "Come, put your arm round my waist, and kiss me, if you like." I should have been fond enough of you

even to go that length, and you would have accepted my invitationyou would, sir, twenty years ago! But I

am an old woman now. Well! I can satisfy your curiosity, and pay my debt in that way. You HAD a great

curiosity to know certain private affairs of mine when you came to see meprivate affairs which all your

sharpness could not look into without my help private affairs which you have not discovered, even now.

You SHALL discover themyour curiosity shall be satisfied. I will take any trouble to please you, my

You were a little boy, I suppose, in the year twentyseven? I was a handsome young woman at that time,

living at Old Welmingham. I had a contemptible fool for a husband. I had also the honour of being

acquainted (never mind how) with a certain gentleman (never mind whom). I shall not call him by his name.

Why should I? It was not his own. He never had a name: you know that, by this time, as well as I do.

It will be more to the purpose to tell you how he worked himself into my good graces. I was born with the

tastes of a lady, and he gratified themin other words, he admired me, and he made me presents. No woman

can resist admiration and presentsespecially presents, provided they happen to be just the thing she wants.

He was sharp enough to know thatmost men are. Naturally he wanted something in returnall men do.

And what do you think was the something? The merest trifle. Nothing but the key of the vestry, and the key

of the press inside it, when my husband's back was turned. Of course he lied when I asked him why he

wished me to get him the keys in that private way. He might have saved himself the troubleI didn't believe

him. But I liked my presents, and I wanted more. So I got him the keys, without my husband's knowledge,

and I watched him, without his own knowledge. Once, twice, four times I watched him, and the fourth time I

I was never overscrupulous where other people's affairs were concerned, and I was not overscrupulous

Of course I knew it was wrong, but it did no harm to me, which was one good reason for not making a fuss

about it. And I had not got a gold watch and chain, which was another, still betterand he had promised me

one from London only the day before, which was a third, best of all. If I had known what the law considered

the crime to be, and how the law punished it, I should have taken proper care of myself, and have exposed

him then and there. But I knew nothing, and I longed for the gold watch. All the conditions I insisted on were

that he should take me into his confidence and tell me everything. I was as curious about his affairs then as

This, put in short, is what I heard from him. He did not willingly tell me all that I tell you here. I drew some

of it from him by persuasion and some of it by questions. I was determined to have all the truth, and I believe

He knew no more than any one else of what the state of things really was between his father and mother till

after his mother's death. Then his father confessed it, and promised to do what he could for his son. He died

having done nothingnot having even made a will. The son (who can blame him?) wisely provided for

himself. He came to England at once, and took possession of the property. There was no one to suspect him,

and no one to say him nay. His father and mother had always lived as man and wifenone of the few people

who were acquainted with them ever supposed them to be anything else. The right person to claim the

property (if the truth had been known) was a distant relation, who had no idea of ever getting it, and who was

away at sea when his father died. He had no difficulty so farhe took possession, as a matter of course. But

he could not borrow money on the property as a matter of course. There were two things wanted of him

before he could do this. One was a certificate of his birth, and the other was a certificate of his parents'

marriage. The certificate of his birth was easily gothe was born abroad, and the certificate was there in due

form. The other matter was a difficulty, and that difficulty brought him to Old Welmingham.

His mother had been living there just before she met with his fatherliving under her maiden name, the truth

being that she was really a married woman, married in Ireland, where her husband had illused her, and had

afterwards gone off with some other person. I give you this fact on good authoritySir Felix mentioned it to

his son as the reason why he had not married. You may wonder why the son, knowing that his parents had

met each other at Knowlesbury, did not play his first tricks with the register of that church, where it might

have been fairly presumed his father and mother were married. The reason was that the clergyman who did

duty at Knowlesbury church, in the year eighteen hundred and three (when, according to his birth certificate,

his father and mother OUGHT to have been married), was alive still when he took possession of the property

in the New Year of eighteen hundred and twentyseven. This awkward circumstance forced him to extend

his inquiries to our neighbourhood. There no such danger existed, the former clergyman at our church having

Old Welmingham suited his purpose as well as Knowlesbury. His father had removed his mother from

Knowlesbury, and had lived with her at a cottage on the river, a little distance from our village. People who

had known his solitary ways when he was single did not wonder at his solitary ways when he was supposed

to be married. If he had not been a hideous creature to look at, his retired life with the lady might have raised

suspicions; but, as things were, his hiding his ugliness and his deformity in the strictest privacy surprised

nobody. He lived in our neighbourhood till he came in possession of the Park. After three or four and twenty

years had passed, who was to say (the clergyman being dead) that his marriage had not been as private as the

So, as I told you, the son found our neighbourhood the surest place he could choose to set things right

secretly in his own interests. It may surprise you to hear that what he really did to the marriage register was

His first notion was only to tear the leaf out (in the right year and month), to destroy it privately, to go back to

London, and to tell the lawyers to get him the necessary certificate of his father's marriage, innocently

referring them of course to the date on the leaf that was gone. Nobody could say his father and mother had

NOT been married after that, and whether, under the circumstances, they would stretch a point or not about

lending him the money (he thought they would), he had his answer ready at all events, if a question was ever

But when he came to look privately at the register for himself, he found at the bottom of one of the pages for

the year eighteen hundred and three a blank space left, seemingly through there being no room to make a long

entry there, which was made instead at the top of the next page. The sight of this chance altered all his plans.

It was an opportunity he had never hoped for, or thought ofand he took ityou know how. The blank

space, to have exactly tallied with his birth certificate, ought to have occurred in the July part of the register.

It occurred in the September part instead. However, in this case, if suspicious questions were asked, the

answer was not hard to find. He had only to describe himself as a seven months' child.

I was fool enough, when he told me his story, to feel some interest and some pity for himwhich was just

what he calculated on, as you will see. I thought him hardly used. It was not his fault that his father and

mother were not married, and it was not his father's and mother's fault either. A more scrupulous woman than

I wasa woman who had not set her heart on a gold watch and chainwould have found some excuses for

He was some time getting the ink the right colour (mixing it over and over again in pots and bottles of mine),

and some time afterwards in practising the handwriting. But he succeeded in the end, and made an honest

woman of his mother after she was dead in her grave! So far, I don't deny that he behaved honourably enough

to myself. He gave me my watch and chain, and spared no expense in buying them; both were of superior

workmanship, and very expensive. I have got them stillthe watch goes beautifully.

You said the other day that Mrs. Clements had told you everything she knew. In that case there is no need for

me to write about the trumpery scandal by which I was the suffererthe innocent sufferer, I positively

assert. You must know as well as I do what the notion was which my husband took into his head when he

found me and my finegentleman acquaintance meeting each other privately and talking secrets together. But

what you don't know is how it ended between that same gentleman and myself. You shall read and see how

The first words I said to him, when I saw the turn things had taken, were, "Do me justiceclear my character

of a stain on it which you know I don't deserve. I don't want you to make a clean breast of it to my

husbandonly tell him, on your word of honour as a gentleman, that he is wrong, and that I am not to blame

in the way he thinks I am. Do me that justice, at least, after all I have done for you." He flatly refused, in so

many words. He told me plainly that it was his interest to let my husband and all my neighbours believe the

falsehoodbecause, as long as they did so they were quite certain never to suspect the truth. I had a spirit of

my own, and I told him they should know the truth from my lips. His reply was short, and to the point. If I

Yes! it had come to that. He had deceived me about the risk I ran in helping him. He had practised on my

ignorance, he had tempted me with his gifts, he had interested me with his storyand the result of it was that

he made me his accomplice. He owned this coolly, and he ended by telling me, for the first time, what the

frightful punishment really was for his offence, and for any one who helped him to commit it. In those days

the law was not so tenderhearted as I hear it is now. Murderers were not the only people liable to be hanged,

and women convicts were not treated like ladies in undeserved distress. I confess he frightened me the

mean impostor! the cowardly blackguard! Do you understand now how I hated him? Do you understand why

I am taking all this troublethankfully taking itto gratify the curiosity of the meritorious young gentleman

Well, to go on. He was hardly fool enough to drive me to downright desperation. I was not the sort of woman

whom it was quite safe to hunt into a cornerhe knew that, and wisely quieted me with proposals for the

I deserved some reward (he was kind enough to say) for the service I had done him, and some compensation

(he was so obliging as to add) for what I had suffered. He was quite willinggenerous scoundrel!to make

me a handsome yearly allowance, payable quarterly, on two conditions. First, I was to hold my tonguein

my own interests as well as in his. Secondly, I was not to stir away from Welmingham without first letting

him know, and waiting till I had obtained his permission. In my own neighbourhood, no virtuous female

friends would tempt me into dangerous gossiping at the teatable. In my own neighbourhood, he would

always know where to find me. A hard condition, that second onebut I accepted it.

What else was I to do? I was left helpless, with the prospect of a coming incumbrance in the shape of a child.

What else was I to do? Cast myself on the mercy of my runaway idiot of a husband who had raised the

scandal against me? I would have died first. Besides, the allowance WAS a handsome one. I had a better

income, a better house over my head, better carpets on my floors, than half the women who turned up the

whites of their eyes at the sight of me. The dress of Virtue, in our parts, was cotton print. I had silk.

So I accepted the conditions he offered me, and made the best of them, and fought my battle with my

respectable neighbours on their own ground, and won it in course of timeas you saw yourself. How I kept

his Secret (and mine) through all the years that have passed from that time to this, and whether my late

daughter, Anne, ever really crept into my confidence, and got the keeping of the Secret tooare questions, I

dare say, to which you are curious to find an answer. Well! my gratitude refuses you nothing. I will turn to a

fresh page and give you the answer immediately. But you must excuse one thingyou must excuse my

beginning, Mr. Hartright, with an expression of surprise at the interest which you appear to have felt in my

late daughter. It is quite unaccountable to me. If that interest makes you anxious for any particulars of her

early life, I must refer you to Mrs. Clements, who knows more of the subject than I do. Pray understand that I

do not profess to have been at all overfond of my late daughter. She was a worry to me from first to last,

with the additional disadvantage of being always weak in the head. You like candour, and I hope this satisfies

There is no need to trouble you with many personal particulars relating to those past times. It will be enough

to say that I observed the terms of the bargain on my side, and that I enjoyed my comfortable income in

Now and then I got away and changed the scene for a short time, always asking leave of my lord and master

first, and generally getting it. He was not, as I have already told you, fool enough to drive me too hard, and he

could reasonably rely on my holding my tongue for my own sake, if not for his. One of my longest trips away

from home was the trip I took to Limmeridge to nurse a halfsister there, who was dying. She was reported to

have saved money, and I thought it as well (in case any accident happened to stop my allowance) to look after

my own interests in that direction. As things turned out, however, my pains were all thrown away, and I got

I had taken Anne to the north with me, having my whims and fancies, occasionally, about my child, and

getting, at such times, jealous of Mrs. Clements' influence over her. I never liked Mrs. Clements. She was a

poor, emptyheaded, spiritless womanwhat you call a born drudgeand I was now and then not averse to

plaguing her by taking Anne away. Not knowing what else to do with my girl while I was nursing in

Cumberland, I put her to school at Limmeridge. The lady of the manor, Mrs. Fairlie (a remarkably

plainlooking woman, who had entrapped one of the handsomest men in England into marrying her), amused

me wonderfully by taking a violent fancy to my girl. The consequence was, she learnt nothing at school, and

was petted and spoilt at Limmeridge House. Among other whims and fancies which they taught her there,

they put some nonsense into her head about always wearing white. Hating white and liking colours myself, I

Strange to say, my daughter resolute]y resisted me. When she HAD got a notion once fixed in her mind she

was, like other half witted people, as obstinate as a mule in keeping it. We quarrelled finely, and Mrs.

Clements, not liking to see it, I suppose, offered to take Anne away to live in London with her. I should have

said Yes, if Mrs. Clements had not sided with my daughter about her dressing herself in white. But being

determined she should NOT dress herself in white, and disliking Mrs. Clements more than ever for taking

part against me, I said No, and meant No, and stuck to No. The consequence was, my daughter remained with

me, and the consequence of that, in its turn, was the first serious quarrel that happened about the Secret.

The circumstance took place long after the time I have just been writing of. I had been settled for years in the

new town, and was steadily living down my bad character and slowly gaining ground among the respectable

inhabitants. It helped me forward greatly towards this object to have my daughter with me. Her harmlessness

and her fancy for dressing in white excited a certain amount of sympathy. I left off opposing her favourite

whim on that account, because some of the sympathy was sure, in course of time, to fall to my share. Some of

it did fall. I date my getting a choice of the two best sittings to let in the church from that time, and I date the

Well, being settled in this way, I received a letter one morning from that highly born gentleman (now

deceased) in answer to one of mine, warning him, according to agreement, of my wishing to leave the town

The ruffianly side of him must have been uppermost, I suppose, when he got my letter, for he wrote back,

refusing me in such abominably insolent language, that I lost all command over myself, and abused him, in

my daughter's presence, as "a low impostor whom I could ruin for life if I chose to open my lips and let out

his Secret." I said no more about him than that, being brought to my senses as soon as those words had

escaped me by the sight of my daughter's face looking eagerly and curiously at mine. I instantly ordered her

My sensations were not pleasant, I can tell you, when I came to reflect on my own folly. Anne had been more

than usually crazy and queer that year, and when I thought of the chance there might be of her repeating my

words in the town, and mentioning HIS name in connection with them, if inquisitive people got hold of her, I

was finely terrified at the possible consequences. My worst fears for myself, my worst dread of what he

might do, led me no farther than this. I was quite unprepared for what really did happen only the next day.

On that next day, without any warning to me to expect him, he came to the house.

His first words, and the tone in which he spoke them, surly as it was, showed me plainly enough that he had

repented already of his insolent answer to my application, and that he had come in a mighty bad temper to try

and set matters right again before it was too late. Seeing my daughter in the room with me (I had been afraid

to let her out of my sight after what had happened the day before) he ordered her away. They neither of them

liked each other, and he vented the illtemper on HER which he was afraid to show to ME.

"Leave us," he said, looking at her over his shoulder. She looked back over HER shoulder and waited as if

she didn't care to go. "Do you hear?" he roared out, "leave the room." "Speak to me civilly," says she, getting

red in the face. "Turn the idiot out," says he, looking my way. She had always had crazy notions of her own

about her dignity, and that word "idiot " upset her in a moment. Before I could interfere she stepped up to him

in a fine passion. "Beg my pardon, directly," says she, "or I'll make it the worse for you. I'll let out your

Secret. I can ruin you for life if I choose to open my lips." My own words!repeated exactly from what I

had said the day beforerepeated, in his presence, as if they had come from herself. He sat speechless, as

white as the paper I am writing on, while I pushed her out of the room. When he recovered himself

No! I am too respectable a woman to mention what he said when he recovered himself. My pen is the pen of

a member of the rector's congregation, and a subscriber to the "Wednesday Lectures on Justification by

Faith"how can you expect me to employ it in writing bad language? Suppose, for yourself, the raging,

swearing frenzy of the lowest ruffian in England, and let us get on together, as fast as may be, to the way in

It ended, as you probably guess by this time, in his insisting on securing his own safety by shutting her up.

I tried to set things right. I told him that she had merely repeated, like a parrot, the words she had heard me

say and that she knew no particulars whatever, because I had mentioned none. I explained that she had

affected, out of crazy spite against him, to know what she really did NOT knowthat she only wanted to

threaten him and aggravate him for speaking to her as he had just spokenand that my unlucky words gave

her just the chance of doing mischief of which she was in search. I referred him to other queer ways of hers,

and to his own experience of the vagaries of halfwitted peopleit was all to no purposehe would not

believe me on my oathhe was absolutely certain I had betrayed the whole Secret. In short, he would hear

Under these circumstances, I did my duty as a mother. "No pauper Asylum," I said, "I won't have her put in a

pauper Asylum. A Private Establishment, if you please. I have my feelings as a mother, and my character to

preserve in the town, and I will submit to nothing but a Private Establishment, of the sort which my genteel

neighbours would choose for afflicted relatives of their own." Those were my words. It is gratifying to me to

reflect that I did my duty. Though never overfond of my late daughter, I had a proper pride about her. No

Having carried my point (which I did the more easily, in consequence of the facilities offered by private

Asylums), I could not refuse to admit that there were certain advantages gained by shutting her up. In the first

place, she was taken excellent care ofbeing treated (as I took care to mention in the town) on the footing of

a lady. In the second place, she was kept away from Welmingham, where she might have set people

The only drawback of putting her under restraint was a very slight one. We merely turned her empty boast

about knowing the Secret into a fixed delusion. Having first spoken in sheer crazy spitefulness against the

man who had offended her, she was cunning enough to see that she had seriously frightened him, and sharp

enough afterwards to discover that HE was concerned in shutting her up. The consequence was she flamed

out into a perfect frenzy of passion against him, going to the Asylum, and the first words she said to the

nurses, after they had quieted her, were, that she was put in confinement for knowing his Secret, and that she

She may have said the same thing to you, when you thoughtlessly assisted her escape. She certainly said it (as

I heard last summer) to the unfortunate woman who married our sweettempered, nameless gentleman lately

deceased. If either you, or that unlucky lady, had questioned my daughter closely, and had insisted on her

explaining what she really meant, you would have found her lose all her selfimportance suddenly, and get

vacant, and restless, and confusedyou would have discovered that I am writing nothing here but the plain

truth. She knew that there was a Secretshe knew who was connected with itshe knew who would suffer

by its being knownand beyond that, whatever airs of importance she may have given herself, whatever

crazy boasting she may have indulged in with strangers, she never to her dying day knew more.

Have I satisfied your curiosity? I have taken pains enough to satisfy it at any rate. There is really nothing else

I have to tell you about myself or my daughter. My worst responsibilities, so far as she was concerned, were

all over when she was secured in the Asylum. I had a form of letter relating to the circumstances under which

she was shut up, given me to write, in answer to one Miss Halcombe, who was curious in the matter, and who

must have heard plenty of lies about me from a certain tongue well accustomed to the telling of the same.

And I did what I could afterwards to trace my runaway daughter, and prevent her from doing mischief by

making inquiries myself in the neighbourhood where she was falsely reported to have been seen. But these,

and other trifles like them, are of little or no interest to you after what you have heard already.

So far, I have written in the friendliest possible spirit. But I cannot close this letter without adding a word

In the course of your personal interview with me, you audaciously referred to my late daughter's parentage on

the father's side, as if that parentage was a matter of doubt. This was highly improper and very

ungentlemanlike on your part! If we see each other again, remember, if you please, that I will allow no

liberties to be taken with my reputation, and that the moral atmosphere of Welmingham (to use a favourite

expression of my friend the rector's) must not be tainted by loose conversation of any kind. If you allow

yourself to doubt that my husband was Anne's father, you personally insult me in the grossest manner. If you

have felt, and if you still continue to feel, an unhallowed curiosity on this subject, I recommend you, in your

own interests, to check it at once, and for ever. On this side of the grave, Mr. Hartright, whatever may happen

Perhaps, after what I have just said, you will see the necessity of writing me an apology. Do so, and I will

willingly receive it. I will, afterwards, if your wishes point to a second interview with me, go a step farther,

and receive you. My circumstances only enable me to invite you to teanot that they are at all altered for the

worse by what has happened. I have always lived, as I think I told you, well within my income, and I have

saved enough, in the last twenty years, to make me quite comfortable for the rest of my life. It is not my

intention to leave Welmingham. There are one or two little advantages which I have still to gain in the town.

The clergyman bows to meas you saw. He is married, and his wife is not quite so civil. I propose to join

If you favour me with your company, pray understand that the conversation must be entirely on general

subjects. Any attempted reference to this letter will be quite uselessI am determined not to acknowledge

having written it. The evidence has been destroyed in the fire, I know, but I think it desirable to err on the

On this account no names are mentioned here, nor is any signature attached to these lines: the handwriting is

disguised throughout, and I mean to deliver the letter myself, under circumstances which will prevent all fear

of its being traced to my house. You can have no possible cause to complain of these precautions, seeing that

they do not affect the information I here communicate, in consideration of the special indulgence which you

have deserved at my hands. My hour for tea is halfpast five, and my buttered toast waits for nobody.

My first impulse, after reading Mrs. Catherick's extraordinary narrative, was to destroy it. The hardened

shameless depravity of the whole composition, from beginning to endthe atrocious perversity of mind

which persistently associated me with a calamity for which I was in no sense answerable, and with a death

which I had risked my life in trying to avertso disgusted me, that I was on the point of tearing the letter,

when a consideration suggested itself which warned me to wait a little before I destroyed it.

This consideration was entirely unconnected with Sir Percival. The information communicated to me, so far

as it concerned him, did little more than confirm the conclusions at which I had already arrived.

He had committed his offence, as I had supposed him to have committed it, and the absence of all reference,

on Mrs. Catherick's part, to the duplicate register at Knowlesbury, strengthened my previous conviction that

the existence of the book, and the risk of detection which it implied, must have been necessarily unknown to

Sir Percival. My interest in the question of the forgery was now at an end, and my only object in keeping the

letter was to make it of some future service in clearing up the last mystery that still remained to baffle

methe parentage of Anne Catherick on the father's side. There were one or two sentences dropped in her

mother's narrative, which it might be useful to refer to again, when matters of more immediate importance

allowed me leisure to search for the missing evidence. I did not despair of still finding that evidence, and I

had lost none of my anxiety to discover it, for I had lost none of my interest in tracing the father of the poor

Accordingly, I sealed up the letter and put it away carefully in my pocketbook, to be referred to again when

The next day was my last in Hampshire. When I had appeared again before the magistrate at Knowlesbury,

and when I had attended at the adjourned inquest, I should be free to return to London by the afternoon or the

My first errand in the morning was, as usual, to the postoffice. The letter from Marian was there, but I

thought when it was handed to me that it felt unusually light. I anxiously opened the envelope. There was

nothing inside but a small strip of paper folded in two. The few blotted hurriedlywritten lines which were

"Come back as soon as you can. I have been obliged to move. Come to Gower's Walk, Fulham (number five).

I will be on the lookout for you. Don't be alarmed about us, we are both safe and well. But come

The news which those lines containednews which I instantly associated with some attempted treachery on

the part of Count Foscofairly overwhelmed me. I stood breathless with the paper crumpled up in my hand.

What had happened? What subtle wickedness had the Count planned and executed in my absence? A night

had passed since Marian's note was writtenhours must elapse still before I could get back to themsome

new disaster might have happened already of which I was ignorant. And here, miles and miles away from

I hardly know to what forgetfulness of my obligations anxiety and alarm might not have tempted me, but for

the quieting influence of my faith in Marian. My absolute reliance on her was the one earthly consideration

which helped me to restrain myself, and gave me courage to wait. The inquest was the first of the

impediments in the way of my freedom of action. I attended it at the appointed time, the legal formalities

requiring my presence in the room, but as it turned out, not calling on me to repeat my evidence. This useless

delay was a hard trial, although I did my best to quiet my impatience by following the course of the

The London solicitor of the deceased (Mr. Merriman) was among the persons present. But he was quite

unable to assist the objects of the inquiry. He could only say that he was inexpressibly shocked and

astonished, and that he could throw no light whatever on the mysterious circumstances of the case. At

intervals during the adjourned investigation, he suggested questions which the Coroner put, but which led to

no results. After a patient inquiry, which lasted nearly three hours, and which exhausted every available

source of information, the jury pronounced the customary verdict in cases of sudden death by accident. They

added to the formal decision a statement, that there had been no evidence to show how the keys had been

abstracted, how the fire had been caused, or what the purpose was for which the deceased had entered the

vestry. This act closed the proceedings. The legal representative of the dead man was left to provide for the

Resolved not to lose a minute in getting to Knowlesbury, I paid my bill at the hotel, and hired a fly to take me

to the town. A gentleman who heard me give the order, and who saw that I was going alone, informed me

that he lived in the neighbourhood of Knowlesbury, and asked if I would have any objection to his getting

Our conversation during the drive was naturally occupied by the one absorbing subject of local interest.

My new acquaintance had some knowledge of the late Sir Percival's solicitor, and he and Mr. Merriman had

been discussing the state of the deceased gentleman's affairs and the succession to the property. Sir Percival's

embarrassments were so well known all over the county that his solicitor could only make a virtue of

necessity and plainly acknowledge them. He had died without leaving a will, and he had no personal property

to bequeath, even if he had made one, the whole fortune which he had derived from his wife having been

swallowed up by his creditors. The heir to the estate (Sir Percival having left no issue) was a son of Sir Felix

Glyde's first cousin, an officer in command of an East Indiaman. He would find his unexpected inheritance

sadly encumbered, but the property would recover with time, and, if "the captain" was careful, he might be a

Absorbed as I was in the one idea of getting to London, this information (which events proved to be perfectly

correct) had an interest of its own to attract my attention. I thought it justified me in keeping secret my

discovery of Sir Percival's fraud. The heir, whose rights he had usurped, was the heir who would now have

the estate. The income from it, for the last threeandtwenty years, which should properly have been his, and

which the dead man had squandered to the last farthing, was gone beyond recall. If I spoke, my speaking

would confer advantage on no one. If I kept the secret, my silence concealed the character of the man who

had cheated Laura into marrying him. For her sake, I wished to conceal itfor her sake, still, I tell this story

I parted with my chance companion at Knowlesbury, and went at once to the townhall. As I had anticipated,

no one was present to prosecute the case against methe necessary formalities were observed, and I was

discharged. On leaving the court a letter from Mr. Dawson was put into my hand. It informed me that he was

absent on professional duty, and it reiterated the offer I had already received from him of any assistance

which I might require at his hands. I wrote back, warmly acknowledging my obligations to his kindness, and

apologising for not expressing my thanks personally, in consequence of my immediate recall on pressing

It was between nine and ten o'clock before I reached Fulham, and found my way to Gower's Walk.

Both Laura and Marian came to the door to let me in. I think we had hardly known how close the tie was

which bound us three together, until the evening came which united us again. We met as if we had been

parted for months instead of for a few days only. Marian's face was sadly worn and anxious. I saw who had

known all the danger and borne all the trouble in my absence the moment I looked at her. Laura's brighter

looks and better spirits told me how carefully she had been spared all knowledge of the dreadful death at

The stir of the removal seemed to have cheered and interested her. She only spoke of it as a happy thought of

Marian's to surprise me on my return with a change from the close, noisy street to the pleasant neighbourhood

of trees and fields and the river. She was full of projects for the futureof the drawings she was to

finishof the purchasers I had found in the country who were to buy themof the shillings and sixpences

she had saved, till her purse was so heavy that she proudly asked me to weigh it in my own hand. The change

for the better which had been wrought in her during the few days of my absence was a surprise to me for

which I was quite unpreparedand for all the unspeakable happiness of seeing it, I was indebted to Marian's

When Laura had left us, and when we could speak to one another without restraint, I tried to give some

expression to the gratitude and the admiration which filled my heart. But the generous creature would not

wait to hear me. That sublime self forgetfulness of women, which yields so much and asks so little, turned

"I had only a moment left before posttime," she said, "or I should have written less abruptly. You look worn

"Only at first," I replied. "My mind was quieted, Marian, by my trust in you. Was I right in attributing this

sudden change of place to some threatened annoyance on the part of Count Fosco?"

"Perfectly right," she said. "I saw him yesterday, and worse than that, WalterI spoke to him."

"He did. To the housebut not upstairs. Laura never saw him Laura suspects nothing. I will tell you how

it happened: the danger, I believe and hope, is over now. Yesterday, I was in the sittingroom, at our old

lodgings. Laura was drawing at the table, and I was walking about and setting things to rights. I passed the

window, and as I passed it, looked out into the street. There, on the opposite side of the way, I saw the Count,

"Not a stranger, Walter. As soon as I could draw my breath again, I recognised him. He was the owner of the

"No, they were talking together as if they had accidentally met in the street. I remained at the window looking

at them from behind the curtain. If I had turned round, and if Laura had seen my face at that

momentThank God, she was absorbed over her drawing! They soon parted. The man from the Asylum

went one way, and the Count the other. I began to hope they were in the street by chance, till I saw the Count

come back, stop opposite to us again, take out his cardcase and pencil, write something, and then cross the

road to the shop below us. I ran past Laura before she could see me, and said I had forgotten something

upstairs. As soon as I was out of the room I went down to the first landing and waitedI was determined to

stop him if he tried to come upstairs. He made no such attempt. The girl from the shop came through the door

into the passage, with his card in her handa large gilt card with his name, and a coronet above it, and these

lines underneath in pencil: 'Dear lady' (yes! the villain could address me in that way still)'dear lady, one

word, I implore you, on a matter serious to us both.' If one can think at all, in serious difficulties, one thinks

quick. I felt directly that it might be a fatal mistake to leave myself and to leave you in the dark, where such a

man as the Count was concerned. I felt that the doubt of what he might do, in your absence, would be ten

times more trying to me if I declined to see him than if I consented. 'Ask the gentleman to wait in the shop,' I

said. 'I will be with him in a moment.' I ran upstairs for my bonnet, being determined not to let him speak to

me indoors. I knew his deep ringing voice, and I was afraid Laura might hear it, even in the shop. In less than

a minute I was down again in the passage, and had opened the door into the street. He came round to meet me

from the shop. There he was in deep mourning, with his smooth bow and his deadly smile, and some idle

boys and women near him, staring at his great size, his fine black clothes, and his large cane with the gold

knob to it. All the horrible time at Blackwater came back to me the moment I set eyes on him. All the old

loathing crept and crawled through me, when he took off his hat with a flourish and spoke to me, as if we had

"I can't repeat it, Walter. You shall know directly what he said about youbut I can't repeat what he said to

me. It was worse than the polite insolence of his letter. My hands tingled to strike him, as if I had been a man!

I only kept them quiet by tearing his card to pieces under my shawl. Without saying a word on my side, I

walked away from the house (for fear of Laura seeing us), and he followed, protesting softly all the way. In

the first bystreet I turned, and asked him what he wanted with me. He wanted two things. First, if I had no

objection, to express his sentiments. I declined to hear them. Secondly, to repeat the warning in his letter. I

asked, what occasion there was for repeating it. He bowed and smiled, and said he would explain. The

explanation exactly confirmed the fears I expressed before you left us. I told you, if you remember, that Sir

Percival would be too headstrong to take his friend's advice where you were concerned, and that there was no

danger to be dreaded from the Count till his own interests were threatened, and he was roused into acting for

"Well, so it has really turned out. The Count offered his advice, but it was refused. Sir Percival would only

take counsel of his own violence, his own obstinacy, and his own hatred of you. The Count let him have his

way, first privately ascertaining, in case of his own interests being threatened next, where we lived. You were

followed, Walter, on returning here, after your first journey to Hampshire, by the lawyer's men for some

distance from the railway, and by the Count himself to the door of the house. How he contrived to escape

being seen by you he did not tell me, but he found us out on that occasion, and in that way. Having made the

discovery, he took no advantage of it till the news reached him of Sir Percival's death, and then, as I told you,

he acted for himself, because he believed you would next proceed against the dead man's partner in the

conspiracy. He at once made his arrangements to meet the owner of the Asylum in London, and to take him

to the place where his runaway patient was hidden, believing that the results, whichever way they ended,

would be to involve you in interminable legal disputes and difficulties, and to tie your hands for all purposes

of offence, so far as he was concerned. That was his purpose, on his own confession to me. The only

"It is hard to acknowledge it, Walter, and yet I must. I was the only consideration. No words can say how

degraded I feel in my own estimation when I think of it, but the one weak point in that man's iron character is

the horrible admiration he feels for me. I have tried, for the sake of my own selfrespect, to disbelieve it as

long as I could; but his looks, his actions, force on me the shameful conviction of the truth. The eyes of that

monster of wickedness moistened while he was speaking to methey did, Walter! He declared that at the

moment of pointing out the house to the doctor, he thought of my misery if I was separated from Laura, of

my responsibility if I was called on to answer for effecting her escape, and he risked the worst that you could

do to him, the second time, for my sake. All he asked was that I would remember the sacrifice, and restrain

your rashness, in my own interestsinterests which he might never be able to consult again. I made no such

bargain with himI would have died first. But believe him or not, whether it is true or false that he sent the

doctor away with an excuse, one thing is certain, I saw the man leave him without so much as a glance at our

"I believe it, Marian. The best men are not consistent in good why should the worst men be consistent in

evil? At the same time, I suspect him of merely attempting to frighten you, by threatening what he cannot

really do. I doubt his power of annoying us, by means of the owner of the Asylum, now that Sir Percival is

dead, and Mrs. Catherick is free from all control. But let me hear more. What did the Count say of me?"

"He spoke last of you. His eyes brightened and hardened, and his manner changed to what I remember it in

past timesto that mixture of pitiless resolution and mountebank mockery which makes it so impossible to

fathom him. 'Warn Mr. Hartright!' he said in his loftiest manner. 'He has a man of brains to deal with, a man

who snaps his big fingers at the laws and conventions of society, when he measures himself with ME. If my

lamented friend had taken my advice, the business of the inquest would have been with the body of Mr.

Hartright. But my lamented friend was obstinate. See! I mourn his lossinwardly in my soul, outwardly on

my hat. This trivial crape expresses sensibilities which I summon Mr. Hartright to respect. They may be

transformed to immeasurable enmities if he ventures to disturb them. Let him be content with what he has

gotwith what I leave unmolested, for your sake, to him and to you. Say to him (with my compliments), if

he stirs me, he has Fosco to deal with. In the English of the Popular Tongue, I inform himFosco sticks at

nothing. Dear lady, good morning.' His cold grey eyes settled on my facehe took off his hat

"He turned at the corner of the street, and waved his hand, and then struck it theatrically on his breast. I lost

sight of him after that. He disappeared in the opposite direction to our house, and I ran back to Laura. Before

I was indoors again, I had made up my mind that we must go. The house (especially in your absence) was a

place of danger instead of a place of safety, now that the Count had discovered it. If I could have felt certain

of your return, I should have risked waiting till you came back. But I was certain of nothing, and I acted at

once on my own impulse. You had spoken, before leaving us, of moving into a quieter neighbourhood and

purer air, for the sake of Laura's health. I had only to remind her of that, and to suggest surprising you and

saving you trouble by managing the move in your absence, to make her quite as anxious for the change as I

was. She helped me to pack up your things, and she has arranged them all for you in your new workingroom

"My ignorance of other localities in the neighbourhood of London. I felt the necessity of getting as far away

as possible from our old lodgings, and I knew something of Fulham, because I had once been at school there.

I despatched a messenger with a note, on the chance that the school might still be in existence. It was in

existencethe daughters of my old mistress were carrying it on for her, and they engaged this place from the

instructions I had sent. It was just posttime when the messenger returned to me with the address of the

house. We moved after darkwe came here quite unobserved. Have I done right, Walter? Have I justified

I answered her warmly and gratefully, as I really felt. But the anxious look still remained on her face while I

was speaking, and the first question she asked, when I had done, related to Count Fosco.

I saw that she was thinking of him now with a changed mind. No fresh outbreak of anger against him, no new

appeal to me to hasten the day of reckoning escaped her. Her conviction that the man's hateful admiration of

herself was really sincere, seemed to have increased a hundredfold her distrust of his unfathomable cunning,

her inborn dread of the wicked energy and vigilance of all his faculties. Her voice fell low, her manner was

hesitating, her eyes searched into mine with an eager fear when she asked me what I thought of his message,

"Not many weeks have passed, Marian," I answered, "since my interview with Mr. Kyrle. When he and I

parted, the last words I said to him about Laura were these: 'Her uncle's house shall open to receive her, in the

presence of every soul who followed the false funeral to the grave; the lie that records her death shall be

publicly erased from the tombstone by the authority of the head of the family, and the two men who have

wronged her shall answer for their crime to ME, though the justice that sits in tribunals is powerless to pursue

them.' One of those men is beyond mortal reach. The other remains, and my resolution remains."

Her eyes lit upher colour rose. She said nothing, but I saw all her sympathies gathering to mine in her face.

"I don't disguise from myself, or from you," I went on, "that the prospect before us is more than doubtful. The

risks we have run already are, it may be, trifles compared with the risks that threaten us in the future, but the

venture shall be tried, Marian, for all that. I am not rash enough to measure myself against such a man as the

Count before I am well prepared for him. I have learnt patienceI can wait my time. Let him believe that his

message has produced its effectlet him know nothing of us, and hear nothing of uslet us give him full

time to feel securehis own boastful nature, unless I seriously mistake him, will hasten that result. This is

one reason for waiting, but there is another more important still. My position, Marian, towards you and

towards Laura ought to be a stronger one than it is now before I try our last chance."

"I will tell you," I replied, "when the time comes. It has not come yetit may never come at all. I may be

silent about it to Laura for everI must be silent now, even to YOU, till I see for myself that I can

harmlessly and honourably speak. Let us leave that subject. There is another which has more pressing claims

on our attention. You have kept Laura, mercifully kept her, in ignorance of her husband's death"

"No, Marian. Better that you should reveal it to her now, than that accident, which no one can guard against,

should reveal it to her at some future time. Spare her all the detailsbreak it to her very tenderly, but tell her

"You have a reason, Walter, for wishing her to know of her husband's death besides the reason you have just

"A reason connected with that subject which must not be mentioned between us yet?which may never be

She dwelt on the last words meaningly. When I answered her in the affirmative, I dwelt on them too.

Her face grew pale. For a while she looked at me with a sad, hesitating interest. An unaccustomed tenderness

trembled in her dark eyes and softened her firm lips, as she glanced aside at the empty chair in which the dear

"I think I understand," she said. "I think I owe it to her and to you, Walter, to tell her of her husband's death."

She sighed, and held my hand fast for a momentthen dropped it abruptly, and left the room. On the next

day Laura knew that his death had released her, and that the error and the calamity of her life lay buried in his

His name was mentioned among us no more. Thenceforward, we shrank from the slightest approach to the

subject of his death, and in the same scrupulous manner, Marian and I avoided all further reference to that

other subject, which, by her consent and mine, was not to be mentioned between us yet. It was not the less

present in our mindsit was rather kept alive in them by the restraint which we had imposed on ourselves.

We both watched Laura more anxiously than ever, sometimes waiting and hoping, sometimes waiting and

By degrees we returned to our accustomed way of life. I resumed the daily work, which had been suspended

during my absence in Hampshire. Our new lodgings cost us more than the smaller and less convenient rooms

which we had left, and the claim thus implied on my increased exertions was strengthened by the

doubtfulness of our future prospects. Emergencies might yet happen which would exhaust our little fund at

the banker's, and the work of my hands might be, ultimately, all we had to look to for support. More

permanent and more lucrative employment than had yet been offered to me was a necessity of our

It must not be supposed that the interval of rest and seclusion of which I am now writing, entirely suspended,

on my part, all pursuit of the one absorbing purpose with which my thoughts and actions are associated in

these pages. That purpose was, for months and months yet, never to relax its claims on me. The slow ripening

of it still left me a measure of precaution to take, an obligation of gratitude to perform, and a doubtful

The measure of precaution related, necessarily, to the Count. It was of the last importance to ascertain, if

possible, whether his plans committed him to remaining in Englandor, in other words, to remaining within

my reach. I contrived to set this doubt at rest by very simple means. His address in St. John's Wood being

known to me, I inquired in the neighbourhood, and having found out the agent who had the disposal of the

furnished house in which he lived, I asked if number five, Forest Road, was likely to be let within a

reasonable time. The reply was in the negative. I was informed that the foreign gentleman then residing in the

house had renewed his term of occupation for another six months, and would remain in possession until the

end of June in the following year. We were then at the beginning of December only. I left the agent with my

The obligation I had to perform took me once more into the presence of Mrs. Clements. I had promised to

return, and to confide to her those particulars relating to the death and burial of Anne Catherick which I had

been obliged to withhold at our first interview. Changed as circumstances now were, there was no hindrance

to my trusting the good woman with as much of the story of the conspiracy as it was necessary to tell. I had

every reason that sympathy and friendly feeling could suggest to urge on me the speedy performance of my

promise, and I did conscientiously and carefully perform it. There is no need to burden these pages with any

statement of what passed at the interview. It will be more to the purpose to say, that the interview itself

necessarily brought to my mind the one doubtful question still remaining to be solved the question of Anne

A multitude of small considerations in connection with this subjecttrifling enough in themselves, but

strikingly important when massed togetherhad latterly led my mind to a conclusion which I resolved to

verify. I obtained Marian's permission to write to Major Donthorne, of Varneck Hall (where Mrs. Catherick

had lived in service for some years previous to her marriage), to ask him certain questions. I made the

inquiries in Marian's name, and described them as relating to matters of personal history in her family, which

might explain and excuse my application. When I wrote the letter I had no certain knowledge that Major

Donthorne was still aliveI despatched it on the chance that he might be living, and able and willing to

After a lapse of two days proof came, in the shape of a letter, that the Major was living, and that he was ready

The idea in my mind when I wrote to him, and the nature of my inquiries. will be easily inferred from his

In the first place, "the late Sir Percival Glyde, of Blackwater Park," had never set foot in Varneck Hall. The

deceased gentleman was a total stranger to Major Donthorne, and to all his family.

In the second place, "the late Mr. Philip Fairlie, of Limmeridge House," had been, in his younger days, the

intimate friend and constant guest of Major Donthorne. Having refreshed his memory by looking back to old

letters and other papers, the Major was in a position to say positively that Mr. Philip Fairlie was staying at

Varneck Hall in the month of August, eighteen hundred and twenty six, and that he remained there for the

shooting during the month of September and part of October following. He then left, to the best of the

Major's belief, for Scotland, and did not return to Varneck Hall till after a lapse of time, when he reappeared

Taken by itself, this statement was, perhaps, of little positive value, but taken in connection with certain facts,

every one of which either Marian or I knew to be true, it suggested one plain conclusion that was, to our

Knowing, now, that Mr. Philip Fairlie had been at Varneck Hall in the autumn of eighteen hundred and

twentysix, and that Mrs. Catherick had been living there in service at the same time, we knew alsofirst,

that Anne had been born in June, eighteen hundred and twentyseven; secondly, that she had always

presented an extraordinary personal resemblance to Laura; and, thirdly, that Laura herself was strikingly like

her father. Mr. Philip Fairlie had been one of the notoriously handsome men of his time. In disposition

entirely unlike his brother Frederick, he was the spoilt darling of society, especially of the womenan easy,

lighthearted, impulsive, affectionate mangenerous to a fault constitutionally lax in his principles, and

notoriously thoughtless of moral obligations where women were concerned. Such were the facts we

knewsuch was the character of the man. Surely the plain inference that follows needs no pointing out?

Read by the new light which had now broken upon me, even Mrs. Catherick's letter, in despite of herself,

rendered its mite of assistance towards strengthening the conclusion at which I had arrived. She had described

Mrs. Fairlie (in writing to me) as "plainlooking," and as having "entrapped the handsomest man in England

into marrying her." Both assertions were gratuitously made, and both were false. Jealous dislike (which, in

such a woman as Mrs. Catherick, would express itself in petty malice rather than not express itself at all)

appeared to me to be the only assignable cause for the peculiar insolence of her reference to Mrs. Fairlie,

The mention here of Mrs. Fairlie's name naturally suggests one other question. Did she ever suspect whose

Marian's testimony was positive on this point. Mrs. Fairlie's letter to her husband, which had been read to me

in former days the letter describing Anne's resemblance to Laura, and acknowledging her affectionate

interest in the little stranger had been written, beyond all question, in perfect innocence of heart. It even

seemed doubtful, on consideration, whether Mr. Philip Fairlie himself had been nearer than his wife to any

suspicion of the truth. The disgracefully deceitful circumstances under which Mrs. Catherick had married, the

purpose of concealment which the marriage was intended to answer, might well keep her silent for caution's

sake, perhaps for her own pride's sake also, even assuming that she had the means, in his absence, of

As this surmise floated through my mind, there rose on my memory the remembrance of the Scripture

denunciation which we have all thought of in our time with wonder and with awe: "The sins of the fathers

shall be visited on the children." But for the fatal resemblance between the two daughters of one father, the

conspiracy of which Anne had been the innocent instrument and Laura the innocent victim could never have

been planned. With what unerring and terrible directness the long chain of circumstances led down from the

thoughtless wrong committed by the father to the heartless injury inflicted on the child!

These thoughts came to me, and others with them, which drew my mind away to the little Cumberland

churchyard where Anne Catherick now lay buried. I thought of the bygone days when I had met her by Mrs.

Fairlie's grave, and met her for the last time. I thought of her poor helpless hands beating on the tombstone,

and her weary, yearning words, murmured to the dead remains of her protectress and her friend: "Oh, if I

could die, and be hidden and at rest with YOU!" Little more than a year had passed since she breathed that

wish; and how inscrutably, how awfully, it had been fulfilled! The words she had spoken to Laura by the

shores of the lake, the 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 what darkest windings of the way down to

deaththe lost creature had wandered in God's leading to the last home that, living, she never hoped to

reach! In that sacred rest I leave herin that dread companionship let her remain undisturbed.

So the ghostly figure which has haunted these pages, as it haunted my life, goes down into the impenetrable

gloom. Like a shadow she first came to me in the loneliness of the night. Like a shadow she passes away in

The course of time had flowed through the interval since the winter peacefully and happily in our new home.

I had turned my long leisure to good account, had largely increased my sources of employment, and had

placed our means of subsistence on surer grounds. Freed from the suspense and the anxiety which had tried

her so sorely and hung over her so long, Marian's spirits rallied, and her natural energy of character began to

assert itself again, with something, if not all, of the freedom and the vigour of former times.

More pliable under change than her sister, Laura showed more plainly the progress made by the healing

influences of her new life. The worn and wasted look which had prematurely aged her face was fast leaving

it, and the expression which had been the first of its charms in past days was the first of its beauties that now

returned. My closest observations of her detected but one serious result of the conspiracy which had once

threatened her reason and her life. Her memory of events, from the period of her leaving Blackwater Park to

the period of our meeting in the burialground of Limmeridge Church, was lost beyond all hope of recovery.

At the slightest reference to that time she changed and trembled still, her words became confused, her

memory wandered and lost itself as helplessly as ever. Here, and here only, the traces of the past lay

In all else she was now so far on the way to recovery that, on her best and brightest days, she sometimes

looked and spoke like the Laura of old times. The happy change wrought its natural result in us both. From

their long slumber, on her side and on mine, those imperishable memories of our past life in Cumberland now

Gradually and insensibly our daily relations towards each other became constrained. The fond words which I

had spoken to her so naturally, in the days of her sorrow and her suffering, faltered strangely on my lips. In

the time when my dread of losing her was most present to my mind, I had always kissed her when she left me

at night and when she met me in the morning. The kiss seemed now to have dropped between usto be lost

out of our lives. Our hands began to tremble again when they met. We hardly ever looked long at one another

out of Marian's presence. The talk often flagged between us when we were alone. When I touched her by

accident I felt my heart beating fast, as it used to beat at Limmeridge HouseI saw the lovely answering

flush glowing again in her cheeks, as if we were back among the Cumberland Hills in our past characters of

master and pupil once more. She had long intervals of silence and thoughtfulness, and denied she had been

thinking when Marian asked her the question. I surprised myself one day neglecting my work to dream over

the little watercolour portrait of her which I had taken in the summerhouse where we first metjust as I

used to neglect Mr. Fairlie's drawings to dream over the same likeness when it was newly finished in the

bygone time. Changed as all the circumstances now were, our position towards each other in the golden days

of our first companionship seemed to be revived with the revival of our love. It was as if Time had drifted us

To any other woman I could have spoken the decisive words which I still hesitated to speak to HER. The

utter helplessness of her positionher friendless dependence on all the forbearing gentleness that I could

show hermy fear of touching too soon some secret sensitiveness in her which my instinct as a man might

not have been fine enough to discoverthese considerations, and others like them, kept me selfdistrustfully

silent. And yet I knew that the restraint on both sides must be ended, that the relations in which we stood

towards one another must be altered in some settled manner for the future, and that it rested with me, in the

The more I thought of our position, the harder the attempt to alter it appeared, while the domestic conditions

on which we three had been living together since the winter remained undisturbed. I cannot account for the

capricious state of mind in which this feeling originated, but the idea nevertheless possessed me that some

previous change of place and circumstances, some sudden break in the quiet monotony of our lives, so

managed as to vary the home aspect under which we had been accustomed to see each other, might prepare

the way for me to speak, and might make it easier and less embarrassing for Laura and Marian to hear.

With this purpose in view, I said, one morning, that I thought we had all earned a little holiday and a change

of scene. After some consideration, it was decided that we should go for a fortnight to the seaside.

On the next day we left Fulham for a quiet town on the south coast. At that early season of the year we were

the only visitors in the place. The cliffs, the beach, and the walks inland were all in the solitary condition

which was most welcome to us. The air was mildthe prospects over hill and wood and down were

beautifully varied by the shifting April light and shade, and the restless sea leapt under our windows, as if it

I owed it to Marian to consult her before I spoke to Laura, and to be guided afterwards by her advice.

On the third day from our arrival I found a fit opportunity of speaking to her alone. The moment we looked at

one another, her quick instinct detected the thought in my mind before I could give it expression. With her

"You are thinking of that subject which was mentioned between us on the evening of your return from

Hampshire," she said. "I have been expecting you to allude to it for some time past. There must be a change

in our little household, Walter, we cannot go on much longer as we are now. I see it as plainly as you doas

plainly as Laura sees it, though she says nothing. How strangely the old times in Cumberland seem to have

come back! You and I are together again, and the one subject of interest between us is Laura once more. I

could almost fancy that this room is the summerhouse at Limmeridge, and that those waves beyond us are

"I was guided by your advice in those past days," I said, "and now, Marian, with reliance tenfold greater I

She answered by pressing my hand. I saw that she was deeply touched by my reference to the past. We sat

together near the window, and while I spoke and she listened, we looked at the glory of the sunlight shining

"Whatever comes of this confidence between us," I said, "whether it ends happily or sorrowfully for ME,

Laura's interests will still be the interests of my life. When we leave this place, on whatever terms we leave it,

my determination to wrest from Count Fosco the confession which I failed to obtain from his accomplice,

goes back with me to London, as certainly as I go back myself. Neither you nor I can tell how that man may

turn on me, if I bring him to bay; we only know, by his own words and actions, that he is capable of striking

at me through Laura, without a moment's hesitation, or a moment's remorse. In our present position I have no

claim on her which society sanctions, which the law allows, to strengthen me in resisting him, and in

protecting HER. This places me at a serious disadvantage. If I am to fight our cause with the Count, strong in

the consciousness of Laura's safety, I must fight it for my Wife. Do you agree to that, Marian, so far?"

"I will not plead out of my own heart," I went on; "I will not appeal to the love which has survived all

changes and all shocks I will rest my only vindication of myself for thinking of her, and speaking of her as

my wife, on what I have just said. If the chance of forcing a confession from the Count is, as I believe it to be,

the last chance left of publicly establishing the fact of Laura's existence, the least selfish reason that I can

advance for our marriage is recognised by us both. But I may be wrong in my convictionother means of

achieving our purpose may be in our power, which are less uncertain and less dangerous. I have searched

anxiously, in my own mind, for those means, and I have not found them. Have you?"

"In all likelihood," I continued, "the same questions have occurred to you, in considering this difficult

subject, which have occurred to me. Ought we to return with her to Limmeridge, now that she is like herself

again, and trust to the recognition of her by the people of the village, or by the children at the school? Ought

we to appeal to the practical test of her handwriting? Suppose we did so. Suppose the recognition of her

obtained, and the identity of the handwriting established. Would success in both those cases do more than

supply an excellent foundation for a trial in a court of law? Would the recognition and the handwriting prove

her identity to Mr. Fairlie and take her back to Limmeridge House, against the evidence of her aunt, against

the evidence of the medical certificate, against the fact of the funeral and the fact of the inscription on the

tomb? No! We could only hope to succeed in throwing a serious doubt on the assertion of her death, a doubt

which nothing short of a legal inquiry can settle. I will assume that we possess (what we have certainly not

got) money enough to carry this inquiry on through all its stages. I will assume that Mr. Fairlie's prejudices

might be reasoned awaythat the false testimony of the Count and his wife, and all the rest of the false

testimony, might be confuted that the recognition could not possibly be ascribed to a mistake between

Laura and Anne Catherick, or the handwriting be declared by our enemies to be a clever fraudall these are

assumptions which, more or less, set plain probabilities at defiance; but let them passand let us ask

ourselves what would be the first consequence or the first questions put to Laura herself on the subject of the

conspiracy. We know only too well what the consequence would be, for we know that she has never

recovered her memory of what happened to her in London. Examine her privately, or examine her publicly,

she is utterly incapable of assisting the assertion of her own case. If you don't see this, Marian, as plainly as I

"I DO see it, Walter. Even if we had the means of paying all the law expenses, even if we succeeded in the

end, the delays would be unendurable, the perpetual suspense, after what we have suffered already, would be

heartbreaking. You are right about the hopelessness of going to Limmeridge. I wish I could feel sure that you

are right also in determining to try that last chance with the Count. IS it a chance at all?"

"Beyond a doubt, Yes. It is the chance of recovering the lost date of Laura's journey to London. Without

returning to the reasons I gave you some time since, I am still as firmly persuaded as ever that there is a

discrepancy between the date of that journey and the date on the certificate of death. There lies the weak

point of the whole conspiracyit crumbles to pieces if we attack it in that way, and the means of attacking it

are in possession of the Count. If I succeed in wresting them from him, the object of your life and mine is

fulfilled. If I fail, the wrong that Laura has suffered will, in this world, never be redressed."

"I dare not anticipate success, and for that very reason, Marian, I speak openly and plainly as I have spoken

now. In my heart and my conscience I can say it, Laura's hopes for the future are at their lowest ebb. I know

that her fortune is goneI know that the last chance of restoring her to her place in the world lies at the

mercy of her worst enemy, of a man who is now absolutely unassailable, and who may remain unassailable to

the end. With every worldly advantage gone from her, with all prospect of recovering her rank and station

more than doubtful, with no clearer future before her than the future which her husband can provide, the poor

drawingmaster may harmlessly open his heart at last. In the days of her prosperity, Marian, I was only the

teacher who guided her handI ask for it, in her adversity, as the hand of my wife!"

Marian's eyes met mine affectionatelyI could say no more. My heart was full, my lips were trembling. In

spite of myself I was in danger of appealing to her pity. I got up to leave the room. She rose at the same

"Walter!" she said, "I once parted you both, for your good and for hers. Wait here, my brother!wait, my

For the first time since the farewell morning at Limmeridge she touched my forehead with her lips. A tear

dropped on my face as she kissed me. She turned quickly, pointed to the chair from which I had risen, and

I sat down alone at the window to wait through the crisis of my life. My mind in that breathless interval felt

like a total blank. I was conscious of nothing but a painful intensity of all familiar perceptions. The sun grew

blinding bright, the white sea birds chasing each other far beyond me seemed to be flitting before my face,

The door opened, and Laura came in alone. So she had entered the breakfastroom at Limmeridge House on

the morning when we parted. Slowly and falteringly, in sorrow and in hesitation, she had once approached

me. Now she came with the haste of happiness in her feet, with the light of happiness radiant in her face. Of

their own accord those dear arms clasped themselves round me, of their own accord the sweet lips came to

meet mine. "My darling!" she whispered, "we may own we love each other now?" Her head nestled with a

tender contentedness on my bosom. "Oh," she said innocently, "I am so happy at last!"

The course of this narrative, steadily flowing on, bears me away from the morningtime of our married life,

In a fortnight more we three were back in London, and the shadow was stealing over us of the struggle to

Marian and I were careful to keep Laura in ignorance of the cause that had hurried us backthe necessity of

making sure of the Count. It was now the beginning of May, and his term of occupation at the house in Forest

Road expired in June. If he renewed it (and I had reasons, shortly to be mentioned, for anticipating that he

would), I might be certain of his not escaping me. But if by any chance he disappointed my expectations and

left the country, then I had no time to lose in arming myself to meet him as I best might.

In the first fulness of my new happiness, there had been moments when my resolution falteredmoments

when I was tempted to be safely content, now that the dearest aspiration of my life was fulfilled in the

possession of Laura's love. For the first time I thought faintheartedly of the greatness of the risk, of the

adverse chances arrayed against me, of the fair promise of our new life, and of the peril in which I might

place the happiness which we had so hardly earned. Yes! let me own it honestly. For a brief time I wandered,

in the sweet guiding of love, far from the purpose to which I had been true under sterner discipline and in

darker days. Innocently Laura had tempted me aside from the hard pathinnocently she was destined to lead

At times, dreams of the terrible past still disconnectedly recalled to her, in the mystery of sleep, the events of

which her waking memory had lost all trace. One night (barely two weeks after our marriage), when I was

watching her at rest, I saw the tears come slowly through her closed eyelids, I heard the faint murmuring

words escape her which told me that her spirit was back again on the fatal journey from Blackwater Park.

That unconscious appeal, so touching and so awful in the sacredness of her sleep, ran through me like fire.

The next day was the day we came back to Londonthe day when my resolution returned to me with tenfold

The first necessity was to know something of the man. Thus far, the true story of his life was an impenetrable

I began with such scanty sources of information as were at my own disposal. The important narrative written

by Mr. Frederick Fairlie (which Marian had obtained by following the directions I had given to her in the

winter) proved to be of no service to the special object with which I now looked at it. While reading it I

reconsidered the disclosure revealed to me by Mrs. Clements of the series of deceptions which had brought

Anne Catherick to London, and which had there devoted her to the interests of the conspiracy. Here, again,

the Count had not openly committed himselfhere, again, he was, to all practical purpose, out of my reach.

I next returned to Marian's journal at Blackwater Park. At my request she read to me again a passage which

referred to her past curiosity about the Count, and to the few particulars which she had discovered relating to

The passage to which I allude occurs in that part of her journal which delineates his character and his

personal appearance. She describes him as "not having crossed the frontiers of his native country for years

past"as "anxious to know if any Italian gentlemen were settled in the nearest town to Blackwater

Park"as "receiving letters with all sorts of odd stamps on them, and one with a large officiallooking seal

on it." She is inclined to consider that his long absence from his native country may be accounted for by

assuming that he is a political exile. But she is, on the other hand, unable to reconcile this idea with the

reception of the letter from abroad bearing "the large official looking seal"letters from the Continent

addressed to political exiles being usually the last to court attention from foreign postoffices in that way.

The considerations thus presented to me in the diary, joined to certain surmises of my own that grew out of

them, suggested a conclusion which I wondered I had not arrived at before. I now said to myselfwhat

Laura had once said to Marian at Blackwater Park, what Madame Fosco had overheard by listening at the

Laura had applied the word to him at hazard, in natural anger at his proceedings towards herself. I applied it

to him with the deliberate conviction that his vocation in life was the vocation of a spy. On this assumption,

the reason for his extraordinary stay in England so long after the objects of the conspiracy had been gained,

The year of which I am now writing was the year of the famous Crystal Palace Exhibition in Hyde Park.

Foreigners in unusually large numbers had arrived already, and were still arriving in England. Men were

among us by hundreds whom the ceaseless distrustfulness of their governments had followed privately, by

means of appointed agents, to our shores. My surmises did not for a moment class a man of the Count's

abilities and social position with the ordinary rank and file o~ foreign spies. I suspected him of holding a

position of authority, of being entrusted by the government which he secretly served with the organisation

and management of agents specially employed in this country, both men and women, and I believed Mrs.

Rubelle, who had been so opportunely found to act as nurse at Blackwater Park, to be, in all probability, one

Assuming that this idea of mine had a foundation in truth, the position of the Count might prove to be more

assailable than I had hitherto ventured to hope. To whom could I apply to know something more of the man's

In this emergency it naturally occurred to my mind that a countryman of his own, on whom I could rely,

might be the fittest person to help me. The first man whom I thought of under these circumstances was also

the only Italian with whom I was intimately acquaintedmy quaint little friend, Professor Pesca.

The professor has been so long absent from these pages that he has run some risk of being forgotten

It is the necessary law of such a story as mine that the persons concerned in it only appear when the course of

events takes them upthey come and go, not by favour of my personal partiality, but by right of their direct

connection with the circumstances to be detailed. For this reason, not Pesca alone, but my mother and sister

as well, have been left far in the background of the narrative. My visits to the Hampstead cottage, my

mother's belief in the denial of Laura's identity which the conspiracy had accomplished, my vain efforts to

overcome the prejudice on her part and on my sister's to which, in their jealous affection for me, they both

continued to adhere, the painful necessity which that prejudice imposed on me of concealing my marriage

from them till they had learnt to do justice to my wifeall these little domestic occurrences have been left

unrecorded because they were not essential to the main interest of the story. It is nothing that they added to

my anxieties and embittered my disappointments the steady march of events has inexorably passed them

For the same reason I have said nothing here of the consolation that I found in Pesca's brotherly affection for

me, when I saw him again after the sudden cessation of my residence at Limmeridge House. I have not

recorded the fidelity with which my warm hearted little friend followed me to the place of embarkation

when I sailed for Central America, or the noisy transport of joy with which he received me when we next met

in London. If I had felt justified in accepting the offers of service which he made to me on my return, he

would have appeared again long ere this. But, though I knew that his honour and his courage were to be

implicitly relied on, I was not so sure that his discretion was to be trusted, and, for that reason only, I

followed the course of all my inquiries alone. It will now be sufficiently understood that Pesca was not

separated from all connection with me and my interests, although he has hitherto been separated from all

connection with the progress of this narrative. He was as true and as ready a friend of mine still as ever he

Before I summoned Pesca to my assistance it was necessary to see for myself what sort of man I had to deal

Three days after my return with Laura and Marian to London, I set forth alone for Forest Road, St. John's

Wood, between ten and eleven o'clock in the morning. It was a fine dayI had some hours to spareand I

thought it likely, if I waited a little for him, that the Count might be tempted out. I had no great reason to fear

the chance of his recognising me in the daytime, for the only occasion when I had been seen by him was the

No one appeared at the windows in the front of the house. I walked down a turning which ran past the side of

it, and looked over the low garden wall. One of the back windows on the lower floor was thrown up and a net

was stretched across the opening. I saw nobody, but I heard, in the room, first a shrill whistling and singing of

birds, then the deep ringing voice which Marian's description had made familiar to me. "Come out on my

little finger, my pretpretpretties!" cried the voice. "Come out and hop upstairs! One, two, threeand up!

Three, two, oneand down! One, two, threetwittwittwittweet!" The Count was exercising his

I waited a little while, and the singing and the whistling ceased. "Come, kiss me, my pretties!" said the deep

voice. There was a responsive twittering and chirpinga low, oily laugha silence of a minute or so, and

then I heard the opening of the house door. I turned and retraced my steps. The magnificent melody of the

Prayer in Rossini's Moses, sung in a sonorous bass voice, rose grandly through the suburban silence of the

He crossed the road and walked towards the western boundary of the Regent's Park. I kept on my own side of

Marian had prepared me for his high stature, his monstrous corpulence, and his ostentatious mourning

garments, but not for the horrible freshness and cheerfulness and vitality of the man. He carried his sixty

years as if they had been fewer than forty. He sauntered along, wearing his hat a little on one side, with a light

jaunty step, swinging his big stick, humming to himself, looking up from time to time at the houses and

gardens on either side of him with superb, smiling patronage. If a stranger had been told that the whole

neighbourhood belonged to him, that stranger would not have been surprised to hear it. He never looked

back, he paid no apparent attention to me, no apparent attention to any one who passed him on his own side

of the road, except now and then, when he smiled and smirked, with an easy paternal good humour, at the

nurserymaids and the children whom he met. In this way he led me on, till we reached a colony of shops

Here he stopped at a pastrycook's, went in (probably to give an order), and came out again immediately with

a tart in his hand. An Italian was grinding an organ before the shop, and a miserable little shrivelled monkey

was sitting on the instrument. The Count stopped, bit a piece for himself out of the tart, and gravely handed

the rest to the monkey. "My poor little man!" he said, with grotesque tenderness, "you look hungry. In the

sacred name of humanity, I offer you some lunch!" The organgrinder piteously put in his claim to a penny

from the benevolent stranger. The Count shrugged his shoulders contemptuously, and passed on.

We reached the streets and the better class of shops between the New Road and Oxford Street. The Count

stopped again and entered a small optician's shop, with an inscription in the window announcing that repairs

were neatly executed inside. He came out again with an operaglass in his hand, walked a few paces on, and

stopped to look at a bill of the opera placed outside a music seller's shop. He read the bill attentively,

considered a moment, and then hailed an empty cab as it passed him. "Opera Box office," he said to the

I crossed the road, and looked at the bill in my turn. The performance announced was Lucrezia Borgia, and it

was to take place that evening. The operaglass in the Count's hand, his careful reading of the bill, and his

direction to the cabman, all suggested that he proposed making one of the audience. I had the means of

getting an admission for myself and a friend to the pit by applying to one of the scenepainters attached to

the theatre, with whom I had been well acquainted in past times. There was a chance at least that the Count

might be easily visible among the audience to me and to any one with me, and in this case I had the means of

This consideration at once decided the disposal of my evening. I procured the tickets, leaving a note at the

Professor's lodgings on the way. At a quarter to eight I called to take him with me to the theatre. My little

friend was in a state of the highest excitement, with a festive flower in his buttonhole, and the largest

The last notes of the introduction to the opera were being played, and the seats in the pit were all filled, when

There was plenty of room, however, in the passage that ran round the pitprecisely the position best

calculated to answer the purpose for which I was attending the performance. I went first to the barrier

separating us from the stalls, and looked for the Count in that part of the theatre. He was not there. Returning

along the passage, on the lefthand side from the stage, and looking about me attentively, I discovered him in

the pit. He occupied an excellent place, some twelve or fourteen seats from the end of a bench, within three

rows of the stalls. I placed myself exactly on a line with him. Pesca standing by my side. The Professor was

not yet aware of the purpose for which I had brought him to the theatre, and he was rather surprised that we

Throughout the whole of the first act we remained in our position the Count, absorbed by the orchestra and

the stage, never casting so much as a chance glance at us. Not a note of Donizetti's delicious music was lost

on him. There he sat, high above his neighbours, smiling, and nodding his great head enjoyingly from time to

time. When the people near him applauded the close of an air (as an English audience in such circumstances

always WILL applaud), without the least consideration for the orchestral movement which immediately

followed it, he looked round at them with an expression of compassionate remonstrance, and held up one

hand with a gesture of polite entreaty. At the more refined passages of the singing, at the more delicate phases

of the music, which passed unapplauded by others, his fat hands, adorned with perfectlyfitting black kid

gloves, softly patted each other, in token of the cultivated appreciation of a musical man. At such times, his

oily murmur of approval, "Bravo! Braaaa!" hummed through the silence, like the purring of a great cat.

His immediate neighbours on either sidehearty, ruddyfaced people from the country, basking amazedly in

the sunshine of fashionable Londonseeing and hearing him, began to follow his lead. Many a burst of

applause from the pit that night started from the soft, comfortable patting of the blackgloved hands. The

man's voracious vanity devoured this implied tribute to his local and critical supremacy with an appearance of

the highest relish. Smiles rippled continuously over his fat face. He looked about him, at the pauses in the

music, serenely satisfied with himself and his fellowcreatures. "Yes! yes! these barbarous English people

are learning something from ME. Here, there, and everywhere, IFoscoam an influence that is felt, a man

who sits supreme!" If ever face spoke, his face spoke then, and that was its language.

The curtain fell on the first act, and the audience rose to look about them. This was the time I had waited

He rose with the rest, and surveyed the occupants of the boxes grandly with his operaglass. At first his back

was towards us, but he turned round in time, to our side of the theatre, and looked at the boxes above us,

using his glass for a few minutes then removing it, but still continuing to look up. This was the moment I

"No," said the Professor. "The big fat man is a stranger to me. Is he famous? Why do you point him out?"

"Because I have particular reasons for wishing to know something of him. He is a countryman of yourshis

"Are you quite sure you don't recognise him? Look againlook carefully. I will tell you why I am so

anxious about it when we leave the theatre. Stop! let me help you up here, where you can see him better."

I helped the little man to perch himself on the edge of the raised dais upon which the pitseats were all

placed. His small stature was no hindrance to himhere he could see over the heads of the ladies who were

A slim, lighthaired man standing by us, whom I had not noticed beforea man with a scar on his left

cheeklooked attentively at Pesca as I helped him up, and then looked still more attentively, following the

direction of Pesca's eyes, at the Count. Our conversation might have reached his ears, and might, as it struck

Meanwhile, Pesca fixed his eyes earnestly on the broad, full, smiling face turned a little upward, exactly

"No," he said, "I have never set my two eyes on that big fat man before in all my life."

As he spoke the Count looked downwards towards the boxes behind us on the pit tier.

The instant before I had been perfectly satisfied, from his own reiterated assertion, that Pesca did not know

the Count. The instant afterwards I was equally certain that the Count knew Pesca!

Knew him, andmore surprising stillFEARED him as well! There was no mistaking the change that

passed over the villain's face. The leaden hue that altered his yellow complexion in a moment, the sudden

rigidity of all his features, the furtive scrutiny of his cold grey eyes, the motionless stillness of him from head

to foot told their own tale. A mortal dread had mastered him body and souland his own recognition of

The slim man with the scar on his cheek was still close by us. He had apparently drawn his inference from the

effect produced on the Count by the sight of Pesca as I had drawn mine. He was a mild, gentlemanlike man,

looking like a foreigner, and his interest in our proceedings was not expressed in anything approaching to an

For my own part I was so startled by the change in the Count's face, so astounded at the entirely unexpected

turn which events had taken, that I knew neither what to say or do next. Pesca roused me by stepping back to

I kept my eye still on the Count. I saw him move for the first time when Pesca moved, so as not to lose sight

of the little man in the lower position in which he now stood. I was curious to see what would happen if

Pesca's attention under these circumstances was withdrawn from him, and I accordingly asked the Professor

if he recognised any of his pupils that evening among the ladies in the boxes. Pesca immediately raised the

large operaglass to his eyes, and moved it slowly all round the upper part of the theatre, searching for his

The moment he showed himself to be thus engaged the Count turned round, slipped past the persons who

occupied seats on the farther side of him from where we stood, and disappeared in the middle passage down

the centre of the pit. I caught Pesca by the arm, and to his inexpressible astonishment, hurried him round with

me to the back of the pit to intercept the Count before he could get to the door. Somewhat to my surprise, the

slim man hastened out before us, avoiding a stoppage caused by some people on our side of the pit leaving

their places, by which Pesca and myself were delayed. When we reached the lobby the Count had

"Come home," I said; "come home, Pesca to your lodgings. I must speak to you in privateI must speak

"Mysoulblessmysoul!" cried the Professor, in a state of the extremest bewilderment. "What on earth is

I walked on rapidly without answering. The circumstances under which the Count had left the theatre

suggested to me that his extraordinary anxiety to escape Pesca might carry him to further extremities still. He

might escape me, too, by leaving London. I doubted the future if I allowed him so much as a day's freedom to

act as he pleased. And I doubted that foreign stranger, who had got the start of us, and whom I suspected of

With this double distrust in my mind, I was not long in making Pesca understand what I wanted. As soon as

we two were alone in his room, I increased his confusion and amazement a hundredfold by telling him what

"My friend, what can I do?" cried the Professor, piteously appealing to me with both hands.

"HE knows YOUhe is afraid of youhe has left the theatre to escape you. Pesca! there must be a reason

for this. Look back into your own life before you came to England. You left Italy, as you have told me

yourself, for political reasons. You have never mentioned those reasons to me, and I don't inquire into them

now. I only ask you to consult your own recollections, and to say if they suggest no past cause for the terror

To my unutterable surprise, these words, harmless as they appeared to ME, produced the same astounding

effect on Pesca which the sight of Pesca had produced on the Count. The rosy face of my little friend

whitened in an instant, and he drew back from me slowly, trembling from head to foot.

He spoke in a whisperhe looked at me as if I had suddenly revealed to him some hidden danger to both of

us. In less than one minute of time he was so altered from the easy, lively, quaint little man of all my past

experience, that if I had met him in the street, changed as I saw him now, I should most certainly not have

"Forgive me, if I have unintentionally pained and shocked you," I replied. "Remember the cruel wrong my

wife has suffered at Count Fosco's hands. Remember that the wrong can never be redressed, unless the means

are in my power of forcing him to do her justice. I spoke in HER interests, PescaI ask you again to forgive

"Wait," he said. "You have shaken me from head to foot. You don't know how I left my country, and why I

I returned to my chair. He walked up and down the room, talking to himself incoherently in his own

language. After several turns backwards and forwards, he suddenly came up to me, and laid his little hands

"On your heart and soul, Walter," he said, "is there no other way to get to that man but the chanceway

He left me again, opened the door of the room and looked out cautiously into the passage, closed it once

"You won your right over me, Walter," he said, "on the day when you saved my life. It was yours from that

moment, when you pleased to take it. Take it now. Yes! I mean what I say. My next words, as true as the

The trembling earnestness with which he uttered this extraordinary warning, carried with it, to my mind, the

"Mind this!" he went on, shaking his hands at me in the vehemence of his agitation. "I hold no thread, in my

own mind, between that man Fosco, and the past time which I call back to me for your sake. If you find the

thread, keep it to yourselftell me nothingon my knees I beg and pray, let me be ignorant, let me be

I saw that the effort of expressing himself in English, on an occasion too serious to permit him the use of the

quaint turns and phrases of his ordinary vocabulary, was painfully increasing the difficulty he had felt from

the first in speaking to me at all. Having learnt to read and understand his native language (though not to

speak it), in the earlier days of our intimate companionship, I now suggested to him that he should express

himself in Italian, while I used English in putting any questions which might be necessary to my

enlightenment. He accepted the proposal. In his smoothflowing language, spoken with a vehement agitation

which betrayed itself in the perpetual working of his features, in the wildness and the suddenness of his

foreign gesticulations, but never in the raising of his voice, I now heard the words which armed me to meet

[3] It is only right to mention here, that I repeat Pesco's statement to me with the careful suppressions and

alterations which the serious nature of the subject and my own sense of duty to my friend demand. My first

and last concealments from the reader are those which caution renders absolutely necessary in this portion of

"You know nothing of my motive for leaving Italy," he began, "except that it was for political reasons. If I

had been driven to this country by the persecution of my government, I should not have kept those reasons a

secret from you or from any one. I have concealed them because no government authority has pronounced the

sentence of my exile. You have heard, Walter, of the political societies that are hidden in every great city on

the continent of Europe? To one of those societies I belonged in Italyand belong still in England. When I

came to this country, I came by the direction of my chief. I was overzealous in my younger timeI ran the

risk of compromising myself and others. For those reasons I was ordered to emigrate to England and to wait.

I emigratedI have waitedI wait still. Tomorrow I may be called awayten years hence I may be

called away. It is all one to meI am here, I support myself by teaching, and I wait. I violate no oath (you

shall hear why presently) in making my confidence complete by telling you the name of the society to which

I belong. All I do is to put my life in your hands. If what I say to you now is ever known by others to have

He whispered the next words in my ear. I keep the secret which he thus communicated. The society to which

he belonged will be sufficiently individualised for the purpose of these pages, if I call it "The Brotherhood,"

on the few occasions when any reference to the subject will be needed in this place.

"The object of the Brotherhood," Pesca went on, "is, briefly, the object of other political societies of the same

sortthe destruction of tyranny and the assertion of the rights of the people. The principles of the

Brotherhood are two. So long as a man's life is useful, or even harmless only, he has the right to enjoy it. But,

if his life inflicts injury on the wellbeing of his fellowmen, from that moment he forfeits the right, and it is

not only no crime, but a positive merit, to deprive him of it. It is not for me to say in what frightful

circumstances of oppression and suffering this society took its rise. It is not for you to sayyou Englishmen,

who have conquered your freedom so long ago, that you have conveniently forgotten what blood you shed,

and what extremities you proceeded to in the conqueringit is not for you to say how far the worst of all

exasperations may, or may not, carry the maddened men of an enslaved nation. The iron that has entered into

our souls has gone too deep for you to find it. Leave the refugee alone! Laugh at him, distrust him, open your

eyes in wonder at that secret self which smoulders in him, sometimes under the everyday respectability and

tranquillity of a man like mesometimes under the grinding poverty, the fierce squalor, of men less lucky,

less pliable, less patient than I am but judge us not! In the time of your first Charles you might have done

us justicethe long luxury of your own freedom has made you incapable of doing us justice now.

All the deepest feelings of his nature seemed to force themselves to the surface in those wordsall his heart

was poured out to me for the first time in our livesbut still his voice never rose, still his dread of the

"So far," he resumed, "you think the society like other societies. Its object (in your English opinion) is

anarchy and revolution. It takes the life of a bad king or a bad minister, as if the one and the other were

dangerous wild beasts to be shot at the first opportunity. I grant you this. But the laws of the Brotherhood are

the laws of no other political society on the face of the earth. The members are not known to one another.

There is a president in Italy; there are presidents abroad. Each of these has his secretary. The presidents and

the secretaries know the members, but the members, among themselves, are all strangers, until their chiefs

see fit, in the political necessity of the time, or in the private necessity of the society, to make them known to

each other. With such a safeguard as this there is no oath among us on admittance. We are identified with the

Brotherhood by a secret mark, which we all bear, which lasts while our lives last. We are told to go about our

ordinary business, and to report ourselves to the president, or the secretary, four times a year, in the event of

our services being required. We are warned, if we betray the Brotherhood, or if we injure it by serving other

interests, that we die by the principles of the Brotherhooddie by the hand of a stranger who may be sent

from the other end of the world to strike the blowor by the hand of our own bosomfriend, who may have

been a member unknown to us through all the years of our intimacy. Sometimes the death is

delayedsometimes it follows close on the treachery. It is our first business to know how to waitour

second business to know how to obey when the word is spoken. Some of us may wait our lives through, and

may not be wanted. Some of us may be called to the work, or to the preparation for the work, the very day of

our admission. I myselfthe little, easy, cheerful man you know, who, of his own accord, would hardly lift

up his handkerchief to strike down the fly that buzzes about his faceI, in my younger time, under

provocation so dreadful that I will not tell you of it, entered the Brotherhood by an impulse, as I might have

killed myself by an impulse. I must remain in it nowit has got me, whatever I may think of it in my better

circumstances and my cooler manhood, to my dying day. While I was still in Italy I was chosen secretary,

and all the members of that time, who were brought face to face with my president, were brought face to face

I began to understand himI saw the end towards which his extraordinary disclosure was now tending. He

waited a moment, watching me earnestlywatching till he had evidently guessed what was passing in my

"You have drawn your own conclusion already," he said. "I see it in your face. Tell me nothingkeep me

out of the secret of your thoughts. Let me make my one last sacrifice of myself, for your sake, and then have

He signed to me not to answer himroseremoved his coatand rolled up the shirtsleeve on his left arm.

"I promised you that this confidence should be complete," he whispered, speaking close at my ear, with his

eyes looking watchfully at the door. "Whatever comes of it you shall not reproach me with having hidden

anything from you which it was necessary to your interests to know. I have said that the Brotherhood

identifies its members by a mark that lasts for life. See the place, and the mark on it for yourself."

He raised his bare arm, and showed me, high on the upper part of it and in the inner side, a brand deeply

burnt in the flesh and stained of a bright bloodred colour. I abstain from describing the device which the

brand represented. It will be sufficient to say that it was circular in form, and so small that it would have been

"A man who has this mark, branded in this place," he said, covering his arm again, "is a member of the

Brotherhood. A man who has been false to the Brotherhood is discovered sooner or later by the chiefs who

know himpresidents or secretaries, as the case may be. And a man discovered by the chiefs is dead. NO

HUMAN LAWS CAN PROTECT HIM. Remember what you have seen and hearddraw what conclusions

YOU likeact as you please. But, in the name of God, whatever you discover, whatever you do, tell me

nothing! Let me remain free from a responsibility which it horrifies me to think ofwhich I know, in my

conscience, is not my responsibility now. For the last time I say iton my honour as a gentleman, on my

oath as a Christian, if the man you pointed out at the Opera knows ME, he is so altered, or so disguised, that I

do not know him. I am ignorant of his proceedings or his purposes in England. I never saw him, I never heard

the name he goes by, to my knowledge, before tonight. I say no more. Leave me a little, Walter. I am

overpowered by what has happenedI am shaken by what I have said. Let me try to be like myself again

He dropped into a chair, and turning away from me, hid his face in his hands. I gently opened the door so as

not to disturb him, and spoke my few parting words in low tones, which he might hear or not, as he pleased.

"I will keep the memory of tonight in my heart of hearts," I said. "You shall never repent the trust you have

reposed in me. May I come to you tomorrow? May I come as early as nine o'clock?"

"Yes, Walter," he replied, looking up at me kindly, and speaking in English once more, as if his one anxiety

now was to get back to our former relations towards each other. "Come to my little bit of breakfast before I

MY first conviction as soon as I found myself outside the house, was that no alternative was left me but to act

at once on the information I had receivedto make sure of the Count that night, or to risk the loss, if I only

delayed till the morning, of Laura's last chance. I looked at my watchit was ten o'clock.

Not the shadow of a doubt crossed my mind of the purpose for which the Count had left the theatre. His

escape from us, that evening, was beyond all question the preliminary only to his escape from London. The

mark of the Brotherhood was on his armI felt as certain of it as if he had shown me the brand; and the

betrayal of the Brotherhood was on his conscienceI had seen it in his recognition of Pesca.

It was easy to understand why that recognition had not been mutual. A man of the Count's character would

never risk the terrible consequences of turning spy without looking to his personal security quite as carefully

as he looked to his golden reward. The shaven face, which I had pointed out at the Opera, might have been

covered by a beard in Pesca's timehis dark brown hair might be a wighis name was evidently a false

one. The accident of time might have helped him as wellhis immense corpulence might have come with

his later years. There was every reason why Pesca should not have known him againevery reason also why

he should have known Pesca, whose singular personal appearance made a marked man of him, go where he

I have said that I felt certain of the purpose in the Count's mind when he escaped us at the theatre. How could

I doubt it, when I saw, with my own eyes, that he believed himself, in spite of the change in his appearance,

to have been recognised by Pesca, and to be therefore in danger of his life? If I could get speech of him that

night, if I could show him that I, too knew of the mortal peril in which he stood, what result would follow?

Plainly this. One of us must be master of the situationone of us must inevitably be at the mercy of the

I owed it to myself to consider the chances against me before I confronted them. I owed it to my wife to do

The chances against me wanted no reckoning upthey were all merged in one. If the Count discovered, by

my own avowal, that the direct way to his safety lay through my life, he was probably the last man in

existence who would shrink from throwing me off my guard and taking that way, when he had me alone

within his reach. The only means of defence against him on which I could at all rely to lessen the risk,

presented themselves, after a little careful thinking, clearly enough. Before I made any personal

acknowledgment of my discovery in his presence, I must place the discovery itself where it would be ready

for instant use against him, and safe from any attempt at suppression on his part. If I laid the mine under his

feet before I approached him, and if I left instructions with a third person to fire it on the expiration of a

certain time, unless directions to the contrary were previously received under my own hand, or from my own

lipsin that event the Count's security was absolutely dependent upon mine, and I might hold the vantage

This idea occurred to me when I was close to the new lodgings which we had taken on returning from the

seaside. I went in without disturbing any one, by the help of my key. A light was in the hall, and I stole up

with it to my workroom to make my preparations, and absolutely to commit myself to an interview with the

Count, before either Laura or Marian could have the slightest suspicion of what I intended to do.

A letter addressed to Pesca represented the surest measure of precaution which it was now possible for me to

"The man whom I pointed out to you at the Opera is a member of the Brotherhood, and has been false to his

trust. Put both these assertions to the test instantly. You know the name he goes by in England. His address is

No. 5 Forest Road, St. John's Wood. On the love you once bore me, use the power entrusted to you without

mercy and without delay against that man. I have risked all and lost alland the forfeit of my failure has

I signed and dated these lines, enclosed them in an envelope, and sealed it up. On the outside I wrote this

direction: "Keep the enclosure unopened until nine o'clock tomorrow morning. If you do not hear from me,

or see me, before that time, break the seal when the clock strikes, and read the contents." I added my initials,

and protected the whole by enclosing it in a second sealed envelope, addressed to Pesca at his lodgings.

Nothing remained to be done after this but to find the means of sending my letter to its destination

immediately. I should then have accomplished all that lay in my power. If anything happened to me in the

That the means of preventing his escape, under any circumstances whatever, were at Pesca's disposal, if he

chose to exert them, I did not for an instant doubt. The extraordinary anxiety which he had expressed to

remain unenlightened as to the Count's identity or, in other words, to be left uncertain enough about facts

to justify him to his own conscience in remaining passivebetrayed plainly that the means of exercising the

terrible justice of the Brotherhood were ready to his hand, although, as a naturally humane man, he had

shrunk from plainly saying as much in my presence. The deadly certainty with which the vengeance of

foreign political societies can hunt down a traitor to the cause, hide himself where he may, had been too often

exemplified, even in my superficial experience, to allow of any doubt. Considering the subject only as a

reader of newspapers, cases recurred to my memory, both in London and in Paris, of foreigners found stabbed

in the streets, whose assassins could never be tracedof bodies and parts of bodies thrown into the Thames

and the Seine, by hands that could never be discoveredof deaths by secret violence which could only be

accounted for in one way. I have disguised nothing relating to myself in these pages, and I do not disguise

here that I believed I had written Count Fosco's deathwarrant, if the fatal emergency happened which

I left my room to go down to the ground floor of the house, and speak to the landlord about finding me a

messenger. He happened to be ascending the stairs at the time, and we met on the landing. His son, a quick

lad, was the messenger he proposed to me on hearing what I wanted. We had the boy upstairs, and I gave him

his directions. He was to take the letter in a cab, to put it into Professor Pesca's own hands, and to bring me

back a line of acknowledgment from that gentlemanreturning in the cab, and keeping it at the door for my

use. It was then nearly halfpast ten. I calculated that the boy might be back in twenty minutes, and that I

When the lad had departed on his errand I returned to my own room for a little while, to put certain papers in

order, so that they might be easily found in case of the worst. The key of the old fashioned bureau in which

the papers were kept I sealed up, and left it on my table, with Marian's name written on the outside of the

little packet. This done, I went downstairs to the sitting room, in which I expected to find Laura and

Marian awaiting my return from the Opera. I felt my hand trembling for the first time when I laid it on the

No one was in the room but Marian. She was reading, and she looked at her watch, in surprise, when I came

"How early you are back!" she said. "You must have come away before the Opera was over."

"She had one of her bad headaches this evening, and I advised her to go to bed when we had done tea."

I left the room again on the pretext of wishing to see whether Laura was asleep. Marian's quick eyes were

beginning to look inquiringly at my faceMarian's quick instinct was beginning to discover that I had

When I entered the bedchamber, and softly approached the bedside by the dim flicker of the nightlamp, my

We had not been married quite a month yet. If my heart was heavy, if my resolution for a moment faltered

again, when I looked at her face turned faithfully to my pillow in her sleepwhen I saw her hand resting

open on the coverlid, as if it was waiting unconsciously for minesurely there was some excuse for me? I

only allowed myself a few minutes to kneel down at the bedside, and to look close at herso close that her

breath, as it came and went, fluttered on my face. I only touched her hand and her cheek with my lips at

parting. She stirred in her sleep and murmured my name, but without waking. I lingered for an instant at the

door to look at her again. "God bless and keep you, my darling!" I whispered, and left her.

Marian was at the stairhead waiting for me. She had a folded slip of paper in her hand.

"The landlord's son has brought this for you," she said. "He has got a cab at the doorhe says you ordered

I descended the stairs as I spoke, and looked into the sitting room to read the slip of paper by the light on the

"Your letter is received. If I don't see you before the time you mention, I will break the seal when the clock

I placed the paper in my pocketbook, and made for the door. Marian met me on the threshold, and pushed

me back into the room, where the candlelight fell full on my face. She held me by both hands, and her eyes

"I see!" she said, in a low eager whisper. "You are trying the last chance tonight."

"Not alone! Oh, Walter, for God's sake, not alone! Let me go with you. Don't refuse me because I'm only a

It was my turn now to hold HER. She tried to break away from me and get down first to the door.

"If you want to help me," I said, "stop here and sleep in my wife's room tonight. Only let me go away with

my mind easy about Laura, and I answer for everything else. Come, Marian, give me a kiss, and show that

I dared not allow her time to say a word more. She tried to hold me again. I unclasped her hands, and was out

of the room in a moment. The boy below heard me on the stairs, and opened the halldoor. I jumped into the

cab before the driver could get off the box. "Forest Road, St. John's Wood," I called to him through the front

window. "Double fare if you get there in a quarter of an hour." "I'll do it, sir." I looked at my watch. Eleven

The rapid motion of the cab, the sense that every instant now was bringing me nearer to the Count, the

conviction that I was embarked at last, without let or hindrance, on my hazardous enterprise, heated me into

such a fever of excitement that I shouted to the man to go faster and faster. As we left the streets, and crossed

St. John's Wood Road, my impatience so completely overpowered me that I stood up in the cab and stretched

my head out of the window, to see the end of the journey before we reached it. Just as a church clock in the

distance struck the quarter past, we turned into the Forest Road. I stopped the driver a little away from the

As I approached the garden gate, I saw another person advancing towards it also from the direction opposite

to mine. We met under the gas lamp in the road, and looked at each other. I instantly recognised the

lighthaired foreigner with the scar on his cheek, and I thought he recognised me. He said nothing, and

instead of stopping at the house, as I did, he slowly walked on. Was he in the Forest Road by accident? Or

I did not pursue those questions. After waiting a little till the foreigner had slowly passed out of sight, I rang

the gate bell. It was then twenty minutes past elevenlate enough to make it quite easy for the Count to get

The only way of providing against this contingency was to send in my name without asking any preliminary

questions, and to let him know, at the same time, that I had a serious motive for wishing to see him at that late

hour. Accordingly, while I was waiting, I took out my card and wrote under my name "On important

business." The maidservant answered the door while I was writing the last word in pencil, and asked me

I saw, by the girl's hesitation of manner, that if I had asked for the Count in the first instance she would only

have followed her instructions by telling me he was not at home. She was staggered by the confidence with

which I gave her the card. After staring at me, in great perturbation, she went back into the house with my

In a minute or so she reappeared. "Her master's compliments, and would I be so obliging as to say what my

business was?" "Take my compliments back," I replied, "and say that the business cannot be mentioned to

any one but your master." She left me again, again returned, and this time asked me to walk in.

There was no lamp in the hall, but by the dim light of the kitchen candle, which the girl had brought upstairs

with her, I saw an elderly lady steal noiselessly out of a back room on the ground floor. She cast one viperish

look at me as I entered the hall, but said nothing, and went slowly upstairs without returning my bow. My

familiarity with Marian's journal sufficiently assured me that the elderly lady was Madame Fosco.

The servant led me to the room which the Countess had just left. I entered it, and found myself face to face

He was still in his evening dress, except his coat, which he had thrown across a chair. His shirtsleeves were

turned up at the wrists, but no higher. A carpetbag was on one side of him, and a box on the other. Books,

papers, and articles of wearing apparel were scattered about the room. On a table, at one side of the door,

stood the cage, so well known to me by description, which contained his white mice. The canaries and the

cockatoo were probably in some other room. He was seated before the box, packing it, when I went in, and

rose with some papers in his hand to receive me. His face still betrayed plain traces of the shock that had

overwhelmed him at the Opera. His fat cheeks hung loose, his cold grey eyes were furtively vigilant, his

voice, look, and manner were all sharply suspicious alike, as he advanced a step to meet me, and requested,

"You come here on business, sir?" he said. "I am at a loss to know what that business can possibly he."

The unconcealed curiosity, with which he looked hard in my face while he spoke, convinced me that I had

passed unnoticed by him at the Opera. He had seen Pesca first, and from that moment till he left the theatre he

had evidently seen nothing else. My name would necessarily suggest to him that I had not come into his

house with other than a hostile purpose towards himself, but he appeared to be utterly ignorant thus far of the

"I am fortunate in finding you here tonight," I said. "You seem to be on the point of taking a journey?"

He slipped by me with the quickness of thought, locked the door, and put the key in his pocket.

"You and I, Mr. Hartright, are excellently well acquainted with one another by reputation," he said. "Did it,

by any chance, occur to you when you came to this house that I was not the sort of man you could trifle

"It did occur to me," I replied. "And I have not come to trifle with you. I am here on a matter of life and

death, and if that door which you have locked was open at this moment, nothing you could say or do would

I walked farther into the room, and stood opposite to him on the rug before the fireplace. He drew a chair in

front of the door, and sat down on it, with his left arm resting on the table. The cage with the white mice was

close to him, and the little creatures scampered out of their sleepingplace as his heavy arm shook the table,

"On a matter of life and death," he repeated to himself. "Those words are more serious, perhaps, than you

The perspiration broke out thickly on his broad forehead. His left hand stole over the edge of the table. There

was a drawer in it, with a lock, and the key was in the lock. His finger and thumb closed over the key, but did

"So you know why I am leaving London?" he went on. "Tell me the reason, if you please." He turned the key,

"I can do better than that," I replied. I can SHOW you the reason, if you like."

"You have got your coat off," I said. "Roll up the shirtsleeve on your left arm, and you will see it there."

The same livid leaden change passed over his face which I had seen pass over it at the theatre. The deadly

glitter in his eyes shone steady and straight into mine. He said nothing. But his left hand slowly opened the

tabledrawer, and softly slipped into it. The harsh grating noise of something heavy that he was moving

unseen to me sounded for a moment, then ceased. The silence that followed was so intense that the faint

ticking nibble of the white mice at their wires was distinctly audible where I stood.

My life hung by a thread, and I knew it. At that final moment I thought with HIS mind, I felt with HIS

fingersI was as certain as if I had seen it of what he kept hidden from me in the drawer.

"Wait a little," I said. "You have got the door lockedyou see I don't moveyou see my hands are empty.

"You have said enough," he replied, with a sudden composure so unnatural and so ghastly that it tried my

nerves as no outbreak of violence could have tried them. "I want one moment for my own thoughts, if you

"I am thinking," he remarked quietly, "whether I shall add to the disorder in this room by scattering your

"I advise you to read two lines of writing which I have about me," I rejoined, "before you finally decide that

The proposal appeared to excite his curiosity. He nodded his head. I took Pesca's acknowledgment of the

receipt of my letter out of my pocketbook, handed it to him at arm's length, and returned to my former

He read the lines aloud: "Your letter is received. If I don't hear from you before the time you mention, I will

Another man in his position would have needed some explanation of those wordsthe Count felt no such

necessity. One reading of the note showed him the precaution that I had taken as plainly as if he had been

present at the time when I adopted it. The expression of his face changed on the instant, and his hand came

"I don't lock up my drawer, Mr. Hartright," he said, "and I don't say that I may not scatter your brains about

the fireplace yet. But I am a just man even to my enemy, and I will acknowledge beforehand that they are

cleverer brains than I thought them. Come to the point, sir! You want something of me?"

"Bah! we are travelling in a circle," he said, "and those clever brains of yours are in danger again. Your tone

is deplorably imprudent, sirmoderate it on the spot! The risk of shooting you on the place where you stand

is less to me than the risk of letting you out of this house, except on conditions that I dictate and approve.

You have not got my lamented friend to deal with nowyou are face to face with Fosco! If the lives of

twenty Mr. Hartrights were the steppingstones to my safety, over all those stones I would go, sustained by

my sublime indifference, self balanced by my impenetrable calm. Respect me, if you love your own life! I

summon you to answer three questions before you open your lips again. Hear themthey are necessary to

this interview. Answer themthey are necessary to ME." He held up one finger of his right hand. "First

question!" he said. "You come here possessed of information which may be true or may be falsewhere did

"No matterI shall find out. If that information is truemind I say, with the whole force of my resolution,

ifyou are making your market of it here by treachery of your own or by treachery of some other man. I

note that circumstance for future use in my memory, which forgets nothing, and proceed." He held up another

finger. "Second question! Those lines you invited me to read are without signature. Who wrote them?"

"A man whom I have every reason to depend on, and whom you have every reason to fear."

My answer reached him to some purpose. His left hand trembled audibly in the drawer.

"How long do you give me," he asked, putting his third question in a quieter tone, "before the clock strikes

"Nine, tomorrow morning? Yes, yesyour trap is laid for me before I can get my passport regulated and

leave London. It is not earlier, I suppose? We will see about that presentlyI can keep you hostage here, and

bargain with you to send for your letter before I let you go. In the meantime, be so good next as to mention

"You shall hear them. They are simple, and soon stated. You know whose interests I represent in coming

"I consent to hazard a guess," he said jeeringly. "A lady's interests, of course!"

He looked at me with the first honest expression that had crossed his face in my presencean expression of

blank amazement. I could see that I sank in his estimation as a dangerous man from that moment. He shut up

the drawer at once, folded his arms over his breast, and listened to me with a smile of satirical attention.

"You are well enough aware," I went on, "of the course which my inquiries have taken for many months past,

to know that any attempted denial of plain facts will be quite useless in my presence. You are guilty of an

infamous conspiracy! And the gain of a fortune of ten thousand pounds was your motive for it."

He said nothing. But his face became overclouded suddenly by a lowering anxiety.

"Keep your gain," I said. (His face lightened again immediately, and his eyes opened on me in wider and

wider astonishment.) "I am not here to disgrace myself by bargaining for money which has passed through

"Gently, Mr. Hartright. Your moral claptraps have an excellent effect in Englandkeep them for yourself

and your own countrymen, if you please. The ten thousand pounds was a legacy left to my excellent wife by

the late Mr. Fairlie. Place the affair on those grounds, and I will discuss it if you like. To a man of my

sentiments, however, the subject is deplorably sordid. I prefer to pass it over. I invite you to resume the

"In the first place, I demand a full confession of the conspiracy, written and signed in my presence by

He raised his finger again. "One!" he said, checking me off with the steady attention of a practical man.

"In the second place, I demand a plain proof, which does not depend on your personal asseveration, of the

"So! so! you can lay your finger, I see, on the weak place," he remarked composedly. "Any more?"

"Good! you have mentioned your terms, now listen to mine. The responsibility to myself of admitting what

you are pleased to call the 'conspiracy' is less, perhaps, upon the whole, than the responsibility of laying you

dead on that hearthrug. Let us say that I meet your proposalon my own conditions. The statement you

demand of me shall be written, and the plain proof shall be produced. You call a letter from my late lamented

friend informing me of the day and hour of his wife's arrival in London, written, signed, and dated by

himself, a proof, I suppose? I can give you this. I can also send you to the man of whom I hired the carriage

to fetch my visitor from the railway, on the day when she arrivedhis orderbook may help you to your

date, even if his coachman who drove me proves to be of no use. These things I can do, and will do, on

conditions. I recite them. First condition! Madame Fosco and I leave this house when and how we please,

without interference of any kind on your part. Second condition! You wait here, in company with me, to see

my agent, who is coming at seven o'clock in the morning to regulate my affairs. You give my agent a written

order to the man who has got your sealed letter to resign his possession of it. You wait here till my agent

places that letter unopened in my hands, and you then allow me one clear halfhour to leave the houseafter

which you resume your own freedom of action and go where you please. Third condition! You give me the

satisfaction of a gentleman for your intrusion into my private affairs, and for the language you have allowed

yourself to use to me at this conference. The time and place, abroad, to be fixed in a letter from my hand

when I am safe on the Continent, and that letter to contain a strip of paper measuring accurately the length of

The extraordinary mixture of prompt decision, farsighted cunning, and mountebank bravado in this speech,

staggered me for a moment and only for a moment. The one question to consider was, whether I was

justified or not in possessing myself of the means of establishing Laura's identity at the cost of allowing the

scoundrel who had robbed her of it to escape me with impunity. I knew that the motive of securing the just

recognition of my wife in the birthplace from which she had been driven out as an impostor, and of publicly

erasing the lie that still profaned her mother's tombstone, was far purer, in its freedom from all taint of evil

passion, than the vindictive motive which had mingled itself with my purpose from the first. And yet I cannot

honestly say that my own moral convictions were strong enough to decide the struggle in me by themselves.

They were helped by my remembrance of Sir Percival's death. How awfully, at the last moment, had the

working of the retribution THERE been snatched from my feeble hands! What right had I to decide, in my

poor mortal ignorance of the future, that this man, too, must escape with impunity because he escaped ME? I

thought of these thingsperhaps with the superstition inherent in my nature, perhaps with a sense worthier

of me than superstition. It was hard, when I had fastened my hold on him at last, to loosen it again of my own

accordbut I forced myself to make the sacrifice. In plainer words, I determined to be guided by the one

higher motive of which I was certain, the motive of serving the cause of Laura and the cause of Truth.

"It refers to the sealed letter," I answered. "I require you to destroy it unopened in my presence as soon as it is

My object in making this stipulation was simply to prevent him from carrying away written evidence of the

nature of my communication with Pesca. The fact of my communication he would necessarily discover, when

I gave the address to his agent in the morning. But he could make no use of it on his own unsupported

testimonyeven if he really ventured to try the experimentwhich need excite in me the slightest

"I grant your reservation," he replied, after considering the question gravely for a minute or two. "It is not

He rose, as he spoke, from the chair in which he had been sitting opposite to me up to this time. With one

effort he appeared to free his mind from the whole pressure on it of the interview between us thus far. "Ouf!"

he cried, stretching his arms luxuriously, "the skirmish was hot while it lasted. Take a seat, Mr. Hartright. We

meet as mortal enemies hereafterlet us, like gallant gentlemen, exchange polite attentions in the

He unlocked and opened the door. "Eleanor!" he called out in his deep voice. The lady of the viperish face

came in "Madame Fosco Mr. Hartright," said the Count, introducing us with easy dignity. "My angel," he

went on, addressing his wife, "will your labours of packing up allow you time to make me some nice strong

coffee? I have writing business to transact with Mr. Hartrightand I require the full possession of my

Madame Fosco bowed her head twiceonce sternly to me, once submissively to her husband, and glided out

The Count walked to a writingtable near the window, opened his desk, and took from it several quires of

paper and a bundle of quill pens. He scattered the pens about the table, so that they might lie ready in all

directions to be taken up when wanted, and then cut the paper into a heap of narrow slips, of the form used by

professional writers for the press. "I shall make this a remarkable document," he said, looking at me over his

shoulder. "Habits of literary composition are perfectly familiar to me. One of the rarest of all the intellectual

accomplishments that a man can possess is the grand faculty of arranging his ideas. Immense privilege! I

He marched backwards and forwards in the room, until the coffee appeared, humming to himself, and

marking the places at which obstacles occurred in the arrangement of his ideas, by striking his forehead from

time to time with the palm of his hand. The enormous audacity with which he seized on the situation in which

I placed him, and made it the pedestal on which his vanity mounted for the one cherished purpose of

selfdisplay, mastered my astonishment by main force. Sincerely as I loathed the man, the prodigious

strength of his character, even in its most trivial aspects, impressed me in spite of myself.

The coffee was brought in by Madame Fosco. He kissed her hand in grateful acknowledgment, and escorted

her to the door; returned, poured out a cup of coffee for himself, and took it to the writingtable.

"What! you think I shall poison you?" he said gaily. "The English intellect is sound, so far as it goes," he

continued, seating himself at the table; "but it has one grave defectit is always cautious in the wrong

He dipped his pen in the ink, placed the first slip of paper before him with a thump of his hand on the desk,

cleared his throat, and began. He wrote with great noise and rapidity, in so large and bold a hand, and with

such wide spaces between the lines, that he reached the bottom of the slip in not more than two minutes

certainly from the time when he started at the top. Each slip as he finished it was paged, and tossed over his

shoulder out of his way on the floor. When his first pen was worn out, THAT went over his shoulder too, and

he pounced on a second from the supply scattered about the table. Slip after slip, by dozens, by fifties, by

hundreds, flew over his shoulders on either side of him till he had snowed himself up in paper all round his

chair. Hour after hour passedand there I sat watching, there he sat writing. He never stopped, except to sip

his coffee, and when that was exhausted, to smack his forehead from time to time. One o'clock struck, two,

three, fourand still the slips flew about all round him; still the untiring pen scraped its way ceaselessly

from top to bottom of the page, still the white chaos of paper rose higher and higher all round his chair. At

four o'clock I heard a sudden splutter of the pen, indicative of the flourish with which he signed his name.

"Bravo!" he cried, springing to his feet with the activity of a young man, and looking me straight in the face

"Done, Mr. Hartright I " he announced with a selfrenovating thump of his fist on his broad breast. "Done, to

my own profound satisfactionto YOUR profound astonishment, when you read what I have written. The

subject is exhausted: the manFoscois not. I proceed to the arrangement of my slipsto the revision of

my slipsto the reading of my slipsaddressed emphatically to your private ear. Four o'clock has just

struck. Good! Arrangement, revision, reading, from four to five. Short snooze of restoration for myself from

five to six. Final preparations from six to seven. Affair of agent and sealed letter from seven to eight. At

He sat down crosslegged on the floor among his papers, strung them together with a bodkin and a piece of

stringrevised them, wrote all the titles and honours by which he was personally distinguished at the head of

the first page, and then read the manuscript to me with loud theatrical emphasis and profuse theatrical

gesticulation. The reader will have an opportunity, ere long, of forming his own opinion of the document. It

He next wrote me the address of the person from whom he had hired the fly, and handed me Sir Percival's

letter. It was dated from Hampshire on the 25th of July, and it announced the journey of "Lady Glyde" to

London on the 26th. Thus, on the very day (the 25th) when the doctor's certificate declared that she had died

in St. John's Wood, she was alive, by Sir Percival's own showing, at Blackwaterand, on the day after, she

was to take a journey! When the proof of that journey was obtained from the flyman, the evidence would be

"A quarterpast five," said the Count, looking at his watch. "Time for my restorative snooze. I personally

resemble Napoleon the Great, as you may have remarked, Mr. HartrightI also resemble that immortal man

in my power of commanding sleep at will. Excuse me one moment. I will summon Madame Fosco, to keep

Knowing as well as he did, that he was summoning Madame Fosco to ensure my not leaving the house while

he was asleep, I made no reply, and occupied myself in tying up the papers which he had placed in my

The lady came in, cool, pale, and venomous as ever. "Amuse Mr. Hartright, my angel," said the Count. He

placed a chair for her, kissed her hand for the second time, withdrew to a sofa, and, in three minutes, was as

Madame Fosco took a book from the table, sat down, and looked at me, with the steady vindictive malice of a

"I have been listening to your conversation with my husband," she said. "If I had been in HIS placeI would

With those words she opened her book, and never looked at me or spoke to me from that time till the time

He opened his eyes and rose from the sofa, accurately to an hour from the time when he had gone to sleep.

"I feel infinitely refreshed," he remarked. "Eleanor, my good wife, are you all ready upstairs? That is well.

My little packing here can be completed in ten minutesmy travellingdress assumed in ten minutes more.

What remains before the agent comes?" He looked about the room, and noticed the cage with his white mice

in it. "Ah!" he cried piteously, "a last laceration of my sympathies still remains. My innocent pets! my little

cherished children! what am I to do with them? For the present we are settled nowhere; for the present we

travel incessantlythe less baggage we carry the better for ourselves. My cockatoo, my canaries, and my

He walked about the room deep in thought. He had not been at all troubled about writing his confession, but

he was visibly perplexed and distressed about the far more important question of the disposal of his pets.

"An idea!" he exclaimed. "I will offer my canaries and my cockatoo to this vast Metropolismy agent shall

present them in my name to the Zoological Gardens of London. The Document that describes them shall be

"Number one. Cockatoo of transcendent plumage: attraction, of himself, to all visitors of taste. Number two.

Canaries of unrivalled vivacity and intelligence: worthy of the garden of Eden, worthy also of the garden in

"All human resolution, Eleanor," he said solemnly, "has its limits. MY limits are inscribed on that Document.

I cannot part with my white mice. Bear with me, my angel, and remove them to their travelling cage

"Admirable tenderness!" said Madame Fosco, admiring her husband, with a last viperish look in my

The Count looked at his watch. In spite of his resolute assumption of composure, he was getting anxious for

the agent's arrival. The candles had long since been extinguished, and the sunlight of the new morning poured

into the room. It was not till five minutes past seven that the gate bell rang, and the agent made his

"Mr. HartrightMonsieur Rubelle," said the Count, introducing us. He took the agent (a foreign spy, in

every line of his face, if ever there was one yet) into a corner of the room, whispered some directions to him,

and then left us together. "Monsieur Rubelle," as soon as we were alone, suggested with great politeness that

I should favour him with his instructions. I wrote two lines to Pesca, authorising him to deliver my sealed

The agent waited with me till his employer returned, equipped in travelling costume. The Count examined the

address of my letter before he dismissed the agent. "I thought so!" he said, turning on me with a dark look,

He completed his packing, and then sat consulting a travelling map, making entries in his pocketbook, and

looking every now and then impatiently at his watch. Not another word, addressed to myself, passed his lips.

The near approach of the hour for his departure, and the proof he had seen of the communication established

between Pesca and myself, had plainly recalled his whole attention to the measures that were necessary for

A little before eight o'clock, Monsieur Rubelle came back with my unopened letter in his hand. The Count

looked carefully at the superscription and the seal, lit a candle, and burnt the letter. "I perform my promise,"

The agent had kept at the door the cab in which he had returned. He and the maidservant now busied

themselves in removing the luggage. Madame Fosco came downstairs, thickly veiled, with the travelling cage

of the white mice in her hand. She neither spoke to me nor looked towards me. Her husband escorted her to

the cab. "Follow me as far as the passage," he whispered in my ear; "I may want to speak to you at the last

I went out to the door, the agent standing below me in the front garden. The Count came back alone, and

"Remember the Third condition!" he whispered. "You shall hear from me, Mr. HartrightI may claim from

you the satisfaction of a gentleman sooner than you think for." He caught my hand before I was aware of him,

"One word more," he said confidentially. "When I last saw Miss Halcombe, she looked thin and ill. I am

anxious about that admirable woman. Take care of her, sir! With my hand on my heart, I solemnly implore

Those were the last words he said to me before he squeezed his huge body into the cab and drove off.

The agent and I waited at the door a few moments looking after him. While we were standing together, a

second cab appeared from a turning a little way down the road. It followed the direction previously taken by

the Count's cab, and as it passed the house and the open garden gate, a person inside looked at us out of the

window. The stranger at the Opera again!the foreigner with a scar on his left cheek.

We returned to the sittingroom. I was in no humour to speak to the agent, or to allow him to speak to me. I

took out the papers which the Count had placed in my hands, and read the terrible story of the conspiracy told

(Count of the Holy Roman Empire, Knight Grand Cross of the Order of the Brazen Crown, Perpetual

ArchMaster of the Rosicrucian Masons of Mesopotamia; Attached (in Honorary Capacities) to Societies

Musical, Societies Medical, Societies Philosophical, and Societies General Benevolent, throughout Europe;

In the summer of eighteen hundred and fifty I arrived in England, charged with a delicate political mission

from abroad. Confidential persons were semiofficially connected with me, whose exertions I was authorised

to direct, Monsieur and Madame Rubelle being among the number. Some weeks of spare time were at my

disposal, before I entered on my functions by establishing myself in the suburbs of London. Curiosity may

stop here to ask for some explanation of those functions on my part. I entirely sympathise with the request. I

I arranged to pass the preliminary period of repose, to which I have just referred, in the superb mansion of my

late lamented friend, Sir Percival Glyde. HE arrived from the Continent with his wife. I arrived from the

Continent with MINE. England is the land of domestic happinesshow appropriately we entered it under

The bond of friendship which united Percival and myself was strengthened, on this occasion, by a touching

similarity in the pecuniary position on his side and on mine. We both wanted money. Immense necessity!

Universal want! Is there a civilised human being who does not feel for us? How insensible must that man be!

I enter into no sordid particulars, in discussing this part of the subject. My mind recoils from them. With a

Roman austerity, I show my empty purse and Percival's to the shrinking public gaze. Let us allow the

We were received at the mansion by the magnificent creature who is inscribed on my heart as "Marian," who

Just Heaven! with what inconceivable rapidity I learnt to adore that woman. At sixty, I worshipped her with

the volcanic ardour of eighteen. All the gold of my rich nature was poured hopelessly at her feet. My

wifepoor angel!my wife, who adores me, got nothing but the shillings and the pennies. Such is the

World, such Man, such Love. What are we (I ask) but puppets in a show box? Oh, omnipotent Destiny, pull

The preceding lines, rightly understood, express an entire system of philosophy. It is mine.

The domestic position at the commencement of our residence at Blackwater Park has been drawn with

amazing accuracy, with profound mental insight, by the hand of Marian herself. (Pass me the intoxicating

familiarity of mentioning this sublime creature by her Christian name.) Accurate knowledge of the contents

of her journalto which I obtained access by clandestine means, unspeakably precious to me in the

remembrancewarns my eager pen from topics which this essentially exhaustive woman has already made

The interestsinterests, breathless and immense!with which I am here concerned, begin with the

The situation at this period was emphatically a serious one. Large sums of money, due at a certain time, were

wanted by Percival (I say nothing of the modicum equally necessary to myself), and the one source to look to

for supplying them was the fortune of his wife, of which not one farthing was at his disposal until her death.

Bad so far, and worse still farther on. My lamented friend had private troubles of his own, into which the

delicacy of my disinterested attachment to him forbade me from inquiring too curiously. I knew nothing but

that a woman, named Anne Catherick, was hidden in the neighbourhood, that she was in communication with

Lady Glyde, and that the disclosure of a secret, which would be the certain ruin of Percival, might be the

result. He had told me himself that he was a lost man, unless his wife was silenced, and unless Anne

Catherick was found. If he was a lost man, what would become of our pecuniary interests? Courageous as I

The whole force of my intelligence was now directed to the finding of Anne Catherick. Our money affairs,

important as they were, admitted of delaybut the necessity of discovering the woman admitted of none. I

only knew her by description, as presenting an extraordinary personal resemblance to Lady Glyde. The

statement of this curious factintended merely to assist me in identifying the person of whom we were in

searchwhen coupled with the additional information that Anne Catherick had escaped from a madhouse,

started the first immense conception in my mind, which subsequently led to such amazing results. That

conception involved nothing less than the complete transformation of two separate identities. Lady Glyde and

Anne Catherick were to change names, places, and destinies, the one with the otherthe prodigious

consequences contemplated by the change being the gain of thirty thousand pounds, and the eternal

My instincts (which seldom err) suggested to me, on reviewing the circumstances, that our invisible Anne

would, sooner or later, return to the boathouse at the Blackwater lake. There I posted myself, previously

mentioning to Mrs. Michelson, the housekeeper, that I might be found when wanted, immersed in study, in

that solitary place. It is my rule never to make unnecessary mysteries, and never to set people suspecting me

for want of a little seasonable candour on my part. Mrs. Michelson believed in me from first to last. This

ladylike person (widow of a Protestant priest) overflowed with faith. Touched by such superfluity of simple

confidence in a woman of her mature years, I opened the ample reservoirs of my nature and absorbed it all.

I was rewarded for posting myself sentinel at the lake by the appearancenot of Anne Catherick herself, but

of the person in charge of her. This individual also overflowed with simple faith, which I absorbed in myself,

as in the case already mentioned. I leave her to describe the circumstances (if she has not done so already)

under which she introduced me to the object of her maternal care. When I first saw Anne Catherick she was

asleep. I was electrified by the likeness between this unhappy woman and Lady Glyde. The details of the

grand scheme which had suggested themselves in outline only, up to that period, occurred to me, in all their

masterly combination, at the sight of the sleeping face. At the same time, my heart, always accessible to

tender influences, dissolved in tears at the spectacle of suffering before me. I instantly set myself to impart

relief. In other words, I provided the necessary stimulant for strengthening Anne Catherick to perform the

The best years of my life have been passed in the ardent study of medical and chemical science. Chemistry

especially has always had irresistible attractions for me from the enormous, the illimitable power which the

knowledge of it confers. ChemistsI assert it emphaticallymight sway, if they pleased, the destinies of

Mind, they say, rules the world. But what rules the mind? The body (follow me closely here) lies at the mercy

of the most omnipotent of all potentatesthe Chemist. Give meFosco chemistry; and when

Shakespeare has conceived Hamlet, and sits down to execute the conceptionwith a few grains of powder

dropped into his daily food, I will reduce his mind, by the action of his body, till his pen pours out the most

abject drivel that has ever degraded paper. Under similar circumstances, revive me the illustrious Newton. I

guarantee that when he sees the apple fall he shall EAT IT, instead of discovering the principle of gravitation.

Nero's dinner shall transform Nero into the mildest of men before he has done digesting it, and the morning

draught of Alexander the Great shall make Alexander run for his life at the first sight of the enemy the same

afternoon. On my sacred word of honour it is lucky for Society that modern chemists are, by

incomprehensible good fortune, the most harmless of mankind. The mass are worthy fathers of families, who

keep shops. The few are philosophers besotted with admiration for the sound of their own lecturing voices,

visionaries who waste their lives on fantastic impossibilities, or quacks whose ambition soars no higher than

our corns. Thus Society escapes, and the illimitable power of Chemistry remains the slave of the most

Because my conduct has been misrepresented, because my motives have been misunderstood. It has been

assumed that I used my vast chemical resources against Anne Catherick, and that I would have used them if I

could against the magnificent Marian herself. Odious insinuations both! All my interests were concerned (as

will be seen presently) in the preservation of Anne Catherick's life. All my anxieties were concentrated on

Marian's rescue from the hands of the licensed imbecile who attended her, and who found my advice

confirmed from first to last by the physician from London. On two occasions onlyboth equally harmless to

the individual on whom I practiseddid I summon to myself the assistance of chemical knowledge. On the

first of the two, after following Marian to the inn at Blackwater (studying, behind a convenient waggon which

hid me from her, the poetry of motion, as embodied in her walk), I availed myself of the services of my

invaluable wife, to copy one and to intercept the other of two letters which my adored enemy had entrusted to

a discarded maid. In this case, the letters being in the bosom of the girl's dress, Madame Fosco could only

open them, read them, perform her instructions, seal them, and put them back again by scientific

assistancewhich assistance I rendered in a halfounce bottle. The second occasion, when the same means

were employed, was the occasion (to which I shall soon refer) of Lady Glyde's arrival in London. Never at

any other time was I indebted to my Art as distinguished from myself. To all other emergencies and

complications my natural capacity for grappling, singlehanded, with circumstances, was invariably equal. I

affirm the allpervading intelligence of that capacity. At the expense of the Chemist I vindicate the Man.

Respect this outburst of generous indignation. It has inexpressibly relieved me. En route! Let us proceed.

Having suggested to Mrs. Clement (or Clements, I am not sure which) that the best method of keeping Anne

out of Percival's reach was to remove her to Londonhaving found that my proposal was eagerly received,

and having appointed a day to meet the travellers at the station and to see them leave it, I was at liberty to

return to the house and to confront the difficulties which still remained to be met.

My first proceeding was to avail myself of the sublime devotion of my wife. I had arranged with Mrs.

Clements that she should communicate her London address, in Anne's interests, to Lady Glyde. But this was

not enough. Designing persons in my absence might shake the simple confidence of Mrs. Clements, and she

might not write after all. Who could I find capable of travelling to London by the train she travelled by, and

of privately seeing her home? I asked myself this question. The conjugal part of me immediately

After deciding on my wife's mission to London, I arranged that the journey should serve a double purpose. A

nurse for the suffering Marian, equally devoted to the patient and to myself, was a necessity of my position.

One of the most eminently confidential and capable women in existence was by good fortune at my disposal.

I refer to that respectable matron, Madame Rubelle, to whom I addressed a letter, at her residence in London,

On the appointed day Mrs. Clements and Anne Catherick met me at the station. I politely saw them off, I

politely saw Madame Fosco off by the same train. The last thing at night my wife returned to Blackwater,

having followed her instructions with the most unimpeachable accuracy. She was accompanied by Madame

Rubelle, and she brought me the London address of Mrs. Clements. After events proved this last precaution

to have been unnecessary. Mrs. Clements punctually informed Lady Glyde of her place of abode. With a

The same day I had a brief interview with the doctor, at which I protested, in the sacred interests of humanity,

against his treatment of Marian's case. He was insolent, as all ignorant people are. I showed no resentment, I

deferred quarrelling with him till it was necessary to quarrel to some purpose. My next proceeding was to

leave Blackwater myself. I had my London residence to take in anticipation of coming events. I had also a

little business of the domestic sort to transact with Mr. Frederick Fairlie. I found the house I wanted in St.

My own private familiarity with the nature of Marian's correspondence had previously informed me that she

had written to Mr. Fairlie, proposing, as a relief to Lady Glyde's matrimonial embarrassments, to take her on

a visit to her uncle in Cumberland. This letter I had wisely allowed to reach its destination, feeling at the time

that it could do no harm, and might do good. I now presented myself before Mr. Fairlie to support Marian's

own proposalwith certain modifications which, happily for the success of my plans, were rendered really

inevitable by her illness. It was necessary that Lady Glyde should leave Blackwater alone, by her uncle's

invitation, and that she should rest a night on the journey at her aunt's house (the house I had in St. John's

Wood) by her uncle's express advice. To achieve these results, and to secure a note of invitation which could

be shown to Lady Glyde, were the objects of my visit to Mr. Fairlie. When I have mentioned that this

gentleman was equally feeble in mind and body, and that I let loose the whole force of my character on him, I

On my return to Blackwater Park (with the letter of invitation) I found that the doctor's imbecile treatment of

Marian's case had led to the most alarming results. The fever had turned to typhus. Lady Glyde, on the day of

my return, tried to force herself into the room to nurse her sister. She and I had no affinities of

sympathyshe had committed the unpardonable outrage on my sensibilities of calling me a spyshe was a

stumblingblock in my way and in Percival'sbut, for all that, my magnanimity forbade me to put her in

danger of infection with my own hand. At the same time I offered no hindrance to her putting herself in

danger. If she had succeeded in doing so, the intricate knot which I was slowly and patiently operating on

might perhaps have been cut by circumstances. As it was, the doctor interfered and she was kept out of the

I had myself previously recommended sending for advice to London. This course had been now taken. The

physician, on his arrival, confirmed my view of the case. The crisis was serious. But we had hope of our

charming patient on the fifth day from the appearance of the typhus. I was only once absent from Blackwater

at this timewhen I went to London by the morning train to make the final arrangements at my house in St.

John's Wood, to assure myself by private inquiry that Mrs. Clements had not moved, and to settle one or two

little preliminary matters with the husband of Madame Rubelle. I returned at night. Five days afterwards the

physician pronounced our interesting Marian to be out of all danger, and to be in need of nothing but careful

nursing. This was the time I had waited for. Now that medical attendance was no longer indispensable, I

played the first move in the game by asserting myself against the doctor. He was one among many witnesses

in my way whom it was necessary to remove. A lively altercation between us (in which Percival, previously

instructed by me, refused to interfere) served the purpose in view. I descended on the miserable man in an

The servants were the next encumbrances to get rid of. Again I instructed Percival (whose moral courage

required perpetual stimulants), and Mrs. Michelson was amazed, one day, by hearing from her master that the

establishment was to be broken up. We cleared the house of all the servants but one, who was kept for

domestic purposes, and whose lumpish stupidity we could trust to make no embarrassing discoveries. When

they were gone, nothing remained but to relieve ourselves of Mrs. Michelsona result which was easily

achieved by sending this amiable lady to find lodgings for her mistress at the seaside.

The circumstances were now exactly what they were required to be. Lady Glyde was confined to her room by

nervous illness, and the lumpish housemaid (I forget her name) was shut up there at night in attendance on

her mistress. Marian, though fast recovering, still kept her bed, with Mrs. Rubelle for nurse. No other living

creatures but my wife, myself, and Percival were in the house. With all the chances thus in our favour I

The object of the second move was to induce Lady Glyde to leave Blackwater unaccompanied by her sister.

Unless we could persuade her that Marian had gone on to Cumberland first, there was no chance of removing

her, of her own free will, from the house. To produce this necessary operation in her mind, we concealed our

interesting invalid in one of the uninhabited bedrooms at Blackwater. At the dead of night Madame Fosco,

Madame Rubelle, and myself (Percival not being cool enough to be trusted) accomplished the concealment.

The scene was picturesque, mysterious, dramatic in the highest degree. By my directions the bed had been

made, in the morning, on a strong movable framework of wood. We had only to lift the framework gently at

the head and foot, and to transport our patient where we pleased, without disturbing herself or her bed. No

chemical assistance was needed or used in this case. Our interesting Marian lay in the deep repose of

convalescence. We placed the candles and opened the doors beforehand. I, in right of my great personal

strength, took the head of the frameworkmy wife and Madame Rubelle took the foot. I bore my share of

that inestimably precious burden with a manly tenderness, with a fatherly care. Where is the modern

Rembrandt who could depict our midnight procession? Alas for the Arts! alas for this most pictorial of

The next morning my wife and I started for London, leaving Marian secluded, in the uninhabited middle of

the house, under care of Madame Rubelle, who kindly consented to imprison herself with her patient for two

or three days. Before taking our departure I gave Percival Mr. Fairlie's letter of invitation to his niece

(instructing her to sleep on the journey to Cumberland at her aunt's house), with directions to show it to Lady

Glyde on hearing from me. I also obtained from him the address of the Asylum in which Anne Catherick had

been confined, and a letter to the proprietor, announcing to that gentleman the return of his runaway patient to

I had arranged, at my last visit to the metropolis, to have our modest domestic establishment ready to receive

us when we arrived in London by the early train. In consequence of this wise precaution, we were enabled

that same day to play the third move in the gamethe getting possession of Anne Catherick.

Dates are of importance here. I combine in myself the opposite characteristics of a Man of Sentiment and a

On Wednesday, the 24th of July 1850, I sent my wife in a cab to clear Mrs. Clements out of the way, in the

first place. A supposed message from Lady Glyde in London was sufficient to obtain this result. Mrs.

Clements was taken away in the cab, and was left in the cab, while my wife (on pretence of purchasing

something at a shop) gave her the slip, and returned to receive her expected visitor at our house in St. John's

Wood. It is hardly necessary to add that the visitor had been described to the servants as "Lady Glyde."

In the meanwhile I had followed in another cab, with a note for Anne Catherick, merely mentioning that Lady

Glyde intended to keep Mrs. Clements to spend the day with her, and that she was to join them under care of

the good gentleman waiting outside, who had already saved her from discovery in Hampshire by Sir Percival.

The "good gentleman" sent in this note by a street boy, and paused for results a door or two farther on. At the

moment when Anne appeared at the house door and closed it this excellent man had the cab door open ready

On the way to Forest Road my companion showed no fear. I can be paternalno man more sowhen I

please, and I was intensely paternal on this occasion. What titles I had to her confidence! I had compounded

the medicine which had done her goodI had warned her of her danger from Sir Percival. Perhaps I trusted

too implicitly to these titlesperhaps I underrated the keenness of the lower instincts in persons of weak

intellectit is certain that I neglected to prepare her sufficiently for a disappointment on entering my house.

When I took her into the drawingroomwhen she saw no one present but Madame Fosco, who was a

stranger to hershe exhibited the most violent agitation; if she had scented danger in the air, as a dog scents

the presence of some creature unseen, her alarm could not have displayed itself more suddenly and more

causelessly. I interposed in vain. The fear from which she was suffering I might have soothed, but the serious

heart disease, under which she laboured, was beyond the reach of all moral palliatives. To my unspeakable

horror she was seized with convulsionsa shock to the system, in her condition, which might have laid her

The nearest doctor was sent for, and was told that "Lady Glyde" required his immediate services. To my

infinite relief, he was a capable man. I represented my visitor to him as a person of weak intellect, and subject

to delusions, and I arranged that no nurse but my wife should watch in the sickroom. The unhappy woman

was too ill, however, to cause any anxiety about what she might say. The one dread which now oppressed me

was the dread that the false Lady Glyde might die before the true Lady Glyde arrived in London.

I had written a note in the morning to Madame Rubelle, telling her to join me at her husband's house on the

evening of Friday the 26th, with another note to Percival, warning him to show his wife her uncle's letter of

invitation, to assert that Marian had gone on before her, and to despatch her to town by the midday train, on

the 26th, also. On reflection I had felt the necessity, in Anne Catherick's state of health, of precipitating

events, and of having Lady Glyde at my disposal earlier than I had originally contemplated. What fresh

directions, in the terrible uncertainty of my position, could I now issue? I could do nothing but trust to chance

and the doctor. My emotions expressed themselves in pathetic apostrophes, which I was just selfpossessed

enough to couple, in the hearing of other people, with the name of "Lady Glyde." In all other respects Fosco,

She passed a bad night, she awoke worn out, but later in the day she revived amazingly. My elastic spirits

revived with her. I could receive no answers from Percival and Madame Rubelle till the morning of the next

day, the 26th. In anticipation of their following my directions, which, accident apart, I knew they would do, I

went to secure a fly to fetch Lady Glyde from the railway, directing it to be at my house on the 26th, at two

o'clock. After seeing the order entered in the book, I went on to arrange matters with Monsieur Rubelle. I also

procured the services of two gentlemen who could furnish me with the necessary certificates of lunacy. One

of them I knew personallythe other was known to Monsieur Rubelle. Both were men whose vigorous

minds soared superior to narrow scruplesboth were labouring under temporary embarrassmentsboth

It was past five o'clock in the afternoon before I returned from the performance of these duties. When I got

back Anne Catherick was dead. Dead on the 25th, and Lady Glyde was not to arrive in London till the 26th!

It was too late to retrace our steps. Before my return the doctor had officiously undertaken to save me all

trouble by registering the death, on the date when it happened, with his own hand. My grand scheme,

unassailable hitherto, had its weak place nowno efforts on my part could alter the fatal event of the 25th. I

turned manfully to the future. Percival's interests and mine being still at stake, nothing was left but to play the

On the morning of the 26th Percival's letter reached me, announcing his wife's arrival by the midday train.

Madame Rubelle also wrote to say she would follow in the evening. I started in the fly, leaving the false Lady

Glyde dead in the house, to receive the true Lady Glyde on her arrival by the railway at three o'clock. Hidden

under the seat of the carriage, I carried with me all the clothes Anne Catherick had worn on coming into my

house they were destined to assist the resurrection of the woman who was dead in the person of the woman

who was living. What a situation! I suggest it to the rising romance writers of England. I offer it, as totally

Lady Glyde was at the station. There was great crowding and confusion, and more delay than I liked (in case

any of her friends had happened to be on the spot), in reclaiming her luggage. Her first questions, as we drove

off, implored me to tell her news of her sister. I invented news of the most pacifying kind, assuring her that

she was about to see her sister at my house. My house, on this occasion only, was in the neighbourhood of

Leicester Square, and was in the occupation of Monsieur Rubelle, who received us in the hall.

I took my visitor upstairs into a back room, the two medical gentlemen being there in waiting on the floor

beneath to see the patient, and to give me their certificates. After quieting Lady Glyde by the necessary

assurances about her sister, I introduced my friends separately to her presence. They performed the

formalities of the occasion briefly, intelligently, conscientiously. I entered the room again as soon as they had

left it, and at once precipitated events by a reference of the alarming kind to "Miss Halcombe's" state of

Results followed as I had anticipated. Lady Glyde became frightened, and turned faint. For the second time,

and the last, I called Science to my assistance. A medicated glass of water and a medicated bottle of

smellingsalts relieved her of all further embarrassment and alarm. Additional applications later in the

evening procured her the inestimable blessing of a good night's rest. Madame Rubelle arrived in time to

preside at Lady Glyde's toilet. Her own clothes were taken away from her at night, and Anne Catherick's were

put on her in the morning, with the strictest regard to propriety, by the matronly hands of the good Rubelle.

Throughout the day I kept our patient in a state of partiallysuspended consciousness, until the dexterous

assistance of my medical friends enabled me to procure the necessary order rather earlier than I had ventured

to hope. That evening (the evening of the 27th) Madame Rubelle and I took our revived "Anne Catherick" to

the Asylum. She was received with great surprise, but without suspicion, thanks to the order and certificates,

to Percival's letter, to the likeness, to the clothes, and to the patient's own confused mental condition at the

time. I returned at once to assist Madame Fosco in the preparations for the burial of the False "Lady Glyde,"

having the clothes and luggage of the true "Lady Glyde" in my possession. They were afterwards sent to

Cumberland by the conveyance which was used for the funeral. I attended the funeral, with becoming dignity,

My narrative of these remarkable events, written under equally remarkable circumstances, closes here. The

minor precautions which I observed in communicating with Limmeridge House are already known, so is the

magnificent success of my enterprise, so are the solid pecuniary results which followed it. I have to assert,

with the whole force of my conviction, that the one weak place in my scheme would never have been found

out if the one weak place in my heart had not been discovered first. Nothing but my fatal admiration for

Marian restrained me from stepping in to my own rescue when she effected her sister's escape. I ran the risk,

and trusted in the complete destruction of Lady Glyde's identity. If either Marian or Mr. Hartright attempted

to assert that identity, they would publicly expose themselves to the imputation of sustaining a rank

deception, they would be distrusted and discredited accordingly, and they would therefore be powerless to

place my interests or Percival's secret in jeopardy. I committed one error in trusting myself to such a

blindfold calculation of chances as this. I committed another when Percival had paid the penalty of his own

obstinacy and violence, by granting Lady Glyde a second reprieve from the madhouse, and allowing Mr.

Hartright a second chance of escaping me. In brief, Fosco, at this serious crisis, was untrue to himself.

Deplorable and uncharacteristic fault! Behold the cause, in my heartbehold, in the image of Marian

At the ripe age of sixty, I make this unparalleled confession. Youths! I invoke your sympathy. Maidens! I

A word more, and the attention of the reader (concentrated breathlessly on myself) shall be released.

My own mental insight informs me that three inevitable questions will be asked here by persons of inquiring

First question. What is the secret of Madame Fosco's unhesitating devotion of herself to the fulfilment of my

boldest wishes, to the furtherance of my deepest plans? I might answer this by simply referring to my own

character, and by asking, in my turn, Where, in the history of the world, has a man of my order ever been

found without a woman in the background selfimmolated on the altar of his life? But I remember that I am

writing in England, I remember that I was married in England, and I ask if a woman's marriage obligations in

this country provide for her private opinion of her husband's principles? No! They charge her unreservedly to

love, honour, and obey him. That is exactly what my wife has done. I stand here on a supreme moral

elevation, and I loftily assert her accurate performance of her conjugal duties. Silence, Calumny! Your

Second question. If Anne Catherick had not died when she did, what should I have done? I should, in that

case, have assisted wornout Nature in finding permanent repose. I should have opened the doors of the

Prison of Life, and have extended to the captive (incurably afflicted in mind and body both) a happy release.

Third question. On a calm revision of all the circumstancesIs my conduct worthy of any serious blame?

Most emphatically, No! Have I not carefully avoided exposing myself to the odium of committing

unnecessary crime? With my vast resources in chemistry, I might have taken Lady Glyde's life. At immense

personal sacrifice I followed the dictates of my own ingenuity, my own humanity, my own caution, and took

her identity instead. Judge me by what I might have done. How comparatively innocent! how indirectly

I announced on beginning it that this narrative would be a remarkable document. It has entirely answered my

expectations. Receive these fervid linesmy last legacy to the country I leave for ever. They are worthy of

When I closed the last leaf of the Count's manuscript the half hour during which I had engaged to remain at

Forest Road had expired. Monsieur Rubelle looked at his watch and bowed. I rose immediately, and left the

agent in possession of the empty house. I never saw him againI never heard more of him or of his wife.

Out of the dark byways of villainy and deceit they had crawled across our pathinto the same byways they

But few words sufficed to tell Laura and Marian how my desperate venture had ended, and what the next

event in our lives was likely to be. I left all details to be described later in the day, and hastened back to St.

John's Wood, to see the person of whom Count Fosco had ordered the fly, when he went to meet Laura at the

The address in my possession led me to some "livery stables," about a quarter of a mile distant from Forest

Road. The proprietor proved to be a civil and respectable man. When I explained that an important family

matter obliged me to ask him to refer to his books for the purpose of ascertaining a date with which the record

of his business transactions might supply me, he offered no objection to granting my request. The book was

produced, and there, under the date of "July 26th, 1850," the order was entered in these words

I found on inquiry that the name of "John Owen," attached to the entry, referred to the man who had been

employed to drive the fly. He was then at work in the stableyard, and was sent for to see me at my request.

"Do you remember driving a gentleman, in the month of July last, from Number Five Forest Road to the

"Perhaps you remember the gentleman himself? Can you call to mind driving a foreigner last summera tall

"I remember him, sir! The fattest gentleman as ever I see, and the heaviest customer as ever I drove. Yes,

yesI call him to mind, sir! We DID go to the station, and it WAS from Forest Road. There was a parrot, or

summat like it, screeching in the window. The gentleman was in a mortal hurry about the lady's luggage, and

Getting the boxes! I recollected immediately that Laura's own account of herself on her arrival in London

described her luggage as being collected for her by some person whom Count Fosco brought with him to the

"Did you see the lady?" I asked. "What did she look like? Was she young or old?"

"Well, sir, what with the hurry and the crowd of people pushing about, I can't rightly say what the lady

looked like. I can't call nothing to mind about her that I know of excepting her name."

"How do you come to remember that, when you have forgotten what she looked like?"

"Why, to tell you the truth, sir," he said, "I hadn't been long married at that time, and my wife's name, before

she changed it for mine, was the same as the lady'smeaning the name of Glyde, sir. The lady mentioned it

herself. 'Is your name on your boxes, ma'am?' says I. 'Yes,' says she, 'my name is on my luggageit is Lady

Glyde.' 'Come! ' I says to myself, 'I've a bad head for gentlefolks' names in generalbut THIS one comes

like an old friend, at any rate.' I can't say nothing about the time, sir, it might be nigh on a year ago, or it

mightn't. But I can swear to the stout gentleman, and swear to the lady's name."

There was no need that he should remember the timethe date was positively established by his master's

orderbook. I felt at once that the means were now in my power of striking down the whole conspiracy at a

blow with the irresistible weapon of plain fact. Without a moment's hesitation, I took the proprietor of the

livery stables aside and told him what the real importance was of the evidence of his orderbook and the

evidence of his driver. An arrangement to compensate him for the temporary loss of the man's services was

easily made, and a copy of the entry in the book was taken by myself, and certified as true by the master's

own signature. I left the livery stables, having settled that John Owen was to hold himself at my disposal for

I now had in my possession all the papers that I wantedthe district registrar's own copy of the certificate of

death, and Sir Percival's dated letter to the Count, being safe in my pocket book.

With this written evidence about me, and with the coachman's answers fresh in my memory, I next turned my

steps, for the first time since the beginning of all my inquiries, in the direction of Mr. Kyrle's office. One of

my objects in paying him this second visit was, necessarily, to tell him what I had done. The other was to

warn him of my resolution to take my wife to Limmeridge the next morning, and to have her publicly

received and recognised in her uncle's house. I left it to Mr. Kyrle to decide under these circumstances, and in

Mr. Gilmore's absence, whether he was or was not bound, as the family solicitor, to be present on that

I will say nothing of Mr. Kyrle's amazement, or of the terms in which he expressed his opinion of my conduct

from the first stage of the investigation to the last. It is only necessary to mention that he at once decided on

We started the next morning by the early train. Laura, Marian, Mr. Kyrle, and myself in one carriage, and

John Owen, with a clerk from Mr. Kyrle's office, occupying places in another. On reaching the Limmeridge

station we went first to the farmhouse at Todd's Corner. It was my firm determination that Laura should not

enter her uncle's house till she appeared there publicly recognised as his niece. I left Marian to settle the

question of accommodation with Mrs. Todd, as soon as the good woman had recovered from the

bewilderment of hearing what our errand was in Cumberland, and I arranged with her husband that John

Owen was to be committed to the ready hospitality of the farmservants. These preliminaries completed, Mr.

I cannot write at any length of our interview with Mr. Fairlie, for I cannot recall it to mind without feelings of

impatience and contempt, which make the scene, even in remembrance only, utterly repulsive to me. I prefer

to record simply that I carried my point. Mr. Fairlie attempted to treat us on his customary plan. We passed

without notice his polite insolence at the outset of the interview. We heard without sympathy the

protestations with which he tried next to persuade us that the disclosure of the conspiracy had overwhelmed

him. He absolutely whined and whimpered at last like a fretful child. "How was he to know that his niece was

alive when he was told that she was dead? He would welcome dear Laura with pleasure, if we would only

allow him time to recover. Did we think he looked as if he wanted hurrying into his grave? No. Then, why

hurry him?" He reiterated these remonstrances at every available opportunity, until I checked them once for

all, by placing him firmly between two inevitable alternatives. I gave him his choice between doing his niece

justice on my terms, or facing the consequence of a public assertion of her existence in a court of law. Mr.

Kyrle, to whom he turned for help, told him plainly that he must decide the question then and there.

Characteristically choosing the alternative which promised soonest to release him from all personal anxiety,

he announced with a sudden outburst of energy, that he was not strong enough to bear any more bullying, and

Mr. Kyrle and I at once went downstairs, and agreed upon a form of letter which was to be sent round to the

tenants who had attended the false funeral, summoning them, in Mr. Fairlie's name, to assemble in

Limmeridge House on the next day but one. An order referring to the same date was also written, directing a

statuary in Carlisle to send a man to Limmeridge churchyard for the purpose of erasing an inscriptionMr.

Kyrle, who had arranged to sleep in the house, undertaking that Mr. Fairlie should hear these letters read to

I occupied the interval day at the farm in writing a plain narrative of the conspiracy, and in adding to it a

statement of the practical contradiction which facts offered to the assertion of Laura's death. This I submitted

to Mr. Kyrle before I read it the next day to the assembled tenants. We also arranged the form in which the

evidence should be presented at the close of the reading. After these matters were settled, Mr. Kyrle

endeavoured to turn the conversation next to Laura's affairs. Knowing, and desiring to know nothing of those

affairs, and doubting whether he would approve, as a man of business, of my conduct in relation to my wife's

lifeinterest in the legacy left to Madame Fosco, I begged Mr. Kyrle to excuse me if I abstained from

discussing the subject. It was connected, as I could truly tell him, with those sorrows and troubles of the past

which we never referred to among ourselves, and which we instinctively shrank from discussing with others.

My last labour, as the evening approached, was to obtain "The Narrative of the Tombstone," by taking a copy

The day camethe day when Laura once more entered the familiar breakfastroom at Lummeridge House.

All the persons assembled rose from their seats as Marian and I led her in. A perceptible shock of surprise, an

audible murmur of interest ran through them, at the sight of her face. Mr. Fairlie was present (by my express

stipulation), with Mr. Kyrle by his side. His valet stood behind him with a smellingbottle ready in one hand,

I opened the proceedings by publicly appealing to Mr. Fairlie to say whether I appeared there with his

authority and under his express sanction. He extended an arm, on either side, to Mr. Kyrle and to his

valetwas by them assisted to stand on his legs, and then expressed himself in these terms: "Allow me to

present Mr. Hartright. I am as great an invalid as ever, and he is so very obliging as to speak for me. The

subject is dreadfully embarrassing. Please hear him, and don't make a noise!" With those words he slowly

sank back again into the chair, and took refuge in his scented pockethandkerchief.

The disclosure of the conspiracy followed, after I had offered my preliminary explanation, first of all, in the

fewest and the plainest words. I was there present (I informed my hearers) to declare, first, that my wife, then

sitting by me, was the daughter of the late Mr. Philip Fairlie; secondly, to prove by positive facts, that the

funeral which they had attended in Limmeridge churchyard was the funeral of another woman; thirdly, to

give them a plain account of how it had all happened. Without further preface, I at once read the narrative of

the conspiracy, describing it in clear outline, and dwelling only upon the pecuniary motive for it, in order to

avoid complicating my statement by unnecessary reference to Sir Percival's secret. This done, I reminded my

audience of the date on the inscription in the churchyard (the 25th), and confirmed its correctness by

producing the certificate of death. I then read them Sir Percival's letter of the 25th, announcing his wife's

intended journey from Hampshire to London on the 26th. I next showed that she had taken that journey, by

the personal testimony of the driver of the fly, and I proved that she had performed it on the appointed day,

by the orderbook at the livery stables. Marian then added her own statement of the meeting between Laura

and herself at the mad house, and of her sister's escape. After which I closed the proceedings by informing

Mr. Kyrle rose when I resumed my seat, and declared, as the legal adviser of the family, that my case was

proved by the plainest evidence he had ever heard in his life. As he spoke those words, I put my arm round

Laura, and raised her so that she was plainly visible to every one in the room. "Are you all of the same

The effect of the question was electrical. Far down at the lower end of the room one of the oldest tenants on

the estate started to his feet, and led the rest with him in an instant. I see the man now, with his honest brown

face and his irongrey hair, mounted on the windowseat, waving his heavy ridingwhip over his head, and

leading the cheers. "There she is, alive and heartyGod bless her! Gi' it tongue, lads! Gi' it tongue!" The

shout that answered him, reiterated again and again, was the sweetest music I ever heard. The labourers in the

village and the boys from the school, assembled on the lawn, caught up the cheering and echoed it back on

us. The farmers' wives clustered round Laura, and struggled which should be first to shake hands with her,

and to implore her, with the tears pouring over their own cheeks, to bear up bravely and not to cry. She was

so completely overwhelmed, that I was obliged to take her from them, and carry her to the door. There I gave

her into Marian's careMarian, who had never failed us yet, whose courageous selfcontrol did not fail us

now. Left by myself at the door, I invited all the persons present (after thanking them in Laura's name and

mine) to follow me to the churchyard, and see the false inscription struck off the tombstone with their own

They all left the house, and all joined the throng of villagers collected round the grave, where the statuary's

man was waiting for us. In a breathless silence, the first sharp stroke of the steel sounded on the marble. Not a

voice was heardnot a soul moved, till those three words, "Laura, Lady Glyde," had vanished from sight.

Then there was a great heave of relief among the crowd, as if they felt that the last fetters of the conspiracy

had been struck off Laura herself, and the assembly slowly withdrew. It was late in the day before the whole

inscription was erased. One line only was afterwards engraved in its place: "Anne Catherick, July 25th,

I returned to Limmeridge House early enough in the evening to take leave of Mr. Kyrle. He and his clerk, and

the driver of the fly, went back to London by the night train. On their departure an insolent message was

delivered to me from Mr. Fairliewho had been carried from the room in a shattered condition, when the

first outbreak of cheering answered my appeal to the tenantry. The message conveyed to us "Mr. Fairlie's best

congratulations," and requested to know whether "we contemplated stopping in the house." I sent back word

that the only object for which we had entered his doors was accomplishedthat I contemplated stopping in

no man's house but my ownand that Mr. Fairlie need not entertain the slightest apprehension of ever seeing

us or hearing from us again. We went back to our friends at the farm to rest that night, and the next

morningescorted to the station, with the heartiest enthusiasm and good will, by the whole village and by all

As our view of the Cumberland hills faded in the distance, I thought of the first disheartening circumstances

under which the long struggle that was now past and over had been pursued. It was strange to look back and

to see, now, that the poverty which had denied us all hope of assistance had been the indirect means of our

success, by forcing me to act for myself. If we had been rich enough to find legal help, what would have been

the result? The gain (on Mr. Kyrle's own showing) would have been more than doubtfulthe loss, judging

by the plain test of events as they had really happened, certain. The law would never have obtained me my

interview with Mrs. Catherick. The law would never have made Pesca the means of forcing a confession from

Two more events remain to be added to the chain before it reaches fairly from the outset of the story to the

While our new sense of freedom from the long oppression of the past was still strange to us, I was sent for by

the friend who had given me my first employment in wood engraving, to receive from him a fresh testimony

of his regard for my welfare. He had been commissioned by his employers to go to Paris, and to examine for

them a fresh discovery in the practical application of his Art, the merits of which they were anxious to

ascertain. His own engagements had not allowed him leisure time to undertake the errand, and he had most

kindly suggested that it should be transferred to me. I could have no hesitation in thankfully accepting the

offer, for if I acquitted myself of my commission as I hoped I should, the result would be a permanent

engagement on the illustrated newspaper, to which I was now only occasionally attached.

I received my instructions and packed up for the journey the next day. On leaving Laura once more (under

what changed circumstances!) in her sister's care, a serious consideration recurred to me, which had more

than once crossed my wife's mind, as well as my own, alreadyI mean the consideration of Marian's future.

Had we any right to let our selfish affection accept the devotion of all that generous life? Was it not our duty,

our best expression of gratitude, to forget ourselves, and to think only of HER? I tried to say this when we

were alone for a moment, before I went away. She took my hand, and silenced me at the first words.

"After all that we three have suffered together," she said "there can be no parting between us till the last

parting of all. My heart and my happiness, Walter, are with Laura and you. Wait a little till there are

children's voices at your fireside. I will teach them to speak for me in THEIR language, and the first lesson

My journey to Paris was not undertaken alone. At the eleventh hour Pesca decided that he would accompany

me. He had not recovered his customary cheerfulness since the night at the Opera, and he determined to try

I performed the errand entrusted to me, and drew out the necessary report, on the fourth day from our arrival

in Paris. The fifth day I arranged to devote to sightseeing and amusements in Pesca's company.

Our hotel had been too full to accommodate us both on the same floor. My room was on the second story, and

Pesca's was above me, on the third. On the morning of the fifth day I went upstairs to see if the Professor was

ready to go out. Just before I reached the landing I saw his door opened from the insidea long, delicate,

nervous hand (not my friend's hand certainly) held it ajar. At the same time I heard Pesca's voice saying

eagerly, in low tones, and in his own language"I remember the name, but I don't know the man. You saw

at the Opera he was so changed that I could not recognise him. I will forward the reportI can do no more."

"No more need be done," answered the second voice. The door opened wide, and the lighthaired man with

the scar on his cheekthe man I had seen following Count Fosco's cab a week beforecame out. He bowed

as I drew aside to let him passhis face was fearfully paleand he held fast by the banisters as he

I pushed open the door and entered Pesca's room. He was crouched up, in the strangest manner, in a corner of

"Am I disturbing you?" I asked. "I did not know you had a friend with you till I saw him come out."

"No friend," said Pesca eagerly. "I see him today for the first time and the last."

"Horrible news, Walter! Let us go back to LondonI don't want to stop hereI am sorry I ever came. The

misfortunes of my youth are very hard upon me," he said, turning his face to the wall, "very hard upon me in

"We can't return, I am afraid, before the afternoon," I replied. "Would you like to come out with me in the

I left him with the assurance that he should leave Paris that afternoon. We had arranged the evening before to

ascend the Cathedral of Notre Dame, with Victor Hugo's noble romance for our guide. There was nothing in

the French capital that I was more anxious to see, and I departed by myself for the church.

Approaching Notre Dame by the riverside, I passed on my way the terrible deadhouse of Paristhe

Morgue. A great crowd clamoured and heaved round the door. There was evidently something inside which

I should have walked on to the church if the conversation of two men and a woman on the outskirts of the

crowd had not caught my ear. They had just come out from seeing the sight in the Morgue, and the account

they were giving of the dead body to their neighbours described it as the corpse of a mana man of immense

The moment those words reached me I stopped and took my place with the crowd going in. Some dim

foreshadowing of the truth had crossed my mind when I heard Pesca's voice through the open door, and when

I saw the stranger's face as he passed me on the stairs of the hotel. Now the truth itself was revealed to

merevealed in the chance words that had just reached my ears. Other vengeance than mine had followed

that fated man from the theatre to his own doorfrom his own door to his refuge in Paris. Other vengeance

than mine had called him to the day of reckoning, and had exacted from him the penalty of his life. The

moment when I had pointed him out to Pesca at the theatre in the hearing of that stranger by our side, who

was looking for him toowas the moment that sealed his doom. I remembered the struggle in my own heart,

when he and I stood face to facethe struggle before I could let him escape meand shuddered as I

Slowly, inch by inch, I pressed in with the crowd, moving nearer and nearer to the great glass screen that

parts the dead from the living at the Morguenearer and nearer, till I was close behind the front row of

There he lay, unowned, unknown, exposed to the flippant curiosity of a French mob! There was the dreadful

end of that long life of degraded ability and heartless crime! Hushed in the sublime repose of death, the

broad, firm, massive face and head fronted us so grandly that the chattering Frenchwomen about me lifted

their hands in admiration, and cried in shrill chorus, "Ah, what a handsome man!" The wound that had killed

him had been struck with a knife or dagger exactly over his heart. No other traces of violence appeared about

the body except on the left arm, and there, exactly in the place where I had seen the brand on Pesca's arm,

were two deep cuts in the shape of the letter T, which entirely obliterated the mark of the Brotherhood. His

clothes, hung above him, showed that he had been himself conscious of his dangerthey were clothes that

had disguised him as a French artisan. For a few moments, but not for longer, I forced myself to see these

things through the glass screen. I can write of them at no greater length, for I saw no more.

The few facts in connection with his death which I subsequently ascertained (partly from Pesca and partly

from other sources), may be stated here before the subject is dismissed from these pages.

His body was taken out of the Seine in the disguise which I have described, nothing being found on him

which revealed his name, his rank, or his place of abode. The hand that struck him was never traced, and the

circumstances under which he was killed were never discovered. I leave others to draw their own conclusions

in reference to the secret of the assassination as I have drawn mine. When I have intimated that the foreigner

with the scar was a member of the Brotherhood (admitted in Italy after Pesca's departure from his native

country), and when I have further added that the two cuts, in the form of a T, on the left arm of the dead man,

signified the Italian word "Traditore," and showed that justice had been done by the Brotherhood on a traitor,

I have contributed all that I know towards elucidating the mystery of Count Fosco's death.

The body was identified the day after I had seen it by means of an anonymous letter addressed to his wife. He

was buried by Madame Fosco in the cemetery of Pere la Chaise. Fresh funeral wreaths continue to this day to

be hung on the ornamental bronze railings round the tomb by the Countess's own hand. She lives in the

strictest retirement at Versailles. Not long since she published a biography of her deceased husband. The

work throws no light whatever on the name that was really his own or on the secret history of his lifeit is

almost entirely devoted to the praise of his domestic virtues, the assertion of his rare abilities, and the

enumeration of the honours conferred on him. The circumstances attending his death are very briefly noticed,

and are summed up on the last page in this sentence"His life was one long assertion of the rights of the

aristocracy and the sacred principles of Order, and he died a martyr to his cause."

The summer and autumn passed after my return from Paris, and brought no changes with them which need be

noticed here. We lived so simply and quietly that the income which I was now steadily earning sufficed for

In the February of the new year our first child was borna son. My mother and sister and Mrs. Vesey were

our guests at the little christening party, and Mrs. Clements was present to assist my wife on the same

occasion. Marian was our boy's godmother, and Pesca and Mr. Gilmore (the latter acting by proxy) were his

godfathers. I may add here that when Mr. Gilmore returned to us a year later he assisted the design of these

pages, at my request, by writing the Narrative which appears early in the story under his name, and which,

though first in order of precedence, was thus, in order of time, the last that I received.

The only event in our lives which now remains to be recorded, occurred when our little Walter was six

At that time I was sent to Ireland to make sketches for certain forthcoming illustrations in the newspaper to

which I was attached. I was away for nearly a fortnight, corresponding regularly with my wife and Marian,

except during the last three days of my absence, when my movements were too uncertain to enable me to

receive letters. I performed the latter part of my journey back at night, and when I reached home in the

morning, to my utter astonishment there was no one to receive me. Laura and Marian and the child had left

A note from my wife, which was given to me by the servant, only increased my surprise, by informing me

that they had gone to Limmeridge House. Marian had prohibited any attempt at written explanationsI was

entreated to follow them the moment I came backcomplete enlightenment awaited me on my arrival in

Cumberlandand I was forbidden to feel the slightest anxiety in the meantime. There the note ended. It was

still early enough to catch the morning train. I reached Limmeridge House the same afternoon.

My wife and Marian were both upstairs. They had established themselves (by way of completing my

amazement) in the little room which had been once assigned to me for a studio, when I was employed on Mr.

Fairlie's drawings. On the very chair which I used to occupy when I was at work Marian was sitting now,

with the child industriously sucking his coral upon her lapwhile Laura was standing by the

wellremembered drawingtable which I had so often used, with the little album that I had filled for her in

"What in the name of heaven has brought you here?" I asked. "Does Mr. Fairlie know?"

Marian suspended the question on my lips by telling me that Mr. Fairlie was dead. He had been struck by

paralysis, and had never rallied after the shock. Mr. Kyrle had informed them of his death, and had advised

Some dim perception of a great change dawned on my mind. Laura spoke before I had quite realised it. She

"My darling Walter," she said, "must we really account for our boldness in coming here? I am afraid, love, I

"There is not the least necessity for doing anything of the kind," said Marian. "We can be just as explicit, and

much more interesting, by referring to the future." She rose and held up the child kicking and crowing in her

arms. "Do you know who this is, Walter?" she asked, with bright tears of happiness gathering in her eyes.

"Even MY bewilderment has its limits," I replied. "I think I can still answer for knowing my own child."

"Child!" she exclaimed, with all her easy gaiety of old times. "Do you talk in that familiar manner of one of

the landed gentry of England? Are you aware, when I present this illustrious baby to your notice, in whose

presence you stand? Evidently not! Let me make two eminent personages known to one another: Mr. Walter

So she spoke. In writing those last words, I have written all. The pen falters in my hand. The long, happy

labour of many months is over. Marian was the good angel of our liveslet Marian end our Story.