这是一个关于女人的耐心可以忍受，男人的决心可以实现的故事。

如果可以依靠法律机制来查明每一个可疑案件，并进行每一个调查过程，并且仅在金油润滑作用的适度帮助下，那么充满这些页面的事件可能会要求他们的份额法庭上公众的关注。

但在某些不可避免的情况下，法律仍然是长钱包的预先订婚的仆人。这个故事第一次在这个地方被讲述。正如法官曾经可能听到的那样，读者现在也应该听到。自披露之始至披露结束，任何重要情况均不得涉及道听途说证据。当这些引言的作者（名叫沃尔特·哈特赖特）碰巧比其他人与要记录的事件有更密切的联系时，他就会亲自描述这些事件。当他的经验失败时，他就会从叙述者的位置上退休；他的任务将从他中断的那一刻起，由其他人继续下去，这些人可以根据自己的知识，就所注意到的情况进行发言，就像他在他们面前发言一样清楚和积极。

因此，这里所呈现的故事将由不止一支笔来讲述，就像法庭上不止一名证人讲述违法犯罪的故事一样——在这两种情况下，都有相同的目的，即始终以原样呈现真相。最直接、最易懂的方面；并通过让与事件关系最密切的人在每个连续阶段逐字讲述自己的经历来追踪一系列完整事件的进程。

首先让我们听听二十八岁的绘画老师沃尔特·哈特赖特（Walter Hartright）的发言。

II

那是七月的最后一天。漫长炎热的夏季即将结束。我们，伦敦人行道上疲惫的朝圣者，开始想起玉米地里的云影和海边的秋风。

就我个人而言，即将过去的夏天让我身体不好，精神不振，而且，如果必须说实话，我也没有钱了。在过去的一年里，我没有像往常一样仔细管理我的专业资源；现在，我的奢侈生活限制了我在汉普斯特德母亲的小屋和城里我自己的房间之间经济地度过秋天。

我记得，那天晚上，风平浪静，多云。伦敦的空气最为凝重。远处街道交通的嗡嗡声已经是最微弱的了。我体内生命的微小脉搏，以及我周围城市的伟大心脏，似乎都在随着夕阳的下沉而一致地下沉，慵懒地、更加懒惰地。我从那本我正在做梦而不是在读的书中醒来，离开我的房间，去迎接郊区凉爽的夜风。这是我每周都会与母亲和妹妹一起度过的两个晚上之一。于是我转向北边，朝汉普斯特德的方向走去。

由于我尚未讲述的事件，有必要在此提及，在我现在写下的那段时期，我父亲已经去世几年了。我和妹妹莎拉是一家有五个孩子的唯一幸存者。我父亲在我之前是一位绘画大师。他的努力使他在职业上取得了巨大的成功。他对那些依靠他的劳动为生的人的未来充满深切的渴望，这促使他从结婚之日起就投入到自己的生活保险中，其收入的比例远远高于大多数人认为有必要的比例。为此目的预留。由于他令人钦佩的审慎和克己精神，在他去世后，我的母亲和妹妹像他生前一样独立于世界。我继承了他的联系，并且有充分的理由对我生命之初等待着我的前景感到感激。

寂静的暮色仍在荒原最高的山脊上颤抖。当我站在母亲小屋的门前时，下方伦敦的景色在多云的夜晚的阴影下陷入了黑色的深渊。我刚按门铃，门就被猛地打开了。我可敬的意大利朋友佩斯卡教授代替仆人出现了。他高兴地冲出去迎接我，用一种尖锐的外国模仿声和英国的欢呼声。

就他本人而言，而且，我必须允许补充一下，也为了我自己，教授值得荣幸地得到正式介绍。一次意外使他成为了这个奇怪的家庭故事的起点，这正是本书所要展开的目的。

我第一次认识我的意大利朋友是在一些大房子里，他教他自己的语言，我教绘画。当时我对他一生的经历只知道，他曾经在帕多瓦大学担任过职务。他出于政治原因离开意大利（他一致拒绝向任何人提及其性质）；多年来，他一直是伦敦受人尊敬的语言教师。

佩斯卡实际上并不是一个侏儒，因为他从头到脚的比例都非常匀称，但我认为，佩斯卡是我在陈列室里见过的最小的人。从他的个人外表来看，他在任何地方都很引人注目，但他性格中无害的古怪性格使他在普通人类中更加出众。他一生的主导思想似乎是，他必须尽最大努力将自己变成一个英国人，以表达对为他提供庇护和谋生手段的国家的感激之情。教授不满足于向全国人民表示总是撑着雨伞、总是穿着绑腿、戴着白帽子的恭维，他进一步渴望在习惯、娱乐以及个人外表上成为英国人。这个小个子发现我们作为一个国家因热爱体育锻炼而出类拔萃，所以他怀着纯真的心，一有机会就立即投身于我们所有的英国体育和消遣活动中。坚信他可以通过意志的努力采用我们民族的娱乐活动，就像他采用我们民族的绑腿和我们民族的白帽子一样。

我曾见过他在猎狐和板球场上盲目地冒着四肢危险。不久之后，我看到他在布莱顿的大海中同样盲目地冒着生命危险。

我们在那里偶然相遇，一起洗澡。如果我们从事的是我自己国家特有的任何活动，我当然会仔细照顾佩斯卡；但是，由于外国人一般都能够像英国人一样在水中照顾自己，所以我从来没有想到游泳艺术可能只是在男子气概练习的清单上又增加了一项，而教授认为他可以即兴学习这些练习。 。我们俩都离开岸边后不久，我停了下来，发现我的朋友没有追上我，于是转身寻找他。令我惊恐和惊讶的是，我和海滩之间什么也没有看到，只有两条白色的小手臂在水面上挣扎了一会儿，然后就从视野中消失了。当我潜入水中寻找他时，这个可怜的小个子静静地蜷缩在底部的一个卵石凹洞里，看起来比我以前见过的他要小很多。在我带他进去的几分钟里，空气使他苏醒了，他在我的帮助下登上了机器的台阶。随着他的活力部分恢复，他关于游泳的奇妙幻想又回来了。当他打战的牙齿让他说话时，他茫然地笑了笑，说他认为这一定是抽筋的原因。

当他完全康复并在海滩上与我会合时，他温暖的南方天性立刻突破了所有人为的英国束缚。他用最狂野的感情表达让我不知所措——用他夸张的意大利方式热情地喊道，从此以后他的生活将由我支配——并宣称他永远不会再快乐，除非他找到一个机会来证明他的感激之情。为我提供了一些服务，我可能会铭记在心，直到我生命的最后一刻。

我竭尽全力阻止他的眼泪和抗议，坚持把整个冒险当作一个很好的笑话主题。正如我想象的那样，最终成功地减轻了佩斯卡对我压倒性的义务感。当时我几乎没有想到——当我们愉快的假期结束后，我也没有想到——为我服务的机会很快就会到来，而我那感激不尽的同伴如此热切地渴望着为我服务的机会。他急于立即抓住它；通过这样做，他将把我存在的整个潮流转入一个新的通道，并改变我自己几乎无法被认出。

但事实确实如此。当佩斯卡教授躺在木瓦床上时，如果我没有潜水去找他，我很可能永远不会与这些页面将要讲述的故事联系起来——也许我永远不会听到这个人的名字。她活在我所有的思想中，她拥有我所有的能量，她已经成为指导我人生目标的唯一指导性影响力。

III

那天晚上，当我们在母亲门口对峙时，佩斯卡的表情和举止足以告诉我发生了一些不寻常的事情。然而，立即向他寻求解释是毫无用处的。当他用双手把我拖进去时，我只能推测（了解我的习惯）他来到小屋是为了确保那天晚上能见到我，并且他有一些消息要告诉，而且是一种异常愉快的消息。

我们俩都以非常唐突和不庄重的方式跳进客厅。妈妈坐在开着的窗边一边笑着一边扇着扇子。佩斯卡是她最喜欢的人之一，他最疯狂的怪癖在她眼里总是可以原谅的。可怜的亲爱的灵魂！从她第一次发现小教授对她的儿子深深地、感激地依恋起，她就毫无保留地向他敞开了心扉，并把他所有令人费解的外国怪癖视为理所当然，没有试图去理解其中任何一个。 。

奇怪的是，我的妹妹莎拉虽然拥有年轻时的一切优点，但她却没有那么柔顺。她充分展现了佩斯卡内心的优秀品质。但她不能像我母亲为了我而接受他那样，含蓄地接受他。她狭隘的礼节观念在对佩斯卡一贯蔑视外表的永久反抗中升起。她总是或多或少地毫不掩饰地惊讶于母亲对这个古怪的小外国人的熟悉程度。我观察到，不仅在我姐姐的情况下，而且在其他人的情况下，我们年轻一代都不像我们的一些长辈那么热情和冲动。我经常看到老年人因期待某种快乐的前景而脸红和兴奋，但这完全没有扰乱他们平静的孙子们的平静。我想知道，我们现在是否像我们的前辈们在他们那个时代那样真诚？教育方面的巨大进步是否迈出了太长的一步？我们在当今时代，是否只是在世界上最微不足道的小事上受到了良好的教育？

如果不试图果断地回答这些问题，我至少可以记录一下，我从未在佩斯卡的社交场合见过我的母亲和我的妹妹在一起，也没有发现我的母亲是两人中年轻得多的女人。例如，这一次，当老太太为我们跌跌撞撞地走进客厅的孩子气的举止而开怀大笑时，莎拉却不安地捡起教授匆忙前进时从桌子上碰落的茶杯碎片。在门口迎接我。

“沃尔特，我不知道如果你再拖延更长时间的话，会发生什么。”我母亲说。佩斯卡已经因为不耐烦而快要发疯了，而我则因为好奇而快要发疯了。教授带来了一些好消息，他说你很担心；在他的朋友沃尔特出现之前，他残忍地拒绝向我们透露哪怕是最微小的暗示。”

“非常令人恼火：它破坏了整个场景。”莎拉自言自语道，悲伤地全神贯注于破碎杯子的废墟。

说着这些话的时候，佩斯卡高兴地大惊小怪，没有意识到陶器在他手中受到了不可挽回的伤害，他拖着一张大扶手椅到房间的另一端，以便命令我们三个人，向观众讲话的公共演讲者的性格。他把椅子背对着我们，然后跪在椅子上，在临时讲坛上兴奋地向他的三人小会众发表讲话。

“现在，亲爱的，”佩斯卡开始说道（当他指的是“值得尊敬的朋友”时，他总是说“亲爱的”），“听我说。时间到了——我背诵我的好消息——我终于说话了。”

“听听，听听！”妈妈开玩笑地说。

“妈妈，他下一件要打破的东西，”莎拉低声说，“将是最好的扶手椅的靠背。”

“我回到我的生活，我向最崇高的受造物致敬，”佩斯卡继续说道，在椅子的顶部栏杆上激烈地撇开我不值得的自我。 “谁发现我死在海底（通过抽筋）；谁把我拉到了顶峰；当我再次进入自己的生活和自己的衣服时，我说什么了？”

“比必要的多得多。”我尽可能顽强地回答。与这个主题相关的哪怕是最微小的鼓励，教授总是会流下眼泪。

“我说过，”佩斯卡坚持说，“我的余生都属于我亲爱的朋友沃尔特——事实也确实如此。我说，除非我找到为沃尔特做一件好事的机会，否则我永远不会再快乐——直到这最幸福的一天，我才对自己感到满意。现在，”热情的小个子高声喊道，“幸福感从我皮肤的每一个毛孔里涌出来，像汗水一样；因为凭着我的信念、灵魂和荣誉，事情终于完成了，现在唯一要说的话就是——好吧——好吧！”

这里可能有必要解释一下，佩斯卡为自己在语言、衣着、举止和娱乐方面是完美的英国人而感到自豪。他学会了一些我们最熟悉的口语表达，每当他偶然想到这些表达时，他就把它们散布在谈话中，并在他对它们的声音的高度欣赏和对它们的意义的普遍无知的情况下，将它们变成复合词和重复。他自己的，而且总是让它们相互碰撞，仿佛它们是由一个长音节组成的。

“在伦敦那些漂亮的房子里，我教我的祖国的语言，”教授说，没有再做任何序言，就匆匆开始了他拖延已久的解释，“有一个，非常好，在一个叫波特兰的大地方。你们都知道那是哪里吗？是的，是的——当然。亲爱的，这座漂亮的房子里有一个美好的家庭。妈妈，又白又胖；三位年轻小姐，又白又胖；两位年轻的先生，又白又胖；还有一位爸爸，他是所有人中最漂亮、最胖的，他是一位强大的商人，眼睛里都是金子——曾经是一个好人，但看到他有一个光秃秃的头和两个下巴，现在就不再好了。现在介意！我把崇高的但丁教给年轻的小姐们，啊！——我的灵魂保佑我的灵魂！——这不是用人类的语言来形容的，崇高的但丁如何让这三个漂亮的头脑感到困惑！无论如何——一切都在适当的时候——而且课程越多对我来说越好。现在介意！你们自己想象一下，我今天像往常一样教导年轻的小姐们。我们四个人一起在但丁的地狱里。在第七环——但不管怎样：所有的环都和三位年轻小姐一样，又白又胖——尽管如此，在第七环，我的学生还是牢牢地粘着；而我，为了让他们重新开始，背诵，解释，并以无用的热情把自己炸得通红，这时——外面过道里传来靴子的吱吱声，金色的爸爸进来了，他是一个光头的强大商人，两个下巴。——哈！亲爱的，我现在比你们想象的更接近这个行业了。到目前为止你有耐心吗？或者你是否对自己说过：“平局——平局！”佩斯卡今晚很啰嗦吗？”

我们宣称我们对此非常感兴趣。教授接着说：

“金色的爸爸手里拿着一封信；在他为在我们的地狱地区因家里的普通凡人事务而打扰我们找借口后，他向三位年轻的小姐讲话，并开始，就像你们英国人在这个幸福的世界上开始一切事情一样，你们必须说：和一个伟大的O。 “哦，亲爱的，”这位强大的商人说道，“我收到了一封来自我的朋友——先生的信”（这个名字已经从我的脑海中消失了；但是没关系；我们会回到这个问题上的；是的） ，是的——好吧——好吧）。 于是爸爸说：“我收到了我的朋友先生的来信；他想要我这位绘画大师的推荐，去他在乡下的家里。我的灵魂保佑我的灵魂！ 当我听到金爸爸说这些话时，如果我足够大，能够伸手到他身边，我就会用双臂搂住他的脖子，把他按在我的怀里，一个长久而感激的拥抱！ 事实上，我只是在椅子上弹了起来。 我的座位在荆棘上，我的灵魂如火般燃烧，但我忍住了，让爸爸继续说下去。 “也许你知道，”这位好心的有钱人一边说，一边用他的金手指和大拇指来回摆弄他朋友的信，“亲爱的，也许你认识一位我可以推荐的绘画大师？”三位年轻小姐面面相觑，然后说（以不可或缺的大O开头）“哦，亲爱的不，爸爸！ 但这里是先生。 佩斯卡一提到我自己，我就再也无法忍受了——对你们的思念，我亲爱的，像血液一样涌上我的头——我从座位上站起来，仿佛一根尖刺从地面上长出来，穿过我的底部。主席——我向强大的商人讲话，我说（英语短语）“亲爱的先生，我找到了那个人！” 世界第一的绘画大师！ 今晚就通过邮局推荐他，带上行李送他走（又是英语短语——哈！），送他带上行李，明天乘火车！ “停下来，停下来，”爸爸说；“停下来，停下来。” “他是外国人，还是英国人？” “英语深入人心，”我回答道。 '可敬？'爸爸说。 “先生，”我说（因为他的最后一个问题激怒了我，而且我已经和他不再熟悉了——）“先生！” 这位英国人的胸中燃烧着不朽的天才之火，而且，更重要的是，他的父亲在他之前就拥有了这种天赋！ “没关系，”爸爸的金色野蛮人说，“别介意他的天才，先生。” 钓鱼。 我们不想要这个国家的天才，除非它伴随着受人尊敬——然后我们很高兴拥有它，确实非常高兴。 你的朋友能提供推荐信——能体现他性格的信件吗？我漫不经心地挥了挥手。 “信件？”我说。 '哈！ 我的灵魂保佑我的灵魂！ 我确实应该这么想！ 如果您愿意的话，可以提供大量的信件和推荐信！” “一两个就可以了，”这个粘稠而有钱的人说。 “让他把它们寄给我，附上他的名字和地址。 还有——停下来，停下来，先生。 佩斯卡——在你去找你的朋友之前，你最好记下笔记。 '钞票！'我愤怒地说。 “请不要给我钞票，除非我勇敢的英国人先赢得它。” '钞票！'爸爸惊讶地说，“谁谈到钞票了？” 我指的是条款注释——一份关于他将要做的事情的备忘录。 继续你的课吧，先生。 佩斯卡，我会给你我朋友信中必要的摘录。商人和金钱的人坐下来，拿着笔、墨水和纸。我再次走进但丁的地狱，身后跟着我的三位年轻小姐。 十分钟后，便条写好了，爸爸的靴子在外面的过道里嘎吱作响。 从那一刻起，我的信仰、灵魂、荣誉，我什么都不知道了！ 我终于抓住了机会，我为我在世界上最亲爱的朋友所做的感激之情已经完成了，这种光荣的想法飞入我的脑海，使我陶醉。 我如何把我和我的年轻小姐们再次带出我们的地狱地区，之后我的其他事情如何完成，我的一点点晚餐如何滑入我的喉咙，我比月亮上的人更了解。 对我来说已经足够了，我在这里，手里拿着那张强大的商人票据，像生命一样伟大，像火一样热烈，像国王一样快乐！ 哈！ 哈！ 哈！

他一说完，我母亲就站了起来，脸颊通红，眼睛发亮。她用双手温暖地握住了小个子男人。

“亲爱的、善良的佩斯卡，”她说，“我从来没有怀疑过你对沃尔特的真挚感情——但我现在比以往任何时候都更相信这一点！”

“我相信，看在沃尔特的份上，我们非常感谢佩斯卡教授，”莎拉补充道。她一边说话，一边半站起来，仿佛要轮到她走近扶手椅。但是，当看到佩斯卡兴高采烈地亲吻我母亲的手时，她显得很严肃，然后又回到了座位上。 “如果那个熟悉的小男人这样对待我的母亲，他会如何对待我？” me？”面孔有时会说出真相；当莎拉再次坐下时，她心里无疑就是这么想的。

虽然我本人也很感激佩斯卡的善意动机，但现在摆在我面前的未来就业前景却让我的精神并没有应有的那么高涨。当教授完全处理完我母亲的手后，当我热烈感谢他代表我进行干预时，我请求允许他查看他可敬的赞助人为我检查而起草的条款说明。

佩斯卡把纸递给我，胜利地挥舞着手。

“读！”小个子威严地说道。 “我向你保证，我的朋友，金爸爸的文字本身就是用喇叭之舌说话的。”

无论如何，术语注释是简单、直接、全面的。它告诉我，

首先是利默里奇府的那位弗雷德里克·菲尔利先生。坎伯兰希望聘请一位完全有能力的绘图大师提供服务，为期四个月。

其次，主人应履行的职责是双重的。他负责指导两位年轻女士水彩画艺术的教学。随后，他将闲暇时间投入到修复和安装一批珍贵的绘画收藏中，这些绘画曾一度被完全忽视。

第三，向承担并正确履行这些职责的人提供的条件是每周四基尼；他将住在利默里奇庄园；他在那里将受到绅士般的待遇。

第四，也是最后一点，没有人需要考虑申请这种情况，除非他能够提供有关性格和能力的最无可例外的参考资料。这些推荐信将发送给费尔利先生在伦敦的朋友，他有权完成所有必要的安排。这些指示后面是佩斯卡在波特兰广场的雇主的姓名和地址——便条或备忘录就此结束。

这份订婚提​​议所带来的前景无疑是一个有吸引力的前景。这份工作可能既轻松又愉快；这是我在一年中最空闲的时候向我求婚的。从我个人的职业经验来看，这些条款出人意料地宽松。我知道这一点；我知道，如果我成功地获得了这份工作机会，我应该认为自己非常幸运——然而，当我读到这份备忘录时，我内心感到一种莫名其妙的不愿意介入此事。在我以前的全部经历中，我从来没有像现在这样痛苦地、如此莫名其妙地发现自己的责任和倾向如此不一致。

“哦，沃尔特，你父亲从来没有这样的机会！”当我母亲读完条款并将其还给我时说道。

“认识这么多杰出的人，”莎拉在椅子上直起身子说道。 “而且还享有如此令人满意的平等条件！”

“是的是的; “这些条款，从任何意义上来说，都足够诱人。”我不耐烦地回答道。 “但是在我寄出我的感言之前，我想花点时间考虑一下——”

“考虑！”妈妈惊呼道。 “怎么了，沃尔特，你怎么了？”

“考虑！”我姐姐附和道。 “在这种情况下，说出这样的话是多么非同寻常啊！”

“考虑！”教授插话道。 “有什么需要考虑的？回答我这个！你不曾抱怨过自己的健康，不曾渴望过一丝所谓的乡村风吗？出色地！你手中的这张纸可以让你在四个月的时间里永远呼吸着令人窒息的乡村微风。不是这样吗？哈！再说一遍——你想要钱。出色地！一周四个金畿尼不算什么吗？我的灵魂保佑我的灵魂！只给 me——我的靴子会像金爸爸的靴子一样吱吱作响，让人感觉到穿着靴子行走的人的压倒性的富裕！每周四基尼，更重要的是，还有两个小姐的迷人交往！而且，更重要的是，你的床，你的早餐，你的晚餐，你狼吞虎咽的英式茶和午餐以及泡沫啤酒，这一切都是免费的——为什么，沃尔特，我亲爱的好朋友——该死的该死的！我有生以来第一次没有足够的眼睛来看着你并惊叹你！”

无论是我母亲对我的行为表现出的明显惊讶，还是佩斯卡对新工作给我带来的好处的热情列举，都没有丝毫动摇我对去利默里奇庄园的不合理的不愿意。在我对去坎伯兰提出了所有我能想到的小小的反对意见之后，在听到他们一个又一个的回答后，令我自己完全沮丧的是，我试图设置最后一个障碍，询问我的学生们将来会怎么样。伦敦，当时我正在教费尔利先生的年轻女士们画自然素描。对此显而易见的答案是，他们中的大部分人都会去秋季旅行，而留在家里的少数人可能会被托付给我的一位绘画大师兄弟照顾，我曾经收过他的学生。在类似的情况下离开他的手。我姐姐提醒我，这位先生明确表示，在当前季节，我可以使用他的服务，以防我想离开城镇。母亲郑重地呼吁我不要让胡思乱想妨碍我自己的利益和健康。佩斯卡可怜巴巴地恳求我不要因为拒绝了他第一次向救了他一命的朋友提供的感激之情而伤害他的心。

激发这些抗议的明显的真诚和感情会影响任何一个在他的作品中带有一丝善意的人。虽然我无法克服自己莫名其妙的任性，但我至少有足够的美德，对此感到由衷的羞愧，并以让步的方式愉快地结束讨论，并承诺做所有需要我做的事情。

那天晚上剩下的时间过得很愉快，我对即将在坎伯兰和两位年轻女士一起生活的幽默充满了期待。佩斯卡受到我们民族烈酒的启发，这种烈酒在喝进喉咙五分钟后，似乎以最奇妙的方式进入了他的大脑，他通过快速连续的一系列演讲来断言他被认为是一个完整的英国人。 ，祝愿我母亲的健康，我姐姐的健康，我的健康，以及费尔利先生和两位年轻小姐的健康，随后，他本人可怜兮兮地为整个聚会致谢。 “一个秘密，沃尔特。”当我们一起走回家时，我的小朋友偷偷地说。 “一想起自己的雄辩，我就脸红了。我的灵魂因野心而爆发。有一天，我走进你们高贵的议会。成为佩斯卡议员阁下是我一生的梦想！”

第二天早上，我将我的推荐信发送给教授在波特兰广场的雇主。三天过去了，我心里暗自满意地得出结论，我的论文还不够明确。然而第四天，答案就来了。它宣布费尔利先生接受了我的服务，并要求我立即出发前往坎伯兰。我的旅程的所有必要说明都被仔细而清晰地添加在后记中。

我很不情愿地做了安排，第二天一早就离开伦敦。傍晚时分，佩斯卡在去参加晚宴的路上向我道别。

“你不在的时候我会擦干眼泪，”教授高兴地说，“带着这个光荣的想法。是我的吉祥之手，为你的世间运第推了一把。走吧，我的朋友！当你的阳光照在坎伯兰（英语谚语）时，以天堂的名义让你的干草成熟。与两位年轻小姐中的一位结婚；成为哈特赖特议员阁下；当你站在梯子的顶端时，请记住，位于底部的佩斯卡已经完成了这一切！”

我试图和我的小朋友一起开怀大笑，听他临别时的玩笑，但我的精神却不受控制。当他说着轻快的告别词时，我心里有些震动，几乎是痛苦的。

当我再次独自一人时，除了步行到汉普斯特德小屋，向我的母亲和莎拉告别外，别无他法。

IV

一整天都闷热难受，现在是一个闷热的夜晚。

我的母亲和姐姐说了太多的遗言，并多次恳求我再等五分钟，以至于仆人在我身后锁上花园门时已近午夜。我沿着返回伦敦最短的路向前走了几步，然后停下来犹豫了。

深蓝色的无星天空中，月亮圆圆而宽广，破碎的荒地在神秘的光芒下显得十分荒凉，距离下面的大城市有数百英里远。一想到要尽快下降到炎热阴暗的伦敦，我就感到厌恶。在我目前不安的身心状态下，在密不透风的房间里上床睡觉的前景和逐渐窒息的前景似乎是一回事。我决定走最迂回的路，在空气更纯净的地方漫步回家。沿着白色蜿蜒的小路穿过孤独的石南；穿过伦敦最开放的郊区，进入芬奇利路，然后在凉爽的早晨从摄政公园的西侧返回。

我慢慢地在荒原上蜿蜒而下，享受着这神圣的寂静，欣赏着光线和阴影的柔和交替，它们在我两侧的破碎地面上相互跟随。当我进行夜间散步的第一个也是最美丽的部分时，我的思想就一直被动地接受着景色所产生的印象；我对任何主题都思考得很少——事实上，就我自己的感觉而言，我几乎不能说我根本没有思考过。

但是，当我离开荒原，拐进小路时，那里可看的东西越来越少，我的习惯和职业即将发生的变化自然而然地产生的想法逐渐吸引了我越来越多的注意力，完全集中在它们自己身上。当我到达路的尽头时，我完全沉浸在自己对利默里奇别墅、费尔利先生和两位女士的幻想中，她们很快就开始练习水彩画了。监督。

我现在已经到达了我步行的那个特定地点，有四条路交汇——通往汉普斯特德的路，我就是沿着这条路返回的，通往芬奇利的路，通往西区的路，以及返回伦敦的路。我机械地转向后一个方向，沿着孤独的大路漫步——我记得，我漫不经心地想知道​​坎伯兰的年轻女士们会是什么样子——就在那一刻，我体内的每一滴血液都被带回了。突然有一只手从我身后轻轻地搭在我的肩膀上，我的动作停了下来。

我立即打开电源，手指紧紧握住手杖的手柄。

在那儿，在宽阔明亮的大路中央——那儿，仿佛那一刻是从地里冒出来或从天上掉下来的——站着一个孤独的女人的身影，从头到脚都穿着白色的衣服，她的当我面对她时，她的脸严肃地询问着我，她的手指向伦敦上空的乌云。

在夜深人静的时候，在那个孤独的地方，这个非凡的幽灵突然出现在我面前，让我大吃一惊，无法询问她想要什么。陌生女人率先开口。

“那是去伦敦的路吗？”她说。

当她向我提出这个奇怪的问题时，我聚精会神地看着她。那时已经快一点了。在月光下我只能清楚地看到一张毫无血色的年轻脸，脸颊和下巴看起来瘦削而锐利。一双大而严肃、充满渴望的专注的眼睛；嘴唇紧张、不确定；浅色的棕黄色头发。她的举止中没有任何狂野、不谦虚的地方：安静而自制，有一点忧郁，还有一点怀疑；这不完全是一位女士的举止，同时也不是一个生活最卑微的女人的举止。这个声音虽然我还没有听说过，但语气却出奇地平静而机械，而且语速非常快。她手里拿着一个小袋子：而她的衣服——帽子、披肩和长袍都是白色的——据我猜测，肯定不是用非常精致或非常昂贵的材料制成的。她的身材很苗条，远高于平均身高，步态和动作没有丝毫的张扬。这就是我在昏暗的灯光下，在我们见面的令人费解的奇怪环境下所能观察到的她的一切。她是一个什么样的女人，午夜过后一个小时，她怎么独自一人出现在大路上，我完全猜不出来。我确信的一件事是，即使是最粗俗的人类也不会误解她说话的动机，即使是在那个令人怀疑的深夜，在那个令人怀疑的孤独的地方。

“你听到我说话了吗？”她语气平静、语速很快，没有一丝焦躁或不耐烦。 “我问那是不是去伦敦的路。”

“是的，”我回答，“就是这条路：它通向圣约翰森林和摄政公园。请原谅我之前没有回复你。你突然出现在路上，让我吃了一惊。即使是现在，我也无法解释这一点。”

“你不会怀疑我做错了什么吧？我没有做错任何事。我遇到了一个意外——这么晚了我一个人在这里很不幸。你为什么怀疑我做错了？”

她说话时带着不必要的认真和激动，并从我身边退了几步。我尽力安抚她。

“请不要认为我有任何怀疑你的想法，”我说，“或者除了尽可能为你提供帮助之外，还有其他任何愿望。我只是好奇你出现在路上，因为在我看到你之前的那一刻，我觉得路上空无一人。”

她转过身来，指着通往伦敦的路和通往汉普斯特德的路交汇处的一个地方，那里的树篱上有一个缺口。

“我听到你来了，”她说，“在我冒险说话之前，我躲在那里看看你是什么样的人。我对此充满怀疑和恐惧，直到你去世；然后我就不得不偷偷地跟着你，摸你。”

偷偷跟踪我并触摸我？为什么不打电话给我？至少可以说很奇怪。

“我可以相信你吗？”她问。 “你不会因为我遭遇了意外而对我的看法变得更糟吧？”她困惑地停了下来。将她的包从一只手换到另一只手；并痛苦地叹了口气。

女人的孤独和无助让我感动。帮助她和饶恕她的自然冲动战胜了判断力、谨慎和世俗的机智，一个年长、更聪明、更冷酷的男人可能会在这种奇怪的紧急情况下召唤来帮助他。

“你可以为了任何无害的目的而信任我，”我说。 “如果你觉得向我解释你的奇怪情况很麻烦的话，就别想再回到这个话题了。我没有权利要求你做任何解释。告诉我如何帮助你；如果可以的话，我会的。”

“你非常友善，我非常非常感谢认识你。”当她说这些话时，我从她的声音中第一次听到了女性的温柔。但她那双充满渴望的专注的大眼睛里没有闪烁泪光，仍然注视着我。 “我以前只去过伦敦一次，”她继续说道，语气越来越快，“我对伦敦的那一面一无所知。我可以乘坐飞机或任何类型的马车吗？是不是太晚了？我不知道。如果你能告诉我哪里可以买到苍蝇——只要你答应不干扰我，并让我在我愿意的时间和方式下离开你——我在伦敦有一个朋友，他会很高兴接待我——我别无他求——你能答应吗？”

她焦急地看着路上。再次将包从一只手移到另一只手上；又重复了一遍：“你答应吗？”他严肃地看着我的脸，带着恳求的恐惧和困惑，这让我很困扰。

我能做什么？这是一个完全、无助地任由我摆布的陌生人——而且那个陌生人是一个被遗弃的女人。附近没有房子；路过的人都没有我可以咨询的地方。即使我知道如何行使，我也没有任何世俗权利赋予我控制她的权力。我不自信地追踪着这些线条，事后事件的阴影使我所写的纸张变暗；但我还是说，我能做什么？

我所做的就是尝试通过询问她来赢得时间。 “你确定你在伦敦的朋友会在这么晚的时间来接你吗？”我说。

“非常肯定。只说你会让我在我愿意的时间和方式离开你——只说你不会干涉我。你答应吗？”

当她第三次重复这句话时，她走到我身边，突然温柔地悄悄地把手放在我的怀上——一只瘦弱的手；一只瘦小的手。即使在那个闷热的夜晚，我的手还是冰冷的（当我把它移开时）。请记住，我还年轻；请记住，抚摸我的手是一只女人的手。

“你会答应吗？”

“是的。”

一个词！这个熟悉的小词每时每刻都挂在每个人的嘴边。哦我！现在，当我写下它时，我会发抖。

我们面向伦敦，在新的一天的第一个宁静的时刻一起前行——我，和这个女人，她的名字，她的性格，她的故事，她的生活对象，她就在我身边，在那一刻那一刻，对我来说都是深不可测的谜。这就像一场梦。我是沃尔特·哈特赖特吗？这就是人们熟知的、平安无事的道路，人们周日都会在这里漫步吗？一个多小时后，我真的离开了母亲小屋安静、体面、传统的家庭氛围吗？我太困惑了——也太清楚地意识到一种类似自责的模糊感觉——无法与我陌生的同伴交谈几分钟。首先打破我们之间沉默的又是她的声音。

“我想问你一件事。”她突然说道。 “你在伦敦认识很多人吗？”

“是的，很多。”

“很多有地位和头衔的人吗？”这个奇怪的问题中带着明显的怀疑语气。我犹豫着是否要回答这个问题。

“有一些，”沉默了一会儿后我说道。

“很多”——她停了下来，审视地看着我的脸——“很多准男爵级别的男人？”

我太惊讶了，无法回答，于是轮到我问她了。

“你为什么要问？”

“因为我希望，为了我自己，有一位准男爵是你不认识的。”

“你能告诉我他的名字吗？”

“我不能——我不敢——一提到这件事我就忘记了自己。”她说话声音很大，几乎是凶狠的，她把紧握的手举到空中，热情地握着。然后，突然，她又控制住了自己，压低声音补充道：“告诉我，他们中的哪一个？” 您 知道。”

我很难拒绝用这样的小事来取悦她，我提到了三个名字。第二，我教过女儿的家庭的父亲的名字；其中一个是一位单身汉的名字，他曾经带我乘坐他的游艇巡游，为他画草图。

“啊！ 你 别 我认识他。”她松了一口气说道。 “你自己是一个有地位和头衔的人吗？”

“离得很远。我只是一个绘画大师。”

当我的回答从我嘴里流过时——也许有点苦涩——她突然抓住了我的手臂，这是她所有行为的特点。

“不是一个有地位和头衔的人，”她对自己重复道。 “感谢上帝！我可以信任 他设立的区域办事处外，我们在美国也开设了办事处，以便我们为当地客户提供更多的支持。“

迄今为止，出于对同伴的考虑，我一直努力控制自己的好奇心。但现在我已经受不了了。

“恐怕你有充分的理由抱怨某个有地位和头衔的人？”我说。 “你不愿向我提及的男爵的名字，恐怕对你做了什么严重的错事吧？他是你在这个奇怪的夜晚出现在这里的原因吗？”

“别问我：别让我谈论这件事，”她回答道。 “我现在身体不太好。我被残酷地利用，被残酷地委屈。如果你快点走，不跟我说话，你就会比以前更友善。如果可以的话，我很遗憾地想让自己安静下来。”

我们又快步前行；至少有半个小时，双方都没有再说一句话。由于被禁止再询问，我时不时地偷看她的脸。一切都是一样的。嘴唇紧闭，眉头皱起，眼睛直视前方，热切而又心不在焉。我们已经到达了第一栋房子，并且已经接近新的卫斯理学院，然后她的布景放松了，她再次说话了。

“你住在伦敦吗？”她说。

“是的。”当我回答时，我突然意识到她可能已经形成某种向我寻求帮助或建议的意图，并且我应该警告她我即将离开家，以免她失望。于是我补充道：“但是明天我将离开伦敦一段时间。我要去乡下。”

“在哪里？”她问。 “北还是南？”

“向北——坎伯兰。”

“坎伯兰！”她温柔地重复了这个词。 “啊！希望我也去那里。我曾经在坎伯兰过得很开心。”

我再次尝试揭开挂在我和这个女人之间的面纱。

“也许你出生在美丽的湖区，”我说。

“不，”她回答。 “我出生在汉普郡；但我曾经在坎伯兰上学过一段时间。湖泊？我不记得有什么湖。这是利默里奇村和利默里奇别墅，我很想再去看看。”

现在轮到我突然停下来了。就在我好奇心旺盛的时候，我的陌生同伴偶然提到费尔利先生的住处，这让我大吃一惊。

“你有没有听到有人在后面喊我们？”我刚停下来，她就惊恐地环顾道路，问道。

“不，不。我只是被利默里奇之家的名字所震惊。几天后，我听到一些坎伯兰人提到过这件事。”

“啊！ 不是 my 人们。菲尔利夫人死了；她的丈夫死了；他们的小女儿此时可能已经结婚并离开了。我不能说现在谁住在利默里奇。如果还有更多同名的东西留在那儿，我只知道看在费尔利夫人的份上我爱它们。”

她似乎还想再说些什么。但当她说话的时候，我们已经看到了大道路顶端的收费公路。她的手紧紧地握住我的手臂，焦急地看着我们面前的大门。

“收费公路的人在向外看吗？”她问。

他并没有向外张望；当我们穿过大门时，附近没有其他人。煤气灯和房屋的景象似乎让她焦躁不安，让她不耐烦。

“这是伦敦，”她说。 “你看到我能找到什么马车吗？我又累又害怕。我想把自己关起来，然后被赶走。”

我向她解释说，除非我们足够幸运，遇到一辆空车，否则我们必须走远一点才能到达出租车站。然后试图继续谈论坎伯兰的话题。这是没用的。那种把自己关起来、被赶走的想法现在已经完全占据了她的脑海。她无法思考和谈论其他事情。

我们沿着大道路刚走了三分之一，就看到一辆出租车停在我们下面几扇门外的一栋房子前，就在路的对面。一位绅士下了车，从花园门口进来。当司机重新装上箱子时，我招呼了出租车。当我们过马路时，我的同伴越来越不耐烦，几乎逼着我跑。

“太晚了，”她说。 “我只是很着急，因为已经太晚了。”

当我打开出租车门时，司机礼貌地说：“先生，如果您不往托特纳姆法院路方向行驶，我就不能带您去。” “我的马已经精疲力竭了，除了马厩之外，我无法把他拉到更远的地方。”

“是的是的。这对我来说就足够了。我要往那边走——我要往那边走。”她语气急切，气喘吁吁，然后被我推进了驾驶室。

在我让她上车之前，我已经向自己保证了这个男人是清醒的、有礼貌的。现在，当她坐在里面时，我恳求她让我看到她安全地到达目的地。

“不，不，不，”她激烈地说。 “我现在很安全，也很快乐。如果你是绅士，请记住你的承诺。让他继续开直到我阻止他为止。谢谢你——哦！谢谢谢谢！”

我的手放在出租车门上。她用自己的手接住它，亲吻它，然后把它推开。出租车同时开走了——我开始上路，隐隐约约地想再停下来，我几乎不知道为什么——因为害怕吓到她而犹豫不决——最后叫了一声，但声音不够大，不足以吸引人们的注意。驾驶员的注意。远处的车轮声越来越弱，出租车消失在路上的黑影里，白衣女子也不见了踪影。

已经过去十多分钟了。我仍然在路的同一边；现在机械地向前走了几步；现在又心不在焉地停了下来。有那么一刻，我发现自己开始怀疑自己的冒险经历的真实性。另一次，我因一种做错事的不安感而感到困惑和苦恼，但这却让我困惑地不知道自己该如何做正确的事情。我几乎不知道自己要去哪里，也不知道接下来要做什么；当我突然回想起自己时——我几乎可以说是被我身后快速逼近的车轮的声音惊醒，我除了自己的思想混乱之外什么也意识不到。

当我停下来环顾四周时，我正站在路的黑暗一侧，在一些花园树木的浓荫下。在路对面、光线较亮的一侧，在我下面不远的地方，一名警察正在朝摄政公园的方向漫步。

马车从我身边驶过——一辆敞篷马车，由两个人驾驶。

“停止！”一个人喊道。 “有一个警察。我们去问问他吧。”

马立刻被拉了起来，距离我站着的黑暗地方几码远。

“警察！”第一个发言者喊道。 “你见过一个女人从这里经过吗？”

“先生，什么样的女人？”

“穿着淡紫色长袍的女人——”

“不，不，”第二个人插话道。 “我们在她的床上发现了我们给她的衣服。她一定是穿着她来找我们时穿的衣服走了。白衣，警察。一个白衣女子。”

“我没见过她，先生。”

“如果你或你的任何手下遇见了那个女人，请阻止她，并小心地将她送到那个地址。我将支付所有费用，并给予公平的报酬。”

警察看了看递给他的卡片。

“我们为什么要阻止她，先生？她做了什么？”

“完毕！她逃离了我的庇护所。不要忘记；一个白衣女子。继续驾驶。”

V

“她逃离了我的庇护所！”

我无法实事求是地说，这些话所暗示的可怕推论就像新的启示一样闪现在我的脑海中。在我考虑不周地答应让她自由行事后，白衣女子向我提出了一些奇怪的问题，这表明我得出的结论要么是她生性轻浮、不安，要么是最近遭受了一些恐怖袭击。扰乱了她各项能力的平衡。但是，我可以诚实地说，我们都与精神病院的名字联系在一起的绝对精神错乱的想法，我从来没有想到过与她有关。当时，我在她的语言或行为中没有看到任何可以证明这一点的理由。即使陌生人对警察所说的话给她带来了新的启发，我现在也看不出有什么理由可以证明这一点。

我做了什么？协助最可怕的非法监禁的受害者越狱；或者把一个不幸的生物扔到伦敦广阔的世界上，仁慈地控制他的行为是我的责任，也是每个人的责任？当我想到这个问题时，当我自责自己问得太晚时，我心里感到恶心。

当我终于回到克莱门特旅馆的房间时，在我心烦意乱的状态下，想睡觉是没有用的。在几个小时过去之前，我必须开始前往坎伯兰的旅程。我坐下来尝试，先是画草图，然后是阅读——但是白衣女人挡在了我和我的铅笔之间，挡在了我和我的书之间。这个被遗弃的生物有受到任何伤害吗？这是我的第一个想法，尽管我自私地不敢面对它。其他想法随之而来，细想这些想法就不那么痛苦了。她把出租车停在哪里了？她现在怎么样了？她是否被马车上的男人追踪并抓获了？或者说她还有能力控制自己的行为吗？我们两个是否正沿着各自分道扬镳的道路走向神秘未来的某一点，在那里我们再次相遇？

当锁门的时间到来，告别伦敦的追求、伦敦的学生和伦敦的朋友，并再次走向新的兴趣和新的生活时，我感到一种解脱。即使是铁路总站的喧嚣和混乱，在其他时候是那么令人厌烦和困惑，也能唤醒我，对我有好处。

我的旅行指示指示我前往卡莱尔，然后转乘一条朝海岸方向延伸的支线铁路。不幸的是，我们的发动机在兰开斯特和卡莱尔之间发生故障。这次事故造成的延误导致我来不及赶上本应立即继续的支线列车。我不得不等几个小时；当后来一列火车终于把我送到离利默里奇宅邸最近的车站时，已经十点多了，夜色如此漆黑，我几乎看不到费尔利先生吩咐等候的小马车的路。我。

司机显然对我迟到感到不安。他表现出一种高度恭敬、闷闷不乐的状态，这是英国仆人所特有的。我们在一片寂静中慢慢地驶过黑暗。路况不好，加上夜色的浓重，增加了快速爬行的难度。根据我的手表，距离我们离开车站还有将近一个半小时，我才听到远处大海的声音，以及车轮在光滑的碎石路上发出的嘎吱声。我们在进入车道之前经过了一个大门，在停在房子前又经过了另一个大门。一位穿着制服、庄重的男仆接待了我，并告知我一家人已经休息了一晚，然后我被领进一间宽敞而高大的房间，我的晚餐正在房间的一角以一种凄凉的方式等待着我。餐桌上一片荒凉的桃花心木荒野。

我太累了，没精神，吃不了喝多，尤其是庄严的仆人精心地侍候着我，就好像家里来了一个小型晚宴，而不是一个孤独的人。一刻钟后，我就准备好被带回我的卧室了。那位庄严的仆人把我领进一间布置得很漂亮的房间——说道：“先生，九点钟吃早饭。”——他环顾四周，发现一切都已就位，然后无声无息地退了出去。

“今晚我会在梦中看到什么？”当我熄灭蜡烛时，我心里想： “那个白衣女子？或者这座坎伯兰宅邸的未知居民？”像家里的朋友一样睡在房子里，却连其中的一个囚犯都不认识，甚至连面都不认识，这是一种奇怪的感觉！

VI

第二天早上，当我起床拉起百叶窗时，大海在八月的灿烂阳光下欢乐地在我面前展开，遥远的苏格兰海岸以融化的蓝色线条环绕着地平线。

在我厌倦了伦敦的砖砌景观之后，这个景色给我带来了如此大的惊喜和如此大的变化，以至于我在看到它的那一刻似乎突然爆发出一种新的生活和一系列新的想法。一种混乱的感觉占据了我的脑海，一种突然失去了对过去的熟悉感，而对现在或未来没有获得任何额外清晰的想法的感觉。几天前的事情在我的记忆中逐渐消失，仿佛已经发生了好几个月了。佩斯卡古怪地宣布了他是如何为我找到现在的工作的。我与母亲和妹妹度过的告别之夜；甚至我从汉普斯特德回家路上的神秘冒险——都变得像我存在的前一个时代可能发生的事件。虽然那个白衣女子还在我的脑海里，但她的形象似乎已经变得暗淡、模糊了。

快到九点的时候，我来到了房子的底层。前一天晚上，那位严肃的男仆在走廊里遇见了我，并富有同情心地给我指路去早餐室。

当那个人打开门时，我第一眼看到了四周，一张布置精美的早餐桌矗立在一间长长的房间中央，里面有很多窗户。我从桌子看向离我最远的窗户，看到一位女士站在窗户边，背对着我。当我的目光落在她身上的那一刻，我就被她罕见的美丽身材和她不做作的优雅态度所震撼。她的身材很高，但又不算太高；清秀、发达，但不肥胖；她的头靠在肩膀上，显得轻松、柔顺、坚定。她的腰部在男人眼中是完美的，因为它占据了它自然的位置，它填满了它自然的圆圈，它没有因撑条而变形，令人愉悦。她没有听到我走进房间的声音。我允许自己欣赏她一会儿，然后把一把椅子移到我身边，作为吸引她注意力的最不尴尬的方式。她立即​​转向我。当她开始从房间的另一端走来时，她的四肢和身体的每一个动作都显得轻松优雅，让我不禁期待着看清她的脸。她离开了窗户——我对自己说，这位女士脸色黝黑。她向前走了几步——我对自己说，这位女士很年轻。她走近了——我对自己说（带着一种无法用语言表达的惊讶感），这位女士很丑！

大自然不会犯错这一古老的传统格言从未如此明显地矛盾过——一个可爱人物的美好承诺也从未如此奇怪和令人震惊地被它的脸和头所掩盖。这位女士的肤色近乎黝黑，上唇的黑色几乎成了小胡子。她有一张大而坚挺、充满阳刚气息的嘴巴和下巴；突出、锐利、坚定的棕色眼睛；浓密的煤黑色头发，异常地低垂在她的前额上。她的表情——明亮、坦率、聪明——在她沉默的时候，却显得完全缺乏温柔和柔韧的女性魅力，没有这些，世上最英俊的女人的美就是不完整的美。看到这样一张脸放在肩膀上，就像雕塑家渴望塑造的那样——被动作的谦虚优雅所迷住，对称的四肢在移动时暴露了它们的美丽，然后几乎被男性的形式所排斥以及完美身材的男性特征——这是一种奇怪的感觉，类似于我们在睡眠中所熟悉的无助的不适，当我们认识到但无法调和梦中的异常和矛盾时。

“先生。哈特赖特？”那位女士疑惑地说，她那张黝黑的脸上露出了笑容，一开口就变得柔和起来，变得更有女人味了。 “昨晚我们放弃了对你的所有希望，像往常一样上床睡觉了。对于我们明显缺乏关注，请接受我的歉意；请允许我介绍自己，作为您的学生之一。我们握手好吗？我想我们迟早必须要面对这个问题——为什么不早点呢？”

这些奇怪的欢迎词是用清晰、响亮、悦耳的声音说的。那只手——相当大，但形状很漂亮——以一个有教养的女人的轻松、不做作的自力更生的态度递给了我。我们以一种亲切而惯常的方式一起坐在早餐桌前，就好像我们已经认识多年，并且按照事先的约定在利默里奇庄园见面，谈论旧事一样。

“我希望你带着幽默的心情来到这里，决心充分利用你的职位，”这位女士继续说道。 “从今天早上开始，除了我之外，你必须忍受没有其他人陪伴吃早餐。我姐姐在自己的房间里，正在治疗一种女性特有的疾病：轻微的头痛；她的老家庭女教师维西夫人正在慷慨地为她提供恢复体力的茶。我的叔叔费尔利先生从来不和我们一起吃饭：他是个病人，在自己的公寓里保持着单身状态。房子里除了我之外没有其他人。两位小姐一直住在这里，但昨天她们绝望地走了；这也不足为奇。在他们来访的整个过程中（由于费尔利先生的身体状况不佳），我们在家里并没有像一个调情、跳舞、闲聊的男性生物那样方便；相反，我们并没有在家里创造出像男性那样的调情、跳舞、闲聊的生物。结果就是，我们除了争吵什么也没做，尤其是在晚餐时间。怎么能指望四个女人每天单独在一起吃饭，而不吵架呢？我们真是傻瓜，我们不能在餐桌上互相招待。你看，我不太重视自己的性别，哈特赖特先生——您要喝茶还是咖啡？——没有哪个女人会重视自己的性别，尽管很少有人像我一样坦白地承认这一点。亲爱的我，你看起来很困惑。为什么？您想知道早餐吃什么吗​​？还是你对我漫不经心的说话方式感到惊讶？第一种情况，我劝你，作为朋友，别再碰手边那根冷火腿了，等煎蛋卷上桌。第二种情况，我给你倒杯茶，提提精神。 ，并尽一个女人所能（顺便说一句，这是很少的）来阻止我说话。”

她把茶杯递给我，笑得很开心。她轻快的谈吐，以及她对一个完全陌生的人的活泼熟悉的态度，伴随着一种不做作的自然和对自己和她的地位的一种天生的自信，这将使她赢得最大胆的男人的尊重。虽然在她的陪伴下不可能表现得正式和矜持，但更不可能对她有一丝自由，哪怕是在思想上。我本能地感受到了这一点，尽管我感染了她自己明亮而快乐的精神，尽管我尽力以她特有的坦率、活泼的方式回答她。

“是的，是的，”当我提出我能提供的唯一解释来解释我困惑的表情时，她说，“我明白。你在这所房子里是一个完全陌生的人，以至于你对我熟悉的可敬的居民的提及感到困惑。很自然：我早该想到的。无论如何，我现在就可以设置。假设我从自己开始，以便尽快完成这部分主题？我叫玛丽安·哈尔科姆；我和女人一样不准确，称费尔利先生为我的叔叔，费尔利小姐为我的妹妹。我母亲结过两次婚：第一次是我父亲哈尔科姆先生；第二次是我父亲。第二次是我同父异母妹妹的父亲费尔利先生。除了我们都是孤儿之外，我们在各方面都非常不同。我的父亲是个穷人，费尔利小姐的父亲是个富人。我一无所有，而她却有钱。我又黑又丑，她又白又漂亮。每个人都认为我脾气暴躁、古怪（这是完全公正的）；每个人都认为她脾气温和、迷人（还有更多正义感）。简而言之，她是一个天使；我——哈特赖特先生，尝尝果酱，以女性礼节的名义，为你自己把这句话说完。关于费尔利先生，我该告诉你什么呢？恕我直言，我几乎不知道。早餐后他一定会派人来接你，你可以自己研究一下他。同时，我可以告诉你，第一，他是已故费尔利先生的弟弟；第二，他是已故费尔利先生的弟弟。其次，他是一个单身汉；第三，他是费尔利小姐的监护人。我不能没有她，她也不能没有我；这就是我来到利默里奇之家的原因。我和姐姐真心相爱；你可能会说，在这种情况下，这是完全不负责任的，我完全同意你的观点——但事实就是如此。哈特赖特先生，你必须取悦我们双方，否则我们谁都不会取悦：而且，更令人烦恼的是，你将完全被扔到我们的社会中。维西夫人是一个优秀的人，具备一切基本美德，毫无价值；菲尔利先生是个大病患者，无法成为任何人的伴侣。我不知道他怎么了，医生也不知道他怎么了，他自己也不知道他怎么了。我们都说这让人紧张，但当我们这么说时，我们谁也不知道自己的意思。不过，我建议你今天见到他时，要迁就他的小怪癖。欣赏他收藏的硬币、版画和水彩画，你就会赢得他的心。老实说，如果你能满足于安静的乡村生活，我不明白你为什么不应该在这里过得很好。从早餐到午餐，费尔利先生的画作将让您心旷神怡。午餐后，菲尔利小姐和我背起素描本，在您的指导下出去歪曲自然。绘图是 这里 最喜欢的突发奇想，介意，不是我的。女人不会画画——她们的心太飘忽不定，她们的眼睛太漫不经心。没关系——我姐姐喜欢；因此，为了她，我浪费了油漆，浪费了纸张，就像英国的任何女人一样镇定自若。至于晚上，我想我们可以帮助你度过。菲尔利小姐演奏得非常愉快。就我自己而言，我无法区分音乐中的一个音符和另一个音符；但我可以在国际象棋、西洋双陆棋、电子棋牌上与你匹敌，甚至在台球上（尽管女性不可避免地存在缺陷）我也能与你匹敌。您对该计划有何看法？你能适应我们安静、有规律的生活吗？或者你的意思是在利默里奇庄园单调的气氛中焦躁不安，暗自渴望改变和冒险？

到目前为止，她一直以她优雅的戏谑方式继续说下去，除了礼貌地要求我回答一些不重要的回答之外，我没有受到任何其他干扰。然而，她最后一个问题的表情转变，或者更确切地说，从她嘴里轻轻地说出的一个偶然的词“冒险”，让我想起了与白衣女子的会面，并敦促我去发现陌生人自己提到的菲尔利夫人告诉我，这位来自精神病院的无名逃亡者和利默里奇庄园的前女主人之间一定曾经存在过联系。

“即使我是人类中最焦躁不安的人，”我说，“在未来一段时间内，我也不会有渴望冒险的危险。在我到达这所房子的前一天晚上，我遇到了一次冒险；哈尔科姆小姐，我可以向你保证，这种惊奇和兴奋将伴随我在坎伯兰的整个逗留期间，即使不是更长的时间。

“你不这么说，哈特赖特先生！我可以听听吗？

“你有权听到它。这次冒险的主要人物对我来说是完全陌生的，也许对你来说也是完全陌生的。但她确实提到了已故费尔利夫人的名字，表达了最诚挚的谢意和敬意。”

“提到了我母亲的名字！你让我产生了难以形容的兴趣。请继续。”

我立即讲述了我遇见白衣女子的情景，一模一样。我一字不差地重复了她对我说的关于费尔利夫人和利默里奇庄园的话。

从叙述的开始到结束，哈尔科姆小姐那双明亮而坚定的眼睛热切地看着我。她的脸上流露出生动的兴趣和惊讶，但仅此而已。显然，她和我一样根本不知道这个谜团的任何线索。

“你确定这些话指的是我母亲吗？”她问。

“非常肯定，”我回答道。 “无论她是谁，这位女士曾经在利默里奇村的学校上学，受到费尔利夫人的特别友善的对待，并且，为了感激地记住这种友善，她对所有幸存的家庭成员都充满了深切的关心。她知道菲尔利夫人和她的丈夫都死了；她知道菲尔利夫人和她的丈夫都死了。她说起菲尔利小姐，就好像他们小时候就认识一样。”

“我想你是说她否认属于这个地方？”

“是的，她告诉我她来自汉普郡。”

“而你却根本不知道她的名字？”

“完全。”

“很奇怪。哈特赖特先生，我认为您给予这个可怜的人自由是完全合理的，因为她在您面前似乎没有做任何事来表明她不适合享受自由。但我希望你能更坚决地找出她的名字。我们必须以某种方式真正解开这个谜团。你最好暂时不要对费尔利先生或我妹妹说起这件事。我敢肯定，他们都是他们，就像我自己一样，不知道这个女人是谁，也不知道她过去与我们有什么联系。但他们也以截然不同的方式表现得相当紧张和敏感。你只会让一个人坐立不安，而让另一个人惊慌，却毫无意义。至于我自己，我充满了好奇心，从这一刻起我将全部精力投入到探索事业中。当我母亲第二次结婚后来到这里时，她当然建立了现在的乡村学校。但老老师都死了，或者去了别处；我们不能指望从那个季度得到什么启发。我能想到的唯一的选择——”

这时，仆人进来打断了我们，他带来了费尔利先生的口信，暗示我一吃完早餐，他就会很高兴见到我。

“在大厅里等一下，”哈尔科姆小姐以她迅速、准备好的方式替我回答仆人。 “先生。哈特赖特会直接出来。我正要说，”她继续说道，再次对我说，“我和姐姐收藏了大量母亲的信，是写给我父亲和她的。在没有任何其他方式获取信息的情况下，我会花一上午的时间翻阅我母亲与费尔利先生的信件。他喜欢伦敦，并且经常离开他的乡间别墅。她习惯于在这种时候写信向他报告利默里奇的情况。她的信中充满了对她非常感兴趣的学校的提及。我想当我们再次见面时我很可能发现了一些东西。午餐时间是两点，哈特赖特先生。到时候我将很荣幸地把你介绍给我的妹妹，我们将利用下午的时间开车绕着附近转一圈，向你展示我们所有最喜欢的观点。那么，到两点钟为止，再见。”

她向我点点头，神情活泼、优雅、亲切、令人愉悦，这就是她所做的一切和所说的一切的特点。然后消失在房间下端的一扇门旁。她一离开我，我就转身朝大厅走去，跟着仆人，第一次来到了费尔利先生的面前。

七

我的乘务员领我上楼，进入一条通道，带我们回到我昨晚睡觉的卧室。打开旁边的门，请求我进去看看。

“我奉主人之命，带您参观您自己的起居室，先生，”那人说道，“并询问您是否同意这里的情况和光线。”

事实上，如果我不认可这个房间以及它的一切，我一定很难取悦。从弓形窗望出去，景色与我早上在卧室里欣赏过的景色一模一样。家具是奢华与美丽的完美结合。中央的桌子明亮明亮，摆满了装帧精美的书籍、优雅的书写便利件和美丽的鲜花。第二张桌子靠近窗户，上面摆满了装水彩画所需的所有材料，上面还附有一个小画架，我可以随意展开或折叠。墙壁上挂着颜色鲜艳的印花棉布。地板上铺着玉米色和红色的印度垫子。这是我见过的最漂亮、最豪华的小客厅。我以最热烈的热情欣赏它。

这位严肃的仆人受过严格的训练，不会流露出丝毫的满意。当我的悼词全部用尽时，他冰冷地鞠了一躬，然后默默地打开门，让我再次进入通道。

我们转过一个拐角，进入一条长长的第二条通道，登上尽头的一小段楼梯，穿过一个圆形的小大厅，在一扇铺着深色粗呢呢的门前停了下来。仆人打开了门，领着我走了几码，来到了第二个门。我也打开了那扇门，露出了两扇淡海绿色的丝绸窗帘挂在我们面前。无声无息地举起了其中的一个；轻声道：“先生。”哈特赖特，”然后离开了我。

我发现自己身处一间高大的房间里，天花板上有华丽的雕花，地板上铺着地毯，又厚又软，脚下感觉就像一堆天鹅绒。房间的一侧放着一个长书柜，书柜是用一些稀有的镶嵌木材制成的，对我来说很新鲜。它不超过六英尺高，顶部装饰着大理石小雕像，彼此之间有一定的距离。对面立着两个古董柜子。在他们之间和上方，挂着一幅圣母子像，受到玻璃保护，画框底部的镀金铭牌上刻有拉斐尔的名字。当我站在门内时，我的右手和左手边都是抽屉柜和布尔和马凯特里的小架子，里面摆满了德累斯顿瓷器的人物，还有稀有的花瓶、象牙装饰品、玩具和好奇心，它们在各个方面都闪闪发光。金、银和宝石。在房间的下端，在我对面，窗户被隐藏起来，阳光被与门上的窗帘相同的浅海绿色的大百叶窗调节。由此产生的光线极其柔和、神秘、柔和。它均匀地落在房间里的所有物体上；它有助于增强这个地方的深深的寂静和深深的与世隔绝的气氛。它以适当的宁静光环围绕着房子主人的孤独身影，他向后靠着，无精打采地坐在一张大安乐椅上，扶手上系着一个阅读画架，还有一张小桌子在另一。

如果一个男人走出更衣室时以及年过四十时的个人外表可以被认为是他一生中的一个安全指南——这是值得怀疑的——先生。当我看到菲尔利时，他的年龄可以合理地计算在五十多岁和六十岁以下。他的脸没有胡子，瘦削、憔悴，苍白得透明，但没有皱纹。他的鼻子又高又弯。他的眼睛呈暗灰蓝色，大而突出，眼睑边缘呈红色。他的头发稀疏，看上去很柔软，呈浅沙色，是最后才显露出来的灰色变化。他穿着一件比布料薄得多的深色礼服大衣，背心和裤子都是一尘不染的白色。他的脚非常娇小，穿着浅黄色的丝袜和带有女人味的青铜色皮鞋。他白皙细腻的双手上戴着两枚戒指，即使是我缺乏经验的观察者也发现其价值几乎是无价的。总的来说，他有一种虚弱、慵懒、烦躁、过度文雅的样子——与男人的关系中，有一种异常微妙、令人不愉快的感觉，同时，如果他的外表看起来那么自然和恰当，那他就不可能显得自然和恰当。已被转移到女性的个人外表上。早上与哈尔科姆小姐的经历使我对家里的每个人都感到满意。但当我第一眼看到费尔利先生时，我的同情心就被坚决地隐藏起来了。

当我走近他时，我发现他并不像我最初想象的那样完全无所事事。在他旁边的一张大圆桌上，除了其他稀有而美丽的物品之外，还有一个乌木和银制的矮柜，里面装着各种形状和大小的硬币，放在衬有深紫色天鹅绒的小抽屉里。其中一个抽屉放在他椅子旁边的小桌子上。旁边有一些珠宝商的小刷子、一个水洗皮革“树桩”和一小瓶液体，所有这些都等待着以各种方式使用，以去除硬币上可能发现的任何意外杂质。当我走到离他的椅子不远的地方，停下来鞠躬时，他那脆弱而苍白的手指正无精打采地摆弄着某种东西，在我不经意的眼中，那东西就像一枚边缘参差不齐的脏白镴勋章。

“很高兴在利默里奇见到你，哈特赖特先生，”他用一种抱怨的、沙哑的声音说道，这种声音以一种令人不愉快的方式结合在一起，一种不和谐的高音调与一种昏昏欲睡的慵懒的话语。 “请坐下。请不要麻烦自己搬椅子。在我神经衰弱的情况下，任何形式的运动对我来说都是极其痛苦的。你看过你的工作室吗？可以吗？

“费尔利先生，我刚刚参观完房间；我向你保证——”

他说到一半就打断了我，闭上眼睛，哀求地举起一只白皙的手。我惊讶地停了下来；那沙哑的声音向我解释了这一点——

“请原谅。但 可以 你想办法用较低的语气说话吗？在我神经衰弱的情况下，任何大声的声音对我来说都是难以形容的折磨。你会原谅一个残疾人吗？我只是对你们说我可悲的健康状况迫使我对大家说的话。是的。你真的喜欢这个房间吗？”

“我希望没有比这更漂亮、更舒服的了。”我压低了声音回答，并开始发现费尔利先生自私的矫揉造作和菲尔利先生的神经质意味着一件事，而且是同一件事。

“很高兴。哈特赖特先生，你会发现你的职位在这里得到了适当的认可。对于这个房子里的艺术家的社会地位，没有任何英国式的可怕的野蛮感觉。我早年生活的大部分时间都是在国外度过的，因此在这方面我已经表现出与世隔绝的性格。我希望我能对附近的绅士们说同样的话——这是一个令人厌恶的词，但我想我必须使用它。他们是艺术领域可悲的哥特人，哈特赖特先生。我向你保证，如果人们看到查理五世为他拿起提香的画笔，他们一定会惊讶地睁开眼睛。你介意把这盘硬币放回柜子里，然后给我下一枚吗？在我神经衰弱的状态下，任何形式的努力对我来说都是难以言喻的不愉快。是的。谢谢。”

作为对自由主义社会理论的实用评论，费尔利先生的冷静要求让我觉得很有趣。我礼貌地把一个抽屉放回原处，把另一个抽屉给了他。他立即开始摆弄这套新硬币和小刷子。他跟我说话的时候，一直懒洋洋地看着他们，钦佩他们。

“一千个感谢和一千个借口。你喜欢硬币吗？是的。很高兴除了我们对艺术的品味之外，我们还有另一个共同的品味。现在，关于我们之间的金钱安排——请告诉我——满意吗？”

“非常满意，菲尔利先生。”

“很高兴。然后——接下来怎么办？啊!我记得。是的。鉴于您愿意接受让我受益于您在艺术方面的成就，我的管家将在第一周结束时等您，以确定您的愿望。然后——接下来怎么办？好奇，不是吗？我还有很多话要说：但我似乎已经完全忘记了。你介意摸一下门铃吗？就在那个角落里。是的。谢谢。”

我打过电话;一个新仆人悄无声息地出现了——一个外国人，脸上挂着坚定的微笑，头发梳得整整齐齐——全身上下都是一个贴身男仆。

“路易斯，”费尔利先生说，一边梦幻般地用一把小刷子掸去指尖上的硬币，“今天早上我在写字板上记下了一些内容。找到我的平板电脑。恕我直言，哈特赖特先生，恐怕我让你厌烦了。

在我回答之前，他疲倦地再次闭上了眼睛，而且他确实让我厌烦了，我静静地坐着，抬头看着拉斐尔的《圣母与圣子》。与此同时，男仆离开了房间，很快就带着一本象牙色的小书回来了。费尔利先生先轻轻地叹了口气，然后一手打开书，另一只手举起小刷子，示意仆人等待进一步的命令。

“是的。就这样吧！菲尔利先生一边查看平板电脑一边说道。 “路易斯，记下那个投资组合。”说话时，他指着靠近窗户、放在桃花心木架子上的几个作品集。 “不。不是那个有绿色背面的——那里面有我的伦勃朗蚀刻画，哈特赖特先生。你喜欢蚀刻画吗？是的？很高兴我们有另一种共同的品味。红背的作品集，路易斯。别丢下它！哈特赖特先生，如果路易斯放弃那个职务，你根本不知道我会遭受怎样的折磨。坐在椅子上安全吗？做 您 哈特赖特先生，你觉得安全吗？是的？很高兴。如果您真的认为这些图纸非常安全，请帮我看看这些图纸好吗？路易斯，走开。你真是个混蛋。你没看到我拿着药片吗？你认为我想抓住它们吗？那为什么不未经我的告知就帮我拿走药片呢？一千次赦免，哈特赖特先生；仆人都是这样的驴子，不是吗？请告诉我——你觉得这些图画怎么样？它们是在一次令人震惊的情况下出售的——当我最后一次看到它们时，我觉得它们散发着可怕的经销商和经纪人的手指味。 能够 你承担它们吗？

虽然我的神经还不够敏感，无法察觉到冒犯费尔利先生鼻孔的平民手指的气味，但我的鉴赏力却足够高，足以让我在翻阅这些图画时欣赏它们的价值。它们在很大程度上是英国水彩艺术的精美典范。他们在前拥有者手中理应获得比表面上更好的待遇。

“这些图纸，”我回答道，“需要仔细拉紧和安装；而且，在我看来，它们非常值得——”

“请原谅，”菲尔利先生插话道。 “你介意我在你说话时闭上眼睛吗？就连这光芒对他们来说也太过分了。是的？”

“我正想说这些图画值得所有的时间和麻烦——”

菲尔利先生突然又睁开了眼睛，带着无助惊恐的表情朝窗户的方向翻了翻眼睛。

“哈特赖特先生，请您原谅。”他声音微弱，颤抖着说道。 “但我肯定听到下面花园里——我的私人花园里有一些可怕的孩子的声音吧？”

“我不能说，菲尔利先生。我自己什么也没听到。”

“拜托我——你非常善于调和我可怜的神经——拜托我把百叶窗的一角掀起来。别让阳光照射到我身上，哈特赖特先生！你把百叶窗拉起来了吗？是的？那么您能好心到花园里看看，确定一下吗？”

我答应了这个新要求。花园四周都被小心地围起来。神圣隐秘的任何地方，都没有出现一个无论大小的人类生物。我向费尔利先生报告了这个令人欣慰的事实。

“万分感谢。我想，我的幻想。感谢老天，家里没有孩子。但仆人（生来就没有神经质的人）会鼓励村里的孩子们。这些小鬼——哦，天哪，这些小鬼！我应该承认这一点吗，哈特赖特先生？——我很遗憾地希望对儿童的建设进行改革。大自然唯一的想法似乎就是让它们成为不断产生噪音的机器。我们可爱的拉斐尔的构想肯定是无限可取的吧？”

他指着圣母像，其上半部分代表了意大利艺术中传统的小天使，它们的下巴被天上的座位固定在浅黄色的云彩气球上。

“真是模范家庭啊！”菲尔利先生斜视着小天使说道。 “这么漂亮的圆脸，这么漂亮柔软的翅膀，还有——仅此而已。没有肮脏的小腿可以跑来跑去，也没有吵闹的小肺可以尖叫。比现有的建筑优越得多！如果你允许的话，我会再次闭上眼睛。你真的可以管理图纸吗？很高兴。还有什么要解决的吗？如果有的话，我想我已经忘记了。我们要再给路易斯打电话吗？”

此时，我和费尔利先生显然一样急切地希望尽快结束这次会面，我想我会尽力通过提供必要的条件来使仆人的召唤变得不必要。关于我自己的责任的建议。

“菲尔利先生，唯一有待讨论的一点，”我说，“我认为，是指我要向两位年轻女士传达的素描指导。”

“啊！正是如此，”费尔利先生说。 “我希望自己有足够的力量去参与这部分安排——但我没有。哈特赖特先生，那些从你的善意服务中获益的女士们必须自己解决、决定等等。我的侄女很喜欢你迷人的艺术。她对此了解得足够多，足以意识到自己的可悲缺陷。请和她一起努力。是的。还有别的事吗？不，我们很了解彼此，不是吗？我没有权利再阻止你进行愉快的追求——是吗？解决了一切真是令人高兴——做完生意真是一种明智的解脱。你介意打电话让路易斯把作品集搬到你自己的房间吗？”

“费尔利先生，如果您允许的话，我会亲自把它搬到那里。”

“你真的愿意吗？你够坚强吗？能这么坚强多好啊！你确定你不会丢掉它吗？很高兴在利默里奇见到您，哈特赖特先生。我是一个如此痛苦的人，我几乎不敢希望享受你们的社会。您介意费尽心思不让门被敲响，也不让文件夹掉落吗？谢谢。请轻轻拉上窗帘——窗帘发出的最轻微的噪音都会像刀子一样刺痛我。是的。 好 早晨！”

当海绿色的窗帘拉上，当两扇粗呢门在我身后关上时，我在远处的小圆形大厅里停了一会儿，长长地舒了一口气。这就像深潜后回到水面，发现自己再次站在费尔利先生的房间外面。

当我在漂亮的小工作室舒适地安顿下来后，我到达的第一个决定就是不再朝着房子主人所住的公寓的方向转动我的脚步，除非是在非常不可能的情况下他特别邀请我再次拜访他。在对费尔利先生制定了关于未来行为的令人满意的计划后，我很快就恢复了平静的脾气，而我的雇主的傲慢的熟悉和无礼的礼貌暂时使我失去了这种平静。早上剩下的时间过得很愉快，我检查了图纸，将它们排列成组，修剪了粗糙的边缘，并完成了其他必要的准备工作，以等待安装它们的工作。或许，我应该取得比这更多的进步。但是，随着午餐时间的临近，我变得焦躁不安，感觉无法将注意力集中在工作上，尽管这项工作只是简陋的体力工作。

两点钟，我再次下楼到早餐室，心里有些焦急。我即将再次出现在房子的那个部分，人们对此产生了一些兴趣。我即将认识费尔利小姐了。如果哈尔科姆小姐通过她母亲的信件进行的搜索得到了她所预期的结果，那么现在就是解开白衣女人之谜的时候了。

第八

当我走进房间时，我发现哈尔科姆小姐和一位年长的女士坐在午餐桌旁。

当我被介绍给那位年长的女士时，事实证明她就是费尔利小姐的前家庭教师维西夫人，我在早餐桌上活泼的同伴曾向我简要描述过她，她拥有“所有基本美德，并且算不得什么。”我无能为力，只能以我卑微的方式证明哈尔科姆小姐对老太太性格的描述是真实的。维西夫人看起来是人类冷静和女性和蔼可亲的化身。她丰润平静的脸上洋溢着对平静生活的平静享受，带着昏昏欲睡的微笑。我们有的人匆匆过完一生，有的人漫步一生。维西夫人 周六 通过生活。早晚都坐在屋里；坐在花园里；坐在通道里意想不到的靠窗座位上；当她的朋友们试图带她出去散步时，她坐在（在露营凳上）；在她看任何东西之前，在她谈论任何东西之前，在她对最常见的问题回答“是”或“否”之前，她总是坐着——嘴唇上总是带着同样的平静的微笑，同样的茫然专注的转过头，同样的舒适——在家庭环境发生任何可能的变化时，她的手和手臂都保持舒适的姿势。一位温和、顺从、极其平静、无害的老太太，从来没有偶然地暗示过她从出生那一刻起就实际上还活着。大自然在这个世界上要做的事情如此之多，并且致力于产生如此多种多样的共存产物，以至于她肯定时不时地感到过于慌乱和困惑，无法区分她在地球上进行的不同过程。同时。从这个角度出发，我个人始终坚信，当维西夫人出生时，大自然全神贯注于制作卷心菜，而这位善良的女士在我们所有人的母亲心中都遭受了对蔬菜的痴迷所带来的后果。

“现在，维西太太，”哈尔科姆小姐说道，与她身边那位沉默寡言的老太太形成鲜明对比的是，她看上去比以前更聪明、更敏锐、更愿意，“您要吃什么？炸肉排？”

维西夫人将长满酒窝的双手交叉放在桌边，平静地微笑着说：“是的，亲爱的。”

“哈特赖特先生对面是什么？水煮鸡不行吗？我以为你更喜欢煮鸡肉而不是炸肉排，维西夫人？”

维西夫人把长满酒窝的双手从桌边拿开，交叉放在腿上。看着煮鸡若有所思地点点头，说道：“是的，亲爱的。”

“好吧，但是今天你要吃哪一个呢？哈特赖特先生给你一些鸡肉好吗？要不我给你一些炸肉排？”

维西太太把一只带着酒窝的手又放回了桌子边缘。睡眼惺忪地犹豫了一下，说道：“亲爱的，随你便吧。”

“怜悯我吧！这是你的品味问题，我的好女士，而不是我的。假设你两者都有一点？假设你从鸡肉开始，因为哈特赖特先生看起来正焦急地为你切肉。”

维西夫人将另一只带着酒窝的手放回桌子边缘。瞬间变得暗淡起来；接下来又出去了；恭敬地鞠了一躬，说道：“请先生。”

果然是一位温和、顺从、无比平静、无害的老太太啊！但现在，维西夫人的故事也许已经足够了。

一直以来，都没有费尔利小姐的踪迹。我们吃完了午餐；但她仍然没有出现。哈尔科姆小姐的目光敏锐，什么也没有逃过，她注意到我不时向门的方向投去的目光。

“我理解你，哈特赖特先生，”她说。 “你想知道你的另一个学生怎么样了。她已经下楼了，头痛已经好了。但她的胃口还没有完全恢复到和我们一起吃午餐。如果你愿意接受我的照顾，我想我可以承诺在花园的某个地方找到她。”

她拿起身边椅子上的一把阳伞，从房间底部的一扇长窗引出去，窗户通向草坪。几乎没有必要说，我们让维西夫人仍然坐在桌边，她那双带着酒窝的双手仍然交叉在桌边。显然下午剩下的时间里都保持着这个姿势。

当我们穿过草坪时，哈尔科姆小姐意味深长地看着我，摇了摇头。

“你那场神秘的冒险，”她说，“仍然沉浸在它特有的午夜黑暗之中。我整个上午都在翻阅母亲的信，但还没有任何发现。不过，哈特赖特先生，请不要绝望。这是一个好奇心的问题；你有一个女人作为你的盟友。在这种情况下，成功是迟早的事。信未尽。我还剩下三包，你可以放心地相信我会花整个晚上来处理它们。”

那么，我对早上的期望之一仍然没有实现。接下来，我开始怀疑，我对费尔利小姐的介绍是否会让我从早餐时间起对她的期望落空。

“你和菲尔利先生相处得怎么样？”当我们离开草坪，走进灌木丛时，哈尔科姆小姐问道。 “他今天早上特别紧张吗？哈特赖特先生，别介意考虑你的答案。光是你不得不考虑这一事实对我来说就足够了。我从你的脸上看出他 是 特别紧张；而且，由于我不愿意让你陷入同样的​​境地，所以我不再要求了。”

当她说话时，我们拐进一条蜿蜒的小路，走近一座漂亮的避暑别墅，它是用木头建造的，是一座微型瑞士小屋的形式。当我们登上门的台阶时，避暑别墅的一个房间里住着一位年轻的女士。她站在一张质朴的桌子旁，眺望着树林缝隙中呈现的沼泽和山丘的内陆景色，心不在焉地翻着身旁一本小素描本的书页。这是菲尔利小姐。

我该怎么形容她呢？我怎样才能将她与我自己的感觉以及后来发生的一切分开呢？我怎样才能再次看到她，就像我的眼睛第一次落在她身上时那样——就像她现在应该看到那些即将在这本书中看到她的眼睛一样？

当我写作时，我为劳拉·菲尔利（Laura Fairlie）画的水彩画，在我第一次见到她的地点和态度下，就放在我的桌子上。我看着它，从避暑别墅的深绿棕色背景中，我突然看到一个轻盈、年轻的身影，穿着一件简单的平纹细布连衣裙，它的图案由精致的蓝色宽阔交替条纹组成和白色。一条同样材质的围巾干净利落地紧紧地围在她的肩膀上，一顶自然色的小草帽，朴素而简洁地用丝带装饰，与礼服相配，盖住了她的头，在上半身投下柔和的珍珠色阴影。她的脸。她的头发呈淡棕色，不是亚麻色，但几乎同样浅色。不是金色的，但几乎同样有光泽——它几乎到处都融化在帽子的阴影里。它明显地分开并向后拉到她的耳朵上，当它穿过她的额头时，它的线条自然地波纹起来。眉毛比头发颜色深；眼睛是那种柔和、清澈、绿松石般的蓝色，这种颜色经常被诗人所歌颂，但在现实生活中很少见到。颜色可爱的眼睛，形状可爱的眼睛——大而温柔，安静地沉思——但美丽胜过一切，因为目光的清澈真实存在于它们的最深处，并在它们所有的表情变化中闪耀着一种更纯净和更纯净的光芒。一个更好的世界。他们在整个脸上散发出的魅力——最温和但又最清晰地表达——掩盖并改变了其他地方的人类自然瑕疵，以至于很难估计其他特征的相对优点和缺点。脸部的下半部分过于精致，靠近下巴，很难看出与上半部分的比例是否饱满、匀称；鼻子在逃避鹰钩鼻的弯曲时（对女人来说总是冷酷而残酷的，不管它多么抽象地完美），在另一个极端上犯了一点错误，错过了理想的笔直线条；当她微笑时，甜美而敏感的嘴唇会受到轻微的神经收缩，从而将它们的一角向上一点，靠近脸颊。也许可以在另一个女人的脸上注意到这些瑕疵，但在她的脸上却很难仔细观察这些瑕疵，它们与她表情中的所有个人和特征有着如此微妙的联系，而表情又如此紧密地依赖于其完整的表情。游戏和生活，在所有其他特征中，都取决于眼睛的移动冲动。

我对她的拙劣描绘，我在漫长而幸福的日子里充满热情、耐心的劳动，向我展示了这些东西吗？啊，在昏暗的机械绘图中，它们是多么少，而在我的脑海里却有多少！一个美丽、精致的女孩，穿着一件漂亮的浅色连衣裙，摆弄着一本素描本的叶子，而她抬起头来，用真诚、天真的蓝眼睛——这就是这幅画所能表达的全部；也许，即使是更深入的思想和笔也可以用他们的语言表达出来。第一个为我们朦胧的美概念赋予生命、光明和形式的女人，填补了我们精神本质中的空白，而在她出现之前，我们一直不知道这一空白。在这种时候，那些无法用语言表达、几乎无法用思想表达的同情心，会被其他魅力所触动，而不是那些感官所感受到的和表达资源所能实现的魅力。女性之美背后的神秘永远不会被超越所有表达的范围，除非它与我们自己灵魂中更深层次的神秘有亲缘关系。那时，也只有那时，它才超越了这个世界上光线从铅笔和钢笔照射下来的狭窄区域。

想象她就像你想象第一个让你内心的脉搏加快的女人，而其他性别的人则无法激起你的脉搏。让那双善良、坦诚的蓝眼睛注视着你，就像他们注视着我一样，那双无与伦比的眼神我们都记得如此清楚。让她的声音唱出你曾经最喜欢的音乐，在你耳中和在我耳中一样甜美。让她的脚步，在这些书页中来来去去，就像你自己的心跳曾经击败过时间的另一个脚步一样。把她当成你自己幻想中的有远见的乳儿；她会在你身上更加明显地成长，就像住在我心里的活生生的女人一样。

当我的眼睛第一次看到她时，在我的各种感觉中——我们都知道的熟悉的感觉，在我们大多数人心中涌现，在许多人心中再次消亡，并在少数人中重新焕发明亮的存在——有一个令我困扰和困惑的问题：在费尔利小姐面前，这个问题似乎出奇地不一致，而且莫名其妙地格格不入。

她美丽的脸庞和头颅的迷人魅力、甜美的表情和她迷人的朴素举止所产生的生动印象，与此混合在一起的是另一种印象，它以一种朦胧的方式向我暗示了某种想要的东西。有一段时间，似乎需要某种东西 这里：在另一个方面，就像我自己缺乏某种东西，这阻碍了我应有的理解她。当她看着我时，这种印象总是以最矛盾的方式最强烈。或者，换句话说，当我最清楚地意识到她脸上的和谐和魅力，但同时，又因无法发现的不完整感而感到最困扰。想要什么，想要什么——而它在哪里，它是什么，我说不上来。

在第一次采访费尔利小姐时，这种奇怪的反复无常的幻想（正如我当时所想的那样）的效果自然不会让我感到轻松。她说了几句客气的欢迎词，但我却无法用惯用的回复措辞来感谢她。哈尔科姆小姐注意到了我的犹豫，毫无疑问地把它归因于我一时的害羞，她像往常一样轻松自如地把谈话的事情交给了她自己。

“哈特赖特先生，你看那儿，”她指着桌上的速写本，指着那只仍在摆弄它的精致的小手。 “你肯定会承认，你的模范弟子终于找到了？她一听说你在家里，就抓起她那本无价的速写本，直视普遍的大自然，渴望开始！”

菲尔利小姐笑得很开心，笑容灿烂得像头顶阳光的一部分，照在她可爱的脸上。

“我不能把不值得功劳的功劳归于自己，”她说，她清澈、真诚的蓝眼睛交替地看着哈尔科姆小姐和我。 “尽管我热爱绘画，但我很清楚自己的无知，所以我更害怕而不是急于开始。现在我知道你在这里，哈特赖特先生，我发现自己正在查看我的草图，就像我小时候经常查看我的课程一样，当我悲伤地担心我不适合被人听到时”。

她的忏悔非常漂亮、简单，并且以一种古怪而孩子气的认真态度，把速写本拉到桌子旁边她自己的一边。哈尔科姆小姐立即以她坚决、彻底的方式解决了这个小小的尴尬。

“无论好坏，或者无关紧要，”她说，“学生的草图必须经过老师判断的严酷考验——然后就结束了。劳拉，假设我们把他们带上马车，让哈特赖特先生在永远颠簸和中断的情况下第一次看到他们，会怎样？如果我们只能在整个驾驶过程中混淆他，在他抬头看风景时的自然与他再次低头看我们的速写本时的非自然之间，我们就会把他逼入最后的绝望。向我们致意的避难所，并将从他专业的手指中溜走，而我们的虚荣心宠物羽毛都不会被扰乱。”

“我希望哈特赖特先生能够付钱 me 当我们离开避暑别墅时，费尔利小姐说道。

“我可以冒昧问一下，你为什么表达这样的希望吗？”我问。

“因为我会相信你对我说的一切。”她简单地回答。

在这几句话中，她无意识地向我展示了她整个性格的关键：对他人的慷慨信任，在她的本性中，这种信任是从她自己的真理意识中天真地成长起来的。我当时只是凭直觉知道。我现在凭经验知道了。

我们只是等着把善良的维西夫人从她仍然坐在空荡荡的午餐桌上的位置上叫醒，然后就进入了敞篷马车，开始我们约定的旅程。老太太和哈尔科姆小姐坐在后座，费尔利小姐和我一起坐在前面，素描本在我们之间打开，终于在我专业的眼睛面前展现得相当漂亮了。对这些图画的所有严肃批评，即使我愿意自愿提出，也因为哈尔科姆小姐的坚定决心而变得不可能，她只看到美术的可笑的一面，就像她自己、她的妹妹和一般女士们所实践的那样。我能记住那段谈话，比我机械地浏览的草图容易得多。尤其是费尔利小姐参与的演讲部分，至今仍清晰地印在我的记忆中，就好像我几个小时前才听过一样。

是的！让我承认，在第一天，我就被她存在的魅力引诱了我，忘记了我自己和我的立场。她向我提出的最琐碎的问题是关于使用铅笔和混合颜色的问题；那双可爱的眼睛里的表情的最细微的变化，都比我们所看到的最美丽的景色，或者说，更吸引了我的注意力，它们带着如此热切的愿望，想要学习我能教的一切，发现我能展示的一切。当它们在起伏的荒原和平坦的海滩上相互流动时，光影的变化最为巨大。在任何时候，在任何对人类感兴趣的情况下，看到我们生活其中的自然世界的物体对我们的心灵和思想的影响是多么少，这难道不奇怪吗？我们在烦恼中向大自然寻求安慰，在欢乐中向大自然寻求同情，只有在书中。现代诗歌如此大量、如此雄辩地描述了对无生命世界之美的钦佩，即使在我们最好的人身上，也不是我们本性的原始本能之一。作为孩子，我们谁都不拥有它。没有受过训练的男人或女人拥有它。那些一生都在不断变化的海洋和陆地奇观中度过的人，也是那些对自然的各个方面最普遍麻木不仁的人，这些方面与他们所从事的人类利益没有直接关系。事实上，我们欣赏我们所生活的地球之美的能力是我们所有人作为一门艺术而学习的文明成就之一。更重要的是，除非我们的思想最懒惰、最无所事事，否则我们中的任何人都很少练习这种能力。我们或我们的朋友的快乐或痛苦的兴趣和情感中，大自然的吸引力有多少份额？在我们每天通过口口相传的数千个个人经历的小叙述中，它们占据了什么位置？我们的思想所能涵盖的一切，我们心灵所能学到的一切，都可以以同等的确定性、同等的利润和同等的满意度来实现，无论是在地球表面所能展现的最贫穷的前景中还是在最富裕的前景中。生物与其周围的创造物之间缺乏天生的同情心肯定是有原因的，这个原因也许可以在人类及其地球领域截然不同的命运中找到。眼睛所能看到的最宏伟的山景注定会被毁灭。纯洁的心所能感受到的最小的人类利益被指定为不朽。

当马车再次驶进利默里奇庄园的大门时，我们已经出去了近三个小时。

在我们回来的路上，我让女士们自己确定第一个观点，她们将在我的指导下于第二天下午画出草图。当他们退去穿衣服去吃晚饭时，当我再次独自一人坐在我的小客厅里时，我的精神似乎突然离开了我。我感到不安和对自己不满意，我几乎不知道为什么。也许我现在第一次意识到，我们以客人的身份享受了太多的驾驶乐趣，而以绘画大师的身份享受了太少的乐趣。也许，当我第一次被介绍给费尔利小姐时，或者在我自己身上，那种奇怪的缺乏感让我感到困惑，现在仍然困扰着我。不管怎样，当晚餐时间把我从孤独中召唤出来，带我回到家里的女士们的社交圈子里时，我的精神得到了一种解脱。

当我走进客厅时，他们现在所穿的衣服的奇怪对比（而不是材质而不是颜色）令我震惊。维西夫人和哈尔科姆小姐衣着华丽（每人的穿着都最适合她的年龄），第一位是银灰色，第二位是精致的樱草黄色，与深色肤色和黑色头发非常相配。费尔利小姐穿着朴素的白色平纹细布，衣着朴实无华，几乎破烂不堪。它一尘不染：它穿得漂亮；它美丽。但这仍然是穷人的妻子或女儿可能会穿的那种衣服，就外表而言，这使她看起来不如她自己的家庭教师富裕。后来，当我更加了解费尔利小姐的性格时，我发现这种奇怪的反差是由于她天生的细腻感情和天生强烈的厌恶个人炫耀自己的财富。 。维西夫人和哈尔科姆小姐都无法说服她让衣着上的优势抛弃两位贫穷的女士，而站在一位富有的女士一边。

晚餐结束后，我们一起回到客厅。尽管费尔利先生（模仿为他拿起提香画笔的君主的居高临下的态度）指示他的管家就我晚餐后可能喜欢的葡萄酒征求我的意愿，但我有足够的决心抵制诱惑。在我住在利默里奇宅邸期间，我独自一人坐在自己选择的酒瓶中间，明智地征求女士们的同意，按照文明的外交计划，习惯性地离开餐桌。

客厅位于一楼，形状和大小与早餐室相同，我们现在已经在晚上剩下的时间里去了。下端的大玻璃门通向一个露台，整个露台都装饰着美丽的鲜花。当我们进入房间时，柔和、朦胧的暮色正好将树叶和花朵遮蔽起来，使其与其自身清醒的色调和谐相处，傍晚时分花朵的甜美香气透过敞开的玻璃门迎接我们。善良的维西夫人（总是在聚会中第一个坐下）坐在角落里的一把扶手椅上，舒舒服服地打瞌睡。应我的要求，费尔利小姐坐在钢琴前。当我跟着她来到靠近乐器的座位时，我看见哈尔科姆小姐退到一扇侧窗的凹处里，在夜色最后一丝宁静的光线下继续搜寻她母亲的信件。

当我写作时，客厅里那张宁静的家的画面多么生动地浮现在我的脑海里！从我坐的地方，我可以看到哈尔科姆小姐优雅的身影，一半在柔和的光线下，一半在神秘的阴影中，全神贯注地俯身在她腿上的字母上；而在离我更近的地方，钢琴演奏者的美丽轮廓在房间内墙略为加深的背景的衬托下被巧妙地勾勒出来。外面的露台上，丛生的花朵、长长的草丛和爬山虎在傍晚微弱的空气中轻轻摇曳，我们根本听不到它们沙沙的声音。天空万里无云，神秘的月光已经在东方的天空中开始颤抖。平和与隐居的感觉舒缓了所有的思想和感觉，进入一种全神贯注、超凡脱俗的休息状态。当光线从钢琴上偷走莫扎特音乐的天堂般的温柔时，温暖的安静随着光线的加深而变得更加深沉，似乎仍然以一种更温和的影响笼罩着我们。这是一个永远难忘的景象和声音的夜晚。

我们都安静地坐在我们选定的地方——夫人。维西还在睡觉，菲尔利小姐还在玩耍，哈尔科姆小姐还在读书——直到天色暗淡为止。这时，月亮已经偷偷溜到了露台上，柔和而神秘的光线已经斜射在房间的下端。暮色中的变化是如此美丽，以至于当仆人把灯带进来时，我们一致同意把灯去掉了，除了钢琴旁两根蜡烛的微光外，大房间里没有任何照明。

又过了半个小时，音乐还在继续。之后，露台上美丽的月光吸引了费尔利小姐出去看看，我也跟着她。当钢琴上的蜡烛点燃后，哈尔科姆小姐换了个位置，以便在他们的帮助下继续检查信件。我们把她留在仪器一侧的一把矮椅子上，她全神贯注地阅读，以至于我们移动时她似乎没有注意到。

我们一起到了露台上，就在玻璃门前，我想，时间还不到五分钟。根据我的建议，费尔利小姐正把她的白手帕系在头上，以防夜风侵袭——这时我听到哈尔科姆小姐的声音——低沉、热切，一改其自然活泼的语气——念出我的名字。

“先生。哈特赖特，”她说，“你能过来一下吗？我想和你说话。”

我立刻又进了房间。钢琴立在内墙的中间位置。哈尔科姆小姐坐在乐器离露台最远的一侧，字母散落在她的腿上，她手里拿着从中选出的一个，靠近蜡烛。离露台最近的一侧立着一张低矮的脚凳，我坐在上面。在这个位置上，我离玻璃门不远，我可以清楚地看到费尔利小姐，她一再经过通往露台的开口，在月光的照耀下慢慢地从露台的一端走到另一端。

“我希望你听我读这封信的结论段落，”哈尔科姆小姐说。 “告诉我，你是否认为他们对你在伦敦路上的奇怪冒险有所了解。这封信是我母亲写给她的第二任丈夫费尔利先生的，日期指的是从那时起十一到十二年的时间。那时，费尔利先生和夫人，以及我同父异母的妹妹劳拉，已经在这栋房子里住了很多年了。我离开了他们，在巴黎的一所学校完成了学业。”

她的表情和说话都很认真，但正如我所想，她也有点不安。当费尔利小姐把信举到蜡烛上开始读的时候，她在露台上从我们身边经过，朝里看了一会儿，看到我们订婚了，就慢慢地走了过去。

哈尔科姆小姐开始读如下：

“‘我亲爱的菲利普，你会厌倦永远听到关于我的学校和我的学者的事情。请把责任归咎于利默里奇的单调乏味的生活，而不是我。另外，这次我有一件非常有趣的事情要告诉大家，关于一位新学者。

“‘你认识村里商店里的肯佩老太太。好吧，经过多年的患病，医生终于放弃了她，她一天天慢慢地死去。她唯一的亲人，一个姐姐，上周抵达照顾她。这位姐妹远道而来，来自汉普郡——她的名字是凯瑟里克夫人。四天前，凯瑟里克太太来看我，还带来了她唯一的孩子，一个可爱的小女孩，比我们亲爱的劳拉大一岁——”

当最后一句话从读者嘴里说出时，费尔利小姐再次在露台上从我们身边经过。她正在轻声地给自己唱一首她晚上早些时候弹过的旋律。哈尔科姆小姐等到她再次消失在视线之外，然后继续写信——

“'太太。凯瑟里克是一位正派、行为端正、令人尊敬的女性；人到中年，还留着中等、只是中等的英俊相貌。然而，她的举止和外表中有些东西我却看不出来。她对自己保守到了彻头彻尾的秘密，她脸上的表情——我无法描述——这表明她有什么想法。她完全就是你所谓的行走之谜。然而，她在利默里奇庄园的任务很简单。当她离开汉普郡去照顾妹妹肯佩夫人度过最后一次生病时，她不得不带着女儿一起去，因为家里没有人照顾这个小女孩。肯普夫人可能会在一周内去世，也可能会苟延残喘数月。凯瑟里克夫人的目的是要求我让她的女儿安妮在我的学校上学，但条件是在肯普夫人去世后，她必须离开学校，与她母亲一起回家。我立刻同意了，当我和劳拉出去散步时，我们当天就把那个小女孩（她才十一岁）带到了学校。”

菲尔利小姐的身影再次在月光下从我们身边走过，她穿着雪白的棉布连衣裙，明亮而柔和——她系在下巴下的手帕的白色褶皱衬托出她的脸庞。哈尔科姆小姐再次等到她消失在视线之外，然后继续——

“‘菲利普，我对我的新学者产生了强烈的兴趣，我打算把这个原因保留到最后，以便给你一个惊喜。她的母亲对我讲述的关于这个孩子的事情和她对我自己的讲述一样少，我却发现（第一天我们在课堂上考验她时我就发现了这一点）这个可怜的小东西的智力并没有得到应有的发展。在她这个年纪。看到这种情况，第二天我就带她去家里，并私下安排医生来观察她并询问她，并告诉我他的想法。他的意见是她会长大的。但他说，她在学校的精心培养现在是一件非常重要的事情，因为她在获取想法方面异常缓慢，这意味着当这些想法进入她的脑海时，她会表现出一种不同寻常的坚韧。现在，我的爱人，你千万不要以你的即兴方式想象我一直在依恋一个白痴。这个可怜的小安妮·凯瑟里克是一个可爱、深情、感恩的女孩，她以一种最奇怪、突然、惊讶、半害怕的方式说出最古怪、最漂亮的事情（正如你将通过一个例子来判断的）。虽然她穿得很整齐，但她的衣服在颜色和图案上却显得缺乏品位。所以昨天，我安排我们亲爱的劳拉的一些旧白色连衣裙和白色帽子应该为安妮·凯瑟里克改变，向她解释说，像她这样肤色的小女孩穿白色衣服比穿其他衣服看起来更整洁、更好看。她犹豫了一下，似乎很困惑，然后脸红了，似乎明白了。她的小手突然握住了我的手。她吻了它，菲利普，然后说（哦，多么认真！），“只要我活着，我就会永远穿着白色的衣服。这将帮助我记住你，女士，并认为当我离开而再也见不到你时，我仍然令你高兴。”这只是她说得那么漂亮的古怪事情的一个例子。可怜的小灵魂！她应该拥有一批白色连衣裙，这些连衣裙是用深褶缝制成的，随着她的成长，可以为她穿起来——”

哈尔科姆小姐停了下来，隔着钢琴看着我。

“你在大路上遇到的那个孤独的女人看起来年轻吗？”她问。 “年轻到两岁还是三岁二十岁？”

“是的，哈尔科姆小姐，就那么年轻。”

“而且她穿着很奇怪，从头到脚都是白色的？”

“都是白色的。”

当答案从我嘴里流过时，费尔利小姐第三次出现在露台上。她没有继续走，而是停了下来，背对着我们，靠在露台的栏杆上，俯视着远处的花园。我的眼睛盯着她在月光下闪闪发光的细布长袍和头饰，一种我无法形容的感觉——一种让我的脉搏加快、让我的心颤动的感觉——开始悄然袭来。我。

“都是白色的吗？”哈尔科姆小姐重复道。 “哈特赖特先生，信中最重要的句子是最后的句子，我将立即读给您听。但我忍不住想了一下，你遇到的那个女人的白色服装和我母亲的小学者的奇怪答案的白色连衣裙的巧合。当医生发现孩子的智力缺陷并预测她会“长大后克服这些缺陷”时，他可能错了。她可能永远不会摆脱它们，而对穿白色衣服的古老感激之情，这对女孩来说是一种严肃的感觉，对女人来说可能仍然是一种严肃的感觉。”

我说了几句话作为回答——我几乎不知道说什么。我所有的注意力都集中在菲尔利小姐那件闪闪发光的平纹细布连衣裙上。

“听听这封信的最后几句话，”哈尔科姆小姐说。 “我想他们会让你大吃一惊。”

当费尔利小姐在烛光下举起信时，她从栏杆上转过身来，疑惑地上下打量着露台，向玻璃门迈出了一步，然后停了下来，面向我们。

与此同时，哈尔科姆小姐给我读了她提到的最后几句话——

“‘现在，亲爱的，看到我的论文已经写完了，现在是出于真正的原因，令人惊讶的原因，因为我对小安妮·凯瑟里克的喜爱。我亲爱的菲利普，虽然她还没有那么漂亮，但她却是人们有时会看到的那些偶然的相似之处之一，她的头发、肤色、眼睛的颜色和外表都栩栩如生。她的脸型——’”

在哈尔科姆小姐说出下一个单词之前，我从脚凳上站了起来。在孤独的公路上，当有人触碰我的肩膀时，我再次感到一阵寒意。

费尔利小姐站在月光下，她是一个白色的身影。在她的态度中，在她的头的转动中，在她的肤色中，在她的脸型中，在那样的距离和那样的情况下，白衣女人的生动形象！过去几个小时以来一直困扰我的疑虑瞬间变成了事实。这个“缺少的东西”是我自己对精神病院逃亡者和我在利默里奇学院的学生之间不祥的相似之处的认识。

“你看见了！”哈尔科姆小姐说。她扔掉了那封无用的信，当她与我相遇时，她的眼睛闪闪发亮。 “你现在看到的，就像我母亲十一年前看到的那样！”

“我看到了——比我能说的更不情愿。把那个孤独、没有朋友、迷失的女人，即使只是偶然的相似，与费尔利小姐联系起来，似乎给这个现在站着看着我们的聪明生物的未来投下了阴影。让我尽快重新失去印象。从沉闷的月光中叫她进来——请叫她进来！”

“先生。哈特赖特，你让我很惊讶。不管女性是什么样的，我认为十九世纪的男性是超越迷信的。”

“请叫她进来吧！”

“安静！她是自愿来的。当着她的面什么也不说。让这个相似的发现成为你我之间的秘密。进来，劳拉，进来，用钢琴叫醒维西太太。哈特赖特先生正在请求更多的音乐，这次他想要的是最轻松、最活泼的类型。

IX

我在利默里奇之家的第一天就这样结束了。

哈尔科姆小姐和我保守了我们的秘密。在发现相似之处之后，似乎没有任何新的线索能够揭开白衣女子的神秘面纱。哈尔科姆小姐抓住第一个安全的机会，小心翼翼地引导她同父异母的妹妹谈论他们的母亲、旧时光和安妮·凯瑟里克。然而，费尔利小姐对利默里奇这位小学者的回忆只是最模糊、最笼统的回忆。她记得自己和母亲最喜欢的学生之间的相似之处，就像过去应该存在的东西一样；但她没有提到白色裙子的礼物，也没有提到孩子天真地表达对这些裙子的感激之情的独特语言。她记得安妮只在利默里奇呆了几个月，然后就离开了，回到了她在汉普郡的家。但她不知道母女俩是否曾回来过，或者后来是否听说过她们。哈尔科姆小姐方面，没有进一步搜索费尔利夫人未读过的几封信，这有助于澄清仍然困扰我们的不确定性。我们已经认出了我晚上和安妮·凯瑟里克遇到的那个不幸的女人——至少，我们已经取得了一些进展，至少将这个可怜的生物可能有缺陷的智力状况与她穿着一身白衣的特殊性联系起来，在她成熟的岁月里，她对费尔利夫人仍怀着孩子气的感激之情——据我们当时所知，我们的发现已经结束了。

日子一天天过去，几周又过去了，金色的秋天的轨迹明显地穿过绿色的夏天的树林。平静、快速、快乐的时光！我的故事现在从你身边溜过，就像你曾经从我身边溜过一样。在您如此无私地倾注在我心中的所有享受宝藏中，我还剩下多少有足够的目的和价值来写在这一页上？一个人能做出的所有忏悔中，只有最悲伤的一种——承认自己的愚蠢。

那份忏悔所揭示的秘密应该毫不费力地告诉别人，因为我已经间接地漏掉了它。这些可怜的、无力的词语无法描述费尔利小姐，但却成功地背叛了她在我心中唤醒的感觉。我们所有人都是如此。当我们的言语对我们造成伤害时，它们就是巨人；当它们为我们提供服务时，它们就显得渺小了。

我爱过她。

啊!我多么了解这三个词中所包含的所有悲伤和所有嘲笑。我可以为我悲伤的忏悔而叹息，最温柔的女人读到它并怜悯我。我可以嘲笑它，就像最坚强的人轻蔑地把它扔掉一样。我爱过她！无论是同情我，还是鄙视我，我都以同样坚定不移的决心承认事实。

难道我没有任何借口吗？当然，在我在利默里奇大厦通过雇佣服务期限的条件下，可以找到一些借口。

我早上的时间在我自己的房间里安静而隐秘地平静地度过。在安装雇主的图纸时，我的工作量已经够多了，让我的手和眼睛都能愉快地工作，而我的思想却可以自由地享受其不受约束的危险的奢侈。这是一种危险的孤独，因为它持续的时间足以让我变得虚弱，却不足以让我坚强起来。这是一种危险的孤独，因为随之而来的是下午和晚上，日复一日、周复一周地单独与两个女人交往，其中一个拥有优雅、智慧和高教养的所有成就，另一个则拥有一切。美丽、温柔、朴素的魅力，可以净化人心、征服人心。在师生那种危险的亲密关系中，我的手没有一天不靠近菲尔利小姐的手。当我们一起俯身在她的素描本上时，我的脸颊几乎碰到了她的。她越仔细地观察我画笔的每一个动作，我就越能近距离地呼吸她头发上的香水味和她呼吸中温暖的芬芳。生活在她眼睛的光芒中是我的职责之一——有一次弯下腰，离她的怀抱如此之近，一想到要碰触它就浑身颤抖；有时我会弯下腰，离她的怀抱很近，一想到要碰触她就浑身发抖。另一次，感觉她俯身在我身上，弯得如此之近，想看看我在做什么，当她对我说话时，她的声音低沉了，她的丝带在风中拂过我的脸颊，然后她才把它们拉回来。

下午的素描远足之后的晚上，这些天真的、这些不可避免的熟悉感并没有被抑制，而是发生了变化。我对她演奏的音乐有着天然的喜爱，她的演奏充满了如此温柔的情感，如此精致的女性品味，而她自然地喜欢通过她的艺术实践来回报我，我通过我的实践给她带来的快乐，只是又织了一条领带，让我们彼此的距离越来越近。谈话中的意外事件；简单的习惯甚至规定了我们在餐桌上的位置这样的小事；哈尔科姆小姐随时准备的嘲讽，总是针对我作为老师的焦虑，同时也闪耀着她作为学生的热情；可怜的维西夫人昏昏欲睡的认可的无害表情，这将费尔利小姐和我联系在一起，成为两个从不打扰她的模范年轻人——这些琐事中的每一件，以及更多的琐事，结合在一起，使我们在同一个家庭氛围中聚在一起，并不知不觉中，我们都走向了同样绝望的结局。

我应该记住自己的立场，并暗自提高警惕。我这样做了，但为时已晚。所有的谨慎、所有的经验都对我和其他女人有帮助，并确保我免受其他诱惑，但我在她身上却失败了。多年来，我的职业就是与各个年龄段、各种美丽程度的年轻女孩进行密切接触。我接受这个职位是我人生使命的一部分；我训练自己把所有与我这个年龄相称的同情心留在雇主的外厅，就像我上楼之前把雨伞留在那儿一样冷静。我很早就学会了平静地、理所当然地理解，我的生活状况被认为是我的任何女学生对我产生超出最普通兴趣的保证，并且我被接纳为美丽而迷人的人之一。妇女就像无害的家畜一样被接纳在其中。我很早就获得了这种监护经验；这段守护的经历，严厉而严格地引导我沿着自己可怜的窄路一直走下去，没有一次让我迷失方向，无论是向右手还是向左。现在我和我信赖的护身符第一次分开了。是的，我来之不易的自制力完全丧失了，就好像我从来没有拥有过一样。我失去了它，就像其他男人每天都失去它一样，在其他危急情况下，与女性有关的情况下。我现在知道，我应该从一开始就质疑自己。我应该问为什么当她进来时，房子里的任何房间对我来说都比家更好，而当她再次出去时，却像沙漠一样贫瘠——为什么我总是注意到并记住她衣服上我注意到和记住的微小变化之前没有任何其他女人——为什么我看到她、听到她、触摸她（当我们在晚上和早上握手时），就像我一生中从未见过、听到过、触摸过任何其他女人一样？我应该审视自己的内心，发现那里正在长出新的东西，趁它还年轻的时候把它拔掉。为什么这种最简单、最简单的自我修养工作对我来说总是难以承受？解释已经用三个字写好了，对于我的坦白来说，这三个字足够多，也足够简单。我爱过她。

日子过去了，几周过去了；我在坎伯兰待的时间已经快到第三个月了。在我们平静的隐居生活中，生活的美妙单调一直伴随着我，就像一条平静的小溪里有一个游泳者顺着水流滑行。所有关于过去的记忆，所有对未来的思考，所有对自己处境的虚假和绝望的感觉，都在我内心安静地进入了欺骗性的休息。我被自己的心所唱的塞壬之歌所催眠，闭上眼睛，听不到所有的景象，耳朵也听不到所有危险的声音，我越来越靠近那些致命的岩石。最后唤醒我的警告，使我突然意识到自己的弱点，自我谴责，这是所有警告中最简单、最真实、最善意的警告，因为它无声地来自 这里.

我们像往常一样分手了一晚。无论是当时还是之前的任何时候，我嘴里都没有说过任何一句话可以背叛我，或者让她突然知道真相。但当我们早上再次见面时，她发生了变化——这一变化告诉了我一切。

当时我退缩了——我现在仍然退缩了——不敢侵入她内心最深处的避难所，并向别人敞开它，就像我敞开了自己的内心一样。我坚信，她第一次对我的秘密感到惊讶的时候，就是她第一次对自己的秘密感到惊讶的时候，也是在一个晚上的时间里，她对我的态度发生了变化。她的本性太诚实了，无法欺骗别人，也太高贵了，无法欺骗自己。当我怀疑我已经睡着了，这首先让她心烦意乱时，她的真面目就占据了一切，并用它自己坦率、简单的语言说——我为他感到难过；我为他感到难过；我为他感到难过。我为自己感到难过。

它说了这些，还有更多，但我当时无法解释。我非常理解她态度上的变化，在别人面前变得更加友善和更快地准备好解释我所有的愿望——到约束和悲伤，以及紧张焦虑，让自己专注于她可以抓住的第一个职业，每当我们碰巧单独留下来。我明白为什么那双甜美而敏感的嘴唇现在很少、如此克制地微笑，为什么那双清澈的蓝眼睛看着我，有时带着天使般的怜悯，有时带着孩子般的天真困惑。但这一变化的意义远不止于此。她的手冰冷，脸上有一种不自然的表情，一动不动，无言地流露出持续的恐惧和执着的自责。我可以追溯到她和我身上的感觉，我们共同感受到的未被承认的感觉，并不是这些。她身上的某些变化仍然在暗中把我们吸引到一起，而另一些因素则同样暗中开始使我们疏远。

在我的怀疑和困惑中，在我对一些隐藏的东西的模糊怀疑中，我只能靠自己的努力找到一些隐藏的东西，我检查了哈尔科姆小姐的外表和举止，以寻求启发。像我们这样亲密地生活在一起，任何人身上发生的任何重大改变都会对他人产生同情的影响。费尔利小姐的变化反映在她同父异母的妹妹身上。尽管哈尔科姆小姐没有漏出任何一个暗示我对自己的感觉已经改变的字眼，但她那双锐利的眼睛已经养成了一种新的习惯，总是注视着我。有时那种表情像是压抑的愤怒，有时像是压抑的恐惧，有时又不像——简而言之，什么也没有，这是我能理解的。一周过去了，我们三个人仍然处于这种相互秘密约束的状态。我的处境，由于我自己悲惨的虚弱和健忘的感觉而变得更加严重，现在我已经太晚才意识到自己的处境，变得难以忍受。我觉得我必须立即、永远地摆脱我所生活的压迫——但如何做到最好，或者首先说什么，却超出了我的判断范围。

哈尔科姆小姐把我从这种无助和屈辱的境地中解救出来。她的嘴唇告诉了我痛苦的、必要的、意想不到的真相；她的真诚善意让我在听到这句话时感到震惊。她的理智和勇气正确地利用了这一事件，这对利默里奇庄园的我和其他人来说可能会发生最坏的情况。

X

那是一周中的一个星期四，几乎是我在坎伯兰逗留的第三个月结束时。

早上，当我按照平常的时间走进早餐室时，哈尔科姆小姐自从我认识她以来第一次缺席了餐桌上她惯常的位置。

菲尔利小姐在外面的草坪上。她向我鞠了一躬，但没有进来。无论是我还是她，都没有说出任何能让我们感到不安的话语——然而同样未被承认的尴尬感让我们都不敢单独见面。她在草坪上等着，我在早餐室里等着，直到维西太太或哈尔科姆小姐进来。我应该多么快地加入她：我们应该多么容易地握手，然后滑入我们习惯的谈话，只需要一点点两周前。

几分钟后，哈尔科姆小姐进来了。她一脸心事重重，心不在焉地为迟到道歉。

“我被拘留了，”她说，“因为与费尔利先生就一件家庭事务进行协商，他想和我谈谈。”

费尔利小姐从花园里进来，我们之间传递着平常的早晨问候。她的手触到我的手比以往任何时候都冷。她没有看我，脸色非常苍白。就连维西夫人不久后进入房间时也注意到了这一点。

“我想是风向变了。”老太太说。 “冬天来了——啊，亲爱的，冬天快来了！”

在她的心里，在我的心里，它已经来了！

我们的早餐——曾经充满了对当天计划的愉快而幽默的讨论——简短而沉默。费尔利小姐似乎感受到了谈话中长时间停顿所带来的压抑，并恳求她的姐姐把这些停顿补上。哈尔科姆小姐以一种极不寻常的方式犹豫了一两次，检查了一下自己，最后终于开口了。

“劳拉，我今天早上见过你叔叔，”她说。 “他认为紫色的房间是应该准备好的，他证实了我告诉你的事情。星期一是那天，而不是星期二。”

费尔利小姐说这些话的时候，低头看着她下面的桌子。她的手指紧张地在布上散落的面包屑中移动。脸颊上的苍白蔓延到了嘴唇上，嘴唇也在明显地颤抖。我并不是在场唯一注意到这一点的人。哈尔科姆小姐也看到了这一点，并立即为我们树立了起身的榜样。

维西夫人和费尔利小姐一起离开了房间。那双慈悲的蓝眼睛看了我一会儿，带着预知即将到来和漫长告别的悲伤。我内心深处感受到了回应的痛苦——这种痛苦告诉我我必须很快失去她，并且因为失去而更加坚定地爱她。

当门在她面前关上时，我转向花园。哈尔科姆小姐手里拿着帽子，胳膊上披着披肩，站在通向草坪的大窗户旁，聚精会神地看着我。

“在你自己的房间里开始工作之前，”她问道，“你有空闲时间吗？”

“当然可以，哈尔科姆小姐。我随时为您服务。”

“我想私下对你说一句话，哈特赖特先生。戴上帽子，走进花园。早上这个时候我们在那里不太可能受到打扰。”

当我们走到草坪上时，一位园丁——一个小伙子——在回家的路上从我们身边经过，手里拿着一封信。哈尔科姆小姐阻止了他。

“那封信是写给我的吗？”她问。

不，小姐；据说是写给菲尔利小姐的。”小伙子一边回答，一边递出那封信。

哈尔科姆小姐从他手中接过电话，看了看地址。

“字迹很奇怪，”她自言自语道。 “劳拉的通讯员是谁？你从哪里得到这个？她对园丁继续说道。

“嗯，小姐，”小伙子说，“我刚从一个女人那里得到的。”

“什么女人？”

“一个上了年纪的女人。”

“哦，一个老太婆。有你认识的人吗？”

“我不能自以为是地说她对我来说不是一个陌生人。”

“她去哪条路了？”

“那扇门，”园丁说道，他小心翼翼地转向南方，用手臂一扫，拥抱了整个英格兰的那部分地区。

“很好奇，”哈尔科姆小姐说。 “我想这一定是一封乞讨信。好了，”她补充道，把信还给小伙子，“把它带回屋里，交给一个仆人。现在，哈特赖特先生，如果您不反对的话，我们就这样走吧。”

她领着我穿过草坪，沿着我​​到达利默里奇第二天跟随她走的那条路走。

在劳拉·费尔利和我第一次见面的小避暑别墅里，她停了下来，打破了我们一起散步时她一直保持的沉默。

“我要对你说的话我可以在这里说。”

说着，她走进了避暑别墅，在里面的小圆桌上拿了一把椅子，示意我拿另一把。当她在早餐室对我说话时，我怀疑接下来会发生什么。我现在对此感到确定了。

“先生。哈特赖特，”她说，“我首先要向你坦白承认。我要说的是——没有我所厌恶的措辞，也没有我衷心鄙视的赞美——在你和我们一起居住的过程中，我对你产生了强烈的友好的尊重。当你第一次告诉我你对你在如此特殊的情况下遇到的那个不幸的女人的行为时，我就对你产生了好感。你对这件事的处理或许并不谨慎，但却表现出了一个天生绅士的自制力、细腻性和同情心。这让我对你抱有美好的期望，而你也没有辜负我的期望。”

她停顿了一下，但同时举起了手，示意她在继续之前没有等待我的回答。当我走进避暑别墅时，我没有想到那个白衣女人。但现在，哈尔科姆小姐自己的话让我的冒险记忆又回到了我的脑海中。它在整个采访过程中一直存在——一直存在，而且并非没有结果。

“作为你的朋友，”她继续说道，“我将立即用我自己的简单、直率、直截了当的语言告诉你，我已经发现了你的秘密——没有任何其他人的帮助或暗示。哈特赖特先生，你轻率地让自己对我妹妹劳拉产生了一种依恋——恐怕是一种认真而忠诚的依恋。我不会让你因为用那么多话来承认这一点而感到痛苦，因为我看到并知道你太诚实了，不会否认这一点。我什至不怪你——我可怜你向一种绝望的感情敞开心扉。你并没有试图利用任何不正当手段——你没有和我妹妹秘密交谈。你犯了软弱和缺乏关注自己最大利益的罪责，但没有什么更糟糕的了。如果你在任何方面表现得不那么谨慎和谦虚，我就会告诉你离开家，不立即通知，也不立即征求任何人的意见。事实上，我责怪你的岁月和你的地位的不幸——我不责怪 您。握手——我给了你痛苦；我会给你更多，但没有什么帮助——首先和你的朋友玛丽安·哈尔科姆握手。”

突如其来的善意——那种温暖、高尚、无所畏惧的同情心，以如此仁慈的平等条件出现在我面前，以如此微妙和慷慨的方式直击我的心、我的荣誉和我的勇气，瞬间征服了我。当她握住我的手时，我试图看着她，但我的眼睛一片昏暗。我想感谢她，但我的声音发不出声。

“听我说，”她说，刻意避免让所有人注意到我失去了自制力。 “听我说，我们赶紧把事情解决掉。在我现在要说的话中，我没有义务讨论社会不平等的问题——我认为这是一个艰难而残酷的问题，这对我来说是一种真正的解脱。将尝试的情况 您 快速、备用 me 我对一个与我在同一屋檐下友好亲密地生活过的人进行任何侮辱性的提及等级和地位的事情，这是不礼貌的必要性。哈特赖特先生，你必须离开利默里奇庄园，以免造成更多伤害。我有责任对你说这句话；如果你是英格兰最古老、最富有的家族的代表，在同样严重的必要性下，我同样有责任说出来。你必须离开我们，不是因为你是绘画老师——”

她等了一会儿，把脸转向我，跨过桌子，把手牢牢地放在我的手臂上。

“不是因为你是绘画老师，”她重复道，“而是因为劳拉·菲尔利已经订婚了。”

最后一句话就像一颗子弹击中了我的心。我的手臂失去了握住它的那只手的所有知觉。我从来没有动过，也没有说过话。凛冽的秋风吹散了脚下的枯叶，突然间，我感到寒冷，仿佛我自己疯狂的希望也变成了枯叶，像其他人一样被风卷走了。希望！订婚或未订婚，她都同样远离 me。其他男人会在我的位置上记住这一点吗？如果他们像我一样爱她就不会了。

剧痛过去了，只剩下麻木的钝痛。我再次感觉到哈尔科姆小姐的手，将我的手臂握得更紧——我抬起头看着她。她那双黑色的大眼睛紧紧地盯着我，看着我脸上的白色变化，我感觉到了，她也看到了。

“碾碎它！”她说。 “在这里，你第一次见到她的地方，碾碎它！不要像女人一样畏缩在它之下。把它撕下来；像个男人一样把它踩在脚下！”

她说话时压抑的热情，她的意志力——集中在她凝视着我的眼神中，以及她尚未松开的对我手臂的抓握中——传达给我的意志，使我平静下来。我们俩都沉默地等了一分钟。在那段时间结束时，我证明了她对我男子气概的慷慨信任是合理的——至少在表面上，我恢复了自我控制。

“你又是你自己了吗？”

“我已经够了，哈尔科姆小姐，请求你和她的原谅。我足以接受你的建议，并以这种方式证明我的感激之情，如果我无法用其他方式证明的话。”

“你已经用这些话证明了这一点，”她回答道。哈特赖特先生，我们之间的隐瞒已经结束了。我无法逃避 您 我姐姐无意识地表现出的东西 me。为了她，也为了你自己，你必须离开我们。你在这里，你与我们之间必要的亲密关系，尽管一直无害，但上帝知道，在所有其他方面，却让她变得不稳定，让她变得可怜。我，爱她胜过爱自己的生命——我，已经学会相信纯洁、高尚、天真无邪的本性，就像我相信我的宗教一样——非常清楚地知道，自从她出生以来，她一直在承受着自责的秘密痛苦。尽管她这样做了，但对她的婚约不忠的感觉的第一个阴影进入了她的内心。我并不是说——在事情发生之后再试图说这句话是没有用的——她的订婚曾经对她的感情产生了强烈的影响。这是一种荣誉的订婚，而不是爱情的订婚；两年后，她父亲在临终前批准了这件事。她自己既不欢迎也不回避——她很满足。在你来到这里之前，她处于数百个其他女人的地位，她们嫁给男人时并没有被他们深深吸引或被他们深深排斥，并且在婚后学会爱他们（当她们不学会恨时！），而不是以前。我比言语更真诚地希望——你也应该有自我牺牲的勇气——希望那些扰乱了旧有平静和旧内容的新思想和新感觉不会扎根太深而无法消除。你的缺席（如果我对你的荣誉、你的勇气和你的理智不太信任，我就不应该像现在那样信任他们）你的缺席将有助于我的努力，而时间将帮助我们三个人。值得一提的是，我最初对你的信任并非完全错误。需要知道的是，你对那些你不幸忘记了与你的关系的学生，不会比对陌生人和被排斥者更不诚实，更不男子气概，更不体贴，而他们对你的呼吁并非徒劳。 ”

再次有机会提到白衣女子！是否有可能谈论费尔利小姐和我而不唤起对安妮·凯瑟里克的记忆，并将她置于我们之间，就像一个无法避免的死亡？

“请告诉我，如果我解除了婚约，我该向费尔利先生做出怎样的道歉？”我说。 “告诉我道歉被接受后什么时候去。我保证绝对服从你和你的建议。”

“时间非常重要，”她回答道。 “你听到我今天早上提到下周一，以及整理紫色房间的必要性。我们周一期待的访客——”

我迫不及待地想让她说得更明确。就我现在所知道的情况而言，费尔利小姐在早餐桌上的表情和举止的记忆告诉我，利默里奇别墅的预期访客是她未来的丈夫。我试图把它强行拉回来；但就在那一刻，我内心升起了一股比我自己的意志更强烈的力量，我打断了哈尔科姆小姐的话。

“今天就让我走吧。”我痛苦地说。 “越早越好。”

“不，今天不行，”她回答道。 “在你们的订约结束之前，你可以指派费尔利先生离开的唯一原因一定是，有不可预见的需要迫使你请求他允许你立即返回伦敦。你必须等到明天邮件到达的时候才告诉他，因为这样他就会明白你的计划突然发生了变化，因为他会把这件事与一封从伦敦寄来的信联系起来。欺骗是痛苦而令人作呕的，即使是最无害的欺骗——但我了解费尔利先生，如果你一旦激起他的怀疑，认为你在戏弄他，他就会拒绝释放你。周五早上和他谈谈：事后（为了你自己与雇主的利益）让你自己的未完成工作尽可能不混乱，并在周六离开这个地方。哈特赖特先生，对于你和我们所有人来说，时间已经足够了。”

在我向她保证她可能会完全按照她的意愿行事时，我们都被灌木丛中前进的脚步声吓了一跳。有人从家里来找我们！我感到血液涌入我的脸颊，然后又离开。在这样的时间、这样的情况下，第三个向我们快速靠近的人会是费尔利小姐吗？

这真是一种解脱——可悲的是，我对她的态度已经发生了如此绝望的改变——当那个打扰我们的人出现在避暑别墅的入口处，并证明只是费尔利小姐的时候，这对我来说绝对是一种解脱。女佣。

“小姐，我可以和您聊一会儿吗？”女孩说道，语气相当慌乱、不安。

哈尔科姆小姐走下台阶，走进灌木丛，和女仆一起往旁边走了几步。

只剩下我一个人，我的思绪又回到了即将回到伦敦孤独、绝望的家中，带着一种我无法用任何语言来形容的悲凉感。我想起了我慈祥的老母亲，还有我的妹妹，她们天真地为我在坎伯兰的前景而感到高兴——这些想法早已从我心中被驱逐，现在我第一次意识到这是我的耻辱和责备——又回来了。我带着被忽视的老朋友的慈爱哀悼。我的母亲和姐姐，当我从破碎的婚约回到他们身边，坦白我悲惨的秘密时，他们会有何感受——他们在汉普斯特德小屋的最后一个快乐的夜晚满怀希望地与我分开！

又是安妮·凯瑟里克！即使是与母亲和姐姐告别之夜的记忆，现在也无法与我在月光下步行返回伦敦的其他记忆联系起来。这意味着什么？我和那个女人还会再见面吗？至少这是可能的。她知道我住在伦敦吗？是的;在她提出那个奇怪的问题之前或之后，当她如此怀疑地问我是否认识许多从男爵级别的男人时，我就告诉过她。无论是之前还是之后——我的头脑不够平静，记不起是哪一个。

几分钟过去了，哈尔科姆小姐打发女仆回到我身边。她现在也显得慌乱不安。

“哈特赖特先生，我们已经安排好了一切必要的事情，”她说。 “我们像朋友一样互相理解，我们可以立即回家。说实话，我对劳拉感到不安。她派人说她想直接见我，女仆报告说，她的女主人显然对今天早上收到的一封信非常激动——毫无疑问，这封信是我在我们之前寄到家里的。来这里。”

我们一起沿着灌木丛的小路匆匆原路返回。虽然哈尔科姆小姐已经结束了她认为有必要说的一切，但我并没有结束我想说的一切。当我发现利默里奇的预期访客是费尔利小姐未来的丈夫的那一刻起，我就产生了一种苦涩的好奇心，一种强烈的嫉妒渴望，想知道他是谁。未来提出这个问题的机会可能不太容易提供，所以我冒险在回家的路上问了这个问题。

“既然你好心地告诉我，我们已经互相理解了，哈尔科姆小姐，”我说，“既然你确信我对你的宽容和对你意愿的服从表示感激，那么我可以斗胆问一下是谁吗？” （我犹豫了——我强迫自己想起他，但更难谈论他，因为他是她答应的丈夫）——“与菲尔利小姐订婚的那位绅士是谁？”

她的心思显然全被姐姐发来的信息占据了。她语气匆忙、心不在焉地回答道——

“一位在汉普郡拥有大量财产的绅士。”

汉普郡！安妮·凯瑟里克的出生地。一次又一次，白衣女子。那里 是 其中有宿命。

“他的名字呢？”我尽可能平静地、漠不关心地说道。

“珀西瓦尔·格莱德爵士。”

先生——珀西瓦尔爵士！安妮·凯瑟里克的问题——关于我可能认识的从男爵军衔的男人的可疑问题——在哈尔科姆小姐回到避暑别墅找我时，还没有从我的脑海中消失，然后她自己的回答又让我想起了这个问题。 。我突然停了下来，看着她。

“珀西瓦尔·格莱德爵士，”她重复道，想象着我没有听到她之前的回答。

“骑士，还是准男爵？”我问道，心情激动得无法再隐藏了。

她顿了顿，然后语气冰冷地回答道——

“从男爵，当然。”

XI

当我们走回房子时，双方都没有再说一句话。哈尔科姆小姐立即赶到她姐姐的房间，而我则回到自己的工作室，把所有尚未装裱和修复的菲尔利先生的画作整理好，然后才将它们交由其他人保管。迄今为止我一直克制的想法，使我的处境比以往任何时候都更难以忍受的想法，现在在我独自一人时涌向我。

她订婚了，她未来的丈夫是珀西瓦尔·格莱德爵士。男爵爵位的人，汉普郡的财产所有者。

英格兰有数百名男爵，汉普郡有数十名地主。从一般的证据规则来看，到目前为止，我还没有任何理由将珀西瓦尔·格莱德爵士与白衣女子对我所说的可疑询问话语联系起来。然而，我确实把他和他们联系起来了。是不是因为从我发现她们之间不祥的相似之处的那天晚上起，他现在在我心目中就与费尔利小姐联系在一起了，而费尔利小姐又与安妮·凯瑟里克联系在一起？早上发生的事情是否已经让我如此不安，以至于我受到了常见的机会和常见的巧合可能给我的想象力带来的任何幻觉的摆布？不可能说。我只能感觉到，在我们离开避暑别墅的路上，我和哈尔科姆小姐之间发生的事情对我产生了非常奇怪的影响。我强烈地预感到未来的黑暗中隐藏着我们所有人无法发现的危险。怀疑我是否已经与一系列事件联系在一起，即使我即将离开坎伯兰也无力打破这些事件——怀疑我们中的任何一个人是否将结局视为真正的结局——越来越阴暗地聚集在我身上。我脑海。尽管这很令人心酸，但由于我短暂的、自以为是的爱情的悲惨结局而造成的痛苦感似乎被一种更强烈的感觉所削弱和麻木了：某种隐秘的迫在眉睫的东西，某种无形的威胁，时间正在我们的头顶上。

我已经画了半个多小时了，这时有人敲门。我一回答，门就打开了；令我惊讶的是，哈尔科姆小姐走进了房间。

她的态度是愤怒和激动的。我还没来得及给她一把椅子，她就自己拿了一把椅子，坐在了上面，紧挨着我。

“先生。哈特赖特，”她说，“我曾希望我们之间所有痛苦的谈话话题都已经结束了，至少今天是这样。但事实并非如此。有一些卑鄙的恶行在起作用，以恐吓我妹妹，让她担心她即将结婚。你看到我派园丁到家里来了，还带着一封信，信的字迹很奇怪，写给费尔利小姐？”

“当然。”

“这封信是一封匿名信——在我姐姐看来，这是一封恶意伤害珀西瓦尔·格莱德爵士的企图。这让她如此焦躁和惊慌，以至于我费了很大的劲才让她平静下来，让我离开她的房间来到这里。我知道这是家事，我不应该征求你的意见，你也不会关心或感兴趣——”

“请您原谅，哈尔科姆小姐。我对任何影响费尔利小姐或你的幸福的事情都怀有最强烈的关心和兴趣。”

“我很高兴听到你这么说。你是家里或外面唯一可以给我建议的人。费尔利先生的健康状况以及他对各种困难和神秘事物的恐惧，是不值得考虑的。牧师是一个善良但软弱的人，他对日常职责一无所知。我们的邻居是那种舒适、慢跑的熟人，在遇到麻烦和危险时，我们不能打扰他们。我想知道的是：我是否应该立即采取措施找出这封信的作者？或者我应该等待，明天向费尔利先生的法律顾问提出申请？这是一个关于赢得或失去一天的问题——也许是一个非常重要的问题。告诉我你的想法，哈特赖特先生。如果不是迫于需要，我不得不在非常微妙的情况下向你吐露心声，那么即使我的无助处境也许也不能成为我的借口。但事实上，在我们之间经历了这么多事情之后，我肯定不会错，忘记你只是仅仅三个月的朋友。”

她把信给了我。它突然开始，没有任何初步的称呼，如下——

“你相信梦想吗？为了你自己的利益，我希望你这么做。看看圣经如何描述梦及其实现（创世记 xl.8, xli.25；但以理书 iv.18-25），并在为时已晚之前接受我向您发出的警告。

“昨晚我梦见了你，费尔利小姐。我梦见我站在教堂的圣餐栏杆内——我站在祭坛的一侧，牧师穿着法衣和祈祷书，站在另一侧。

“过了一会儿，沿着教堂的过道，有一男一女朝我们走来，准备结婚。你就是那个女人。你穿着漂亮的白色丝绸连衣裙，戴着长长的白色蕾丝面纱，看起来那么漂亮、天真，我的心为你而感动，泪水涌入我的眼眶。

“年轻的女士，这是怜悯的泪水，上天保佑，它们没有像我们所有人每天流下的眼泪一样从我的眼中掉下来，而是变成了两道光线，越来越靠近站在祭坛前的那个人。和你在一起，直到他们触碰他的胸膛。两道光芒在我和他之间划出一道拱门，就像两条彩虹。我顺着他们的目光望去，看到了他的内心深处。

“你要嫁的那个男人的外表很漂亮。他个子不高也不矮——比中等身材稍矮一些。一个轻松、活跃、意气风发的男人——看上去大约五四十岁左右。他脸色苍白，额头秃了，但头的其余部分却长着深色的头发。他下巴上的胡须被剃掉了，但脸颊和上唇上的胡须却长成了浓密的棕色。他的眼睛也是棕色的，非常明亮。他的鼻子挺直，英俊精致，足以胜任女人的角色。他的手也一样。他时不时地受到干咳的困扰，当他把苍白的右手放到嘴边时，手背上露出了旧伤的红色疤痕。我梦见过合适的人吗？你最清楚，菲尔利小姐，你可以说我是否被欺骗了。接下来请阅读我在外表之下看到的东西——我恳求你，阅读并受益。

“我顺着那两道光芒，看到了他的内心深处。它漆黑如夜，上面用红色燃烧的字母写着，这是堕落天使的笔迹：“没有怜悯，没有悔恨。”他让别人的道路充满了痛苦，他也将让他身边这个女人的道路充满痛苦。”我读到了这句话，然后光线移动并指向他的肩膀；在他身后，站着一个恶魔，正在大笑。光线再次移动，指向你的肩膀；在你身后，站着一位天使在哭泣。而那光芒第三次移动，直指你和那个男人之间。它们越来越宽，把你们俩一一推开。牧师徒劳地寻找婚礼仪式：它已经从书中消失了，他合上书页，绝望地把它从他身边拿走。当我醒来时，我的眼睛充满了泪水，我的心在跳动——因为 I 相信梦想。

“也请相信，菲尔利小姐——我求你，为了你自己，也像我一样相信。约瑟和但以理以及圣经中的其他人都相信梦。在你说出那些让你成为他悲惨妻子的话之前，先询问一下那个手上有伤疤的男人的前世。我不是为了我的缘故向你发出这个警告，而是为了你的缘故。我对你的福祉感兴趣，只要我还有一口气，你的福祉就会一直存在。你母亲的女儿在我心里有一个温柔的地方——因为你母亲是我第一个、我最好的、我唯一的朋友。”

这封非同寻常的信就这样结束了，没有任何签名。

从字迹上看不出任何线索。它是用格线绘制的，采用狭窄的、传统的、抄写的字符，技术上称为“小手”。它很虚弱、微弱，并且被污迹弄脏了，但除此之外没有任何东西可以区分。

“这不是一封文盲的信，”哈尔科姆小姐说，“同时，它肯定太语无伦次了，不可能是一个受过教育、处于较高阶层的人写的信。对新娘礼服和头纱的提及，以及其他一些小表达，似乎都表明它是某个女人的作品。哈特赖特先生，你觉得怎么样？

“我也这么认为。在我看来，这不仅是一个女人的信，而且是一个女人的心——”

“精神错乱？”哈尔科姆小姐建议道。 “从这个角度来看，它也让我印象深刻。”

我没有回答。当我说话的时候，我的目光停留在信的最后一句话上：“你母亲的女儿在我心里有一个温柔的地方——因为你母亲是我第一个、我最好的、我唯一的朋友。”这些话和我刚才对写信人是否神智正常的怀疑，在我的脑海中共同作用，暗示了一个想法，我实际上不敢公开表达，甚至不敢秘密鼓励。我开始怀疑自己的感官是否有失去平衡的危险。追溯所发生的一切奇怪的事情，所说的一切意想不到的事情，总是追溯到同一个隐藏的来源和同一个邪恶的影响，这似乎几乎是一种偏执狂。这一次，为了捍卫自己的勇气和理智，我决定不再做出任何没有明显事实依据的决定，并坚决拒绝一切以猜测形式诱惑我的事情。

“如果我们有机会找到写这封信的人，”我边说边把信还给哈尔科姆小姐，“抓住机会总没有坏处。我想我们应该再次和园丁谈谈给他写信的老妇人的事，然后继续我们在村里的询问。但首先让我问一个问题。您刚才提到了明天咨询费尔利先生的法律顾问的替代方案。难道就没有可能早点跟他沟通吗？为什么不是今天？”

“我只能解释一下，”哈尔科姆小姐回答说，“通过介绍一些与我姐姐订婚有关的细节，我认为今天早上没有必要或不适宜向你提及这些细节。珀西瓦尔·格莱德爵士周一来到这里的目的之一是确定他的婚姻期限，迄今为止，婚姻的期限一直悬而未决。他迫切希望该活动能在年底前举行。”

“菲尔利小姐知道这个愿望吗？”我急切地问道。

“她并没有怀疑，事情发生之后，我不会承担起启发她的责任。珀西瓦尔爵士只向费尔利先生提到了他的观点，费尔利先生本人告诉我，作为劳拉的监护人，他已经准备好并渴望转发这些观点。他已写信给伦敦的家庭律师吉尔摩先生。吉尔摩先生恰好在格拉斯哥出差，他回复说，建议在返回城镇的途中在利默里奇庄园停留。他将于明天抵达，并与我们同住几天，以便让珀西瓦尔爵士有时间为自己辩护。如果他成功了，吉尔摩先生将返回伦敦，并带着他对我妹妹婚姻解决的指示。哈特赖特先生，您现在明白为什么我说要等到明天才接受法律建议吗？吉尔摩先生是两代仙女中久经考验的老朋友，我们可以信任他，就像我们无法信任其他人一样。”

姻缘定了！仅仅听到这两个词就让我感到一种嫉妒的绝望，这对我更高、更好的本能来说是毒药。我开始思考——很难承认这一点，但我必须从头到尾不隐瞒我现在致力于揭露的可怕故事——我开始怀着可恨的热切希望，思考针对这些人的模糊指控。匿名信中包含珀西瓦尔·格莱德爵士。如果这些疯狂的指控有事实依据怎么办？如果在说出致命的同意话语并签订婚姻协议之前就能证明他们的真实性呢？从那时起，我一直试图思考，当时激励我的感觉是从纯粹对菲尔利小姐的兴趣开始和结束的，但我从未成功地欺骗自己相信这一点，现在我也不能试图欺骗别人。这种感觉始于和结束于对即将娶她的男人的鲁莽、报复性和绝望的仇恨。

“如果我们要找出什么，”我在现在引导我的新影响下说道，“我们最好不要再让失业的人白白浪费一分钟。我只能再次建议，应该再询问园丁一次，然后立即到村里去询问。”

“我想在这两种情况下我都可以对你有所帮助，”哈尔科姆小姐站起身来说道。 “哈特赖特先生，让我们立刻出发，一起尽力而为。”

我手里拿着门要为她开门——但我突然停了下来，在我们出发之前问了一个重要的问题。

“匿名信的其中一段，”我说，“包含一些简短的个人描述。我知道，珀西瓦尔·格莱德爵士的名字没有被提及——但是这个描述与他完全相似吗？

“准确地说——即使说他的年龄是四十五岁——”

45;而她还不到二十一岁！他这个年纪的男人每天都娶她这个年纪的妻子——经验表明这些婚姻往往是最幸福的。我知道这一点——然而，当我将他的年龄与她的年龄进行对比时，即使提到他的年龄，也增加了我对他的盲目仇恨和不信任。

“准确地说，”哈尔科姆小姐继续说道，“连他右手上的伤疤都包括在内，那是他多年前在意大利旅行时所受的伤疤。毫无疑问，这封信的作者对他个人外表的每一个特点都了如指掌。”

“如果我没记错的话，甚至还提到了他患有的咳嗽？”

“是的，而且提到得正确。他自己对此并不重视，尽管这有时会让他的朋友们为他担心。”

“我想从来没有听到过反对他性格的谣言吧？”

“先生。哈特赖特！我希望你没有太不公正，让那封臭名昭著的信影响了你？”

我感到血液涌上脸颊，因为我知道 民政事务总署 影响了我。

“我希望不会。”我困惑地回答。 “也许我没有权利问这个问题。”

“我对你问这个问题并不感到遗憾，”她说，“因为这使我能够公正地对待珀西瓦尔爵士的声誉。哈特赖特先生，我或我的家人从未听到过反对他的声音。他成功地参加了两次有争议的选举，并毫发无伤地走出了困境。在英国，一个能做到这一点的人，就是一个品格已确立的人。”

我默默地为她打开门，跟着她走了出去。她没有说服我。如果记录天使从天而降来证实她的说法，并向我凡人的眼睛打开他的书，记录天使也不会说服我。

我们发现园丁像往常一样在工作。无论再多的询问，也无法从这小伙子那令人费解的愚蠢中得出任何重要的答案。给他这封信的女人是一位年长的女人。她没有跟他说一句话，就匆匆向南方走去。这就是园丁能告诉我们的一切。

村庄位于房子的南面。于是我们就到了下一个村庄。

第十二

我们在利默里奇的调查是在各个方向、针对各种类型和状况的人们进行的。但他们什么也没发生。三个村民确实向我们保证他们见过那个女人，但由于他们无法描述她，也无法就他们最后一次见到她时她前进的确切方向达成一致，所以这三个明显的例外完全无知的一般规则并没有给我们提供更多真正的帮助，就像他们的大量无助和不观察的邻居一样。

经过无用的调查，我们及时到达了村庄的尽头，菲尔利夫人建立的学校就坐落在那里。当我们经过供男孩们使用的大楼一侧时，我建议向校长进行最后一次询问是否合适，由于他的办公室，我们可能会认为他是这个地方最聪明的人。

“恐怕校长一定正在忙于他的学生们，”哈尔科姆小姐说，“就在那个女人穿过村庄又回来的时候。不过，我们只能尝试一下。”

我们进入操场围墙，经过教室窗户，绕过位于大楼后面的门。我在窗前停了一会儿，朝里面看去。

校长背对着我，坐在高高的讲台前，显然是在对聚集在他面前的学生们进行长篇大论，只有一个例外。唯一的例外是一个健壮的白发男孩，他与其他人分开站在角落里的一张凳子上——一个孤独的小克鲁索，孤立在他自己的荒岛上，孤独地受到刑事耻辱。

当我们走到门前时，门半开着，校长的声音清晰地传到我们耳中，我们俩在门廊下停了下来。

“现在，孩子们，”那个声音说道，“注意我告诉你们的话。如果我在这所学校再听到有关鬼的说法，对你们所有人来说都会更糟糕。世界上不存在鬼魂这种东西，因此任何相信鬼魂的男孩都相信不可能存在的事情；一个来自利默里奇学校的男孩相信不可能的事情，他违背理性和纪律，必须受到相应的惩罚。你们都看到雅各布·波斯尔思韦特羞愧地站在凳子上。他受到惩罚，不是因为他说他昨晚看到了鬼，而是因为他太无礼、太固执，不听道理，而且因为我告诉他不可能有这样的事情之后，他仍然坚持说他看到了鬼。可能是。如果没有别的办法，我打算把雅各布·波斯尔思韦特的鬼魂赶出去，如果这件事在你们其他人中传播开来，我打算更进一步，把整个学校的鬼魂赶出去。”

“我们似乎选择了一个尴尬的时刻来访，”哈尔科姆小姐说着，在校长讲话结束时推开了门，带路走了进去。

我们的出现在男孩们中引起了强烈的轰动。他们似乎认为我们来这里的明确目的就是看雅各布·波斯尔思韦特被鞭打。

“你们都回家吃饭吧，”校长说，“除了雅各布。雅各布必须停在原地；如果鬼魂愿意的话，鬼魂可以给他带来晚餐。”

由于同学的双重失踪和晚餐的前景，雅各布的毅力消失了。他把手从口袋里掏出来，仔细地看着自己的指关节，从容地把它们举到眼前，当它们到达那里时，慢慢地一圈又一圈地磨着它们，伴随着这个动作的是一阵阵短暂的嗅嗅，紧接着是一阵阵的嗅嗅。每隔一段时间，鼻腔的分钟枪就发出了青少年痛苦的声音。

“我们来这里是想问你一个问题，登普斯特先生，”哈尔科姆小姐对校长说道。 “我们没想到你会忙于驱鬼。这是什么意思呢？到底发生了什么事情？”

“哈尔科姆小姐，那个邪恶的男孩宣称他昨天晚上看到了鬼，吓坏了整个学校。”老师回答道。 “尽管我对他说了很多话，但他仍然坚持他的荒谬故事。”

“最不寻常的是，”哈尔科姆小姐说，“我没想到任何一个男孩都有足够的想象力看到鬼魂。这确实是对利默里奇培养年轻思想的艰苦劳动的新补充，登普斯特先生，我衷心祝愿您顺利度过这一时期。与此同时，让我解释一下为什么你会看到我在这里，以及我想要什么。”

然后她向校长提出了同样的问题，我们已经问过村里几乎每个人了。登普斯特先生并没有看到我们正在寻找的那个陌生人，同样令人沮丧的答案也随之而来。

“我们还是回屋去吧，哈特赖特先生，”哈尔科姆小姐说。 “我们想要的信息显然是找不到的。”

她向登普斯特先生鞠了个躬，正要离开教室，雅各布·波斯尔思韦特在忏悔凳上可怜巴巴地吸着鼻子，她那可怜兮兮的姿势吸引了她的注意，当她经过他时，让她幽默地停下来说了几句话。在打开门之前对小囚犯说的话。

“你这个傻孩子，”她说，“你为什么不请求登普斯特先生的原谅，并且对鬼​​魂保持沉默呢？”

“呃！——但我看到了盖斯特，”雅各布·波斯尔思韦特坚持道，他的目光充满恐惧，泪水夺眶而出。

“东西，废话！你什么也没看到。确实是鬼！什么鬼——”

“请您原谅，哈尔科姆小姐，”校长有点不安地插话道，“但我认为您最好不要质疑这个男孩。他的故事的顽固愚蠢令人难以置信。而你可能会在无知的情况下引导他——”

“无知什么？”哈尔科姆小姐尖锐地问道。

“无知地震惊了你的感受，”登普斯特先生说道，看上去非常不安。

“说实话，登普斯特先生，您对我的感情表示极大的赞赏，因为您认为我的感情软弱到足以被这样一个顽童吓到！”她带着讽刺蔑视的神情转向小雅各布，开始直接质问他。 “来！”她说：“我想知道这一切。你这个顽皮的小子，什么时候见到鬼的？”

“昨天，黄昏时分，”雅各布回答道。

“哦！你昨天晚上在暮色中看到了它吗？那是什么样子的？

“穿着白衣的阿尔——就像一个妖教徒应该有的样子。”幽灵先知回答道，他的自信超出了他的年龄。

“它在哪里？”

“走吧，到教堂庭院去——那里应该是一个流浪汉。”

“‘鬼教徒’该有的样子——‘鬼教徒’该有的样子——怎么，你这个小傻瓜，说起话来就好像你从小就熟悉鬼魂的举止和习俗一样！无论如何，你已经掌握了你的故事。我想接下来我会听到你能告诉我那是谁的鬼魂吗？”

“呃！但我就是能。”雅各布回答道，带着一种阴郁的胜利的神情点点头。

当哈尔科姆小姐检查他的学生时，登普斯特先生已经好几次试图说话了，现在他坚决地插话，让自己的声音被听到。

“对不起，哈尔科姆小姐，”他说，“如果我冒昧地说，你问这些问题只是在鼓励这个男孩。”

“我只要再问一个问题，登普斯特先生，我就很满意了。好吧，”她转向男孩继续说道，“那是谁的鬼魂呢？”

“是菲尔利夫人的盖斯特。”雅各布低声回答。

这个非同寻常的回答对哈尔科姆小姐产生的影响完全证明了校长为阻止她听到这个回答而表现出的焦虑是合理的。她的脸因愤怒而涨红——她突然愤怒地转向小雅各布，吓得他又哭了起来——张开嘴唇要对他说话——然后控制住自己，对着主人而不是对男孩说话。

“让这样一个孩子为他所说的话负责是没有用的，”她说。我毫不怀疑这个想法是其他人灌输给他的。登普斯特先生，如果这个村子里有人忘记了村里每个灵魂对我母亲应有的尊重和感激之情，我会把他们找出来，如果我对费尔利先生有任何影响力，他们就会受苦。为了它。”

“我希望——事实上，我确信，哈尔科姆小姐——你错了，”校长说。 “这件事的开始和结束都源于男孩自己的乖僻和愚蠢。昨天晚上，当他经过教堂墓地时，他看到了，或者以为他看到了一个穿白衣的女人。这个人影，无论是真实的还是想象的，都站在大理石十字架旁边，他和利默里奇的每个人都知道这是费尔利夫人坟墓上的纪念碑。这两种情况肯定足以让男孩本人得到令你震惊的答案吗？

虽然哈尔科姆小姐似乎并不相信，但她显然觉得校长对案件的陈述太明智了，不值得公开反对。她只是感谢他的关注，并承诺当她的疑虑得到解决后会再次见到他。说完，她鞠了一躬，带路出了教室。

在整个这个奇怪的场景中，我一直站在一边，聚精会神地听着，并得出了自己的结论。当我们再次单独在一起时，哈尔科姆小姐问我是否对我所听到的有什么看法。

“一个非常强烈的意见，”我回答道。 “我相信，这个男孩的故事是有事实依据的。我承认我很想看到费尔利夫人坟墓上的纪念碑，并检查它周围的地面。

“你将会看到坟墓。”

回答完后，她停了下来，在我们继续前行时思考了一会儿。 “教室里发生的事情，”她继续说道，“完全分散了我对信的主题的注意力，以至于当我试图回到这封信的主题时，我感到有点困惑。我们必须放弃进一步询问的想法，等待明天将东西交给吉尔摩先生吗？

“绝不是这样，哈尔科姆小姐。教室里发生的事情鼓励我坚持调查。”

“为什么它会鼓励你？”

“因为当你把这封信交给我读时，这加深了我的怀疑。”

“哈特赖特先生，我想你直到现在才向我隐瞒这一怀疑是有原因的吗？”

“我害怕自己鼓励它。我认为这完全是荒谬的——我不相信它，因为我自己的想象力有些反常。但我不能再这样做了。不仅是男孩自己对你的问题的回答，甚至是校长在解释他的故事时嘴里偶然说出的一个表情，都迫使我重新想起这个想法。哈尔科姆小姐，事实可能会证明这个想法只是一个错觉。但此时此刻，我内心坚定地相信，教堂墓地里想象中的鬼魂和匿名信的作者是同一个人。”

她停了下来，脸色苍白，热切地看着我的脸。

“什么人？”

“校长无意识地告诉你了。当他谈到男孩在教堂墓地看到的那个身影时，他称其为“一个白衣女人”。

“不是安妮·凯瑟里克吗？”

“是的，安妮·凯瑟里克。”

她把手伸进我的手臂，重重地靠在我身上。

“我不知道为什么，”她低声说道，“但你的这种怀疑似乎让我感到震惊和不安。我感觉——”她停了下来，试图一笑置之。 “先生。哈特赖特，”她继续说道，“我带你去看坟墓，然后立刻回屋里。我最好不要让劳拉独自呆太久。我还是回去和她坐在一起吧。”

她说话时我们正靠近墓地。教堂是一座沉闷的灰色石头建筑，坐落在一个小山谷中，这样可以避开吹过周围荒原的寒风。墓地从教堂的一侧延伸到山坡上不远的地方。它周围是一堵粗糙、低矮的石墙，光秃秃的，向天空开放，除了在一个末端，一条小溪从石质山坡上缓缓流下，一丛矮树将它们狭窄的阴影投在矮小的山坡上。贫瘠的草。就在小溪和树林的另一边，离教堂墓地的三块石栅栏之一不远，矗立着一座白色大理石十字架，它把费尔利夫人的坟墓与周围散布的一些简陋的纪念碑区分开来。

“我不需要再陪你了，”哈尔科姆小姐指着坟墓说道。 “如果你发现任何东西可以证实你刚才向我提到的想法，你会告诉我的。我们在家里再见面吧。”

她离开了我。我立刻下楼来到教堂墓地，跨过栅栏，直接通向费尔利夫人的坟墓。

周围的草太短，地面又太硬，看不到任何脚印。到目前为止我很失望，接下来我仔细地看着十字架，以及它下面刻有铭文的方形大理石块。

十字架的自然白色由于风雨的影响，到处都有些模糊，而十字架下面刻有铭文的一侧的方形块的一半以上也处于同样的状态。然而，另一半却立刻吸引了我的注意，因为它没有任何污渍或杂质。我凑近一看，原来是被清理过的，刚刚清理过，是从上到下向下的。无论铭文在大理石上留下什么空白，都可以追踪到已清洁部分和未清洁部分之间的边界线——清晰可见，就像一条人工制作的线。谁开始清理大理石，又是谁没有完成？

我环顾四周，想知道如何解决这个问题。从我所站的地方看不到任何居住的迹象——墓地是死者独自拥有的。我回到教堂，绕着教堂走了一圈，直到来到教堂的后面。然后越过边界墙，穿过另一个石栅栏，发现自己站在一条小路的尽头，通向一个废弃的采石场。采石场的一侧建起了一座两居室的小平房，门外有一位老妇人正在洗衣服。

我走到她面前，开始谈论教堂和墓地。她已经做好了说话的准备，几乎她说的第一句话就告诉我，她的丈夫兼任书记员和教堂司事这两个办公室。接下来我对费尔利夫人的纪念碑说了几句话。老妇人摇摇头，告诉我我还没有看到它最好的样子。照顾这座纪念碑是她丈夫的职责，但过去几个月他一直病得很重，身体虚弱，几乎无法在周日爬进教堂履行职责，因此这座纪念碑被忽视了。他现在已经好一点了，他希望一周或十天后就能变得足够强壮，能够开始工作并清理它。

这些信息是从最广泛的坎伯兰方言中冗长而漫无目的的答案中提取的，告诉了我我最想知道的一切。我给了这个可怜的女人一点小东西，然后立即回到了利默里奇别墅。

纪念碑的部分清理显然是由一只奇怪的手完成的。将迄今为止我所发现的情况与我在听到黄昏时看到的鬼魂的故事后所怀疑的情况联系起来，我不想再证实我的决心，即那天晚上秘密地观察菲尔利夫人的坟墓，然后在晚上回到那里。日落，就在它的视线范围内等待，直到夜幕降临。清理纪念碑的工作尚未完成，开始清理工作的人可能会回来完成这项工作。

回到家后，我告诉哈尔科姆小姐我打算做什么。当我解释我的目的时，她看起来很惊讶和不安，但她并没有明确反对执行。她只说：“希望结局好。”

正当她再次离开我时，我拦住了她，尽可能平静地询问费尔利小姐的健康状况。她的精神好多了，哈尔科姆小姐希望她能在午后阳光灿烂的时候做一些散步运动。

我回到自己的房间，继续整理图纸。这样做是必要的，而且更需要让我的注意力集中在任何有助于分散我对自己和摆在我面前的无望未来的注意力的事情上。我时不时地停下工作，看看窗外，看着太阳越来越接近地平线的天空。有一次，我看见一个人影在窗下宽阔的碎石路上行走。是菲尔利小姐。

从早上起我就没有见过她，那时我几乎没有和她说过话。我只剩下在利默里奇的另一天了，那天之后我的眼睛可能再也看不到她了。这个念头足以让我站在窗前。我为她安排了百叶窗，这样她抬头就看不到我，但我没有力气抗拒诱惑，至少让我的眼睛在她走路时尽可能地跟随她。

她穿着一件棕色斗篷，里面是一件朴素的黑色丝绸长袍。她头上戴着一顶简单的草帽，和我们第一次见面时早上戴的一顶草帽一样。现在她身上蒙着面纱，遮住了我的脸。她身边有一只小意大利灵缇犬，它是她散步时的宠物伴侣，它漂亮地裹着猩红色的布包，以防止尖锐的空气接触到它娇嫩的皮肤。她似乎没有注意到那只狗。她径直向前走去，头微微低垂，双臂交叉在斗篷里。当我早上听说她订婚的消息时，那些枯叶在我面前随风旋转，当她在苍白的残阳中行走时，它们在她面前的风中旋转，升起，落下，散落到她的脚下。 。狗浑身发抖，不耐烦地贴在她的衣服上，寻求关注和鼓励。但她却从不理睬他。她继续走着，离我越来越远，路上的枯叶在她周围旋转——一直走着，直到我疼痛的眼睛再也看不到她了，只剩下我一个人，心情沉重。

又过了一个小时，我完成了工作，日落就在眼前。我在大厅里拿了帽子和外套，然后溜出了房子，没有遇到任何人。

西边的天空乌云密布，海风凛冽。距离海岸很远，海浪的声音席卷了中间的荒原，当我进入教堂墓地时，海浪的声音沉闷地敲击着我的耳朵。看不到任何生物。当我选择自己的位置，等待并观察时，这个地方看起来比以往任何时候都更加孤独，我的眼睛盯着费尔利夫人坟墓上方升起的白色十字架。

十三

墓地暴露的情况迫使我在选择我要占据的位置时非常谨慎。

教堂的正门位于墓地旁边，门的两侧都设有门廊。由于天生不愿意隐藏自己，而隐藏对于所看到的物体来说是必不可少的，我犹豫了一会儿，然后决定进入门廊。它的每侧墙壁上都有一个有漏洞的窗户。透过其中一扇窗户，我可以看到费尔利夫人的坟墓。另一个人则看向教堂司事小屋所在的采石场。在我面前，门廊入口处是一片光秃秃的墓地，一排低矮的石墙，还有一条孤独的棕色小山，夕阳的云彩在强劲而稳定的风中沉重地飘过。看不到或听不到任何生物——没有鸟儿飞过我身边，也没有狗从教堂司事的小屋里吠叫。海浪沉闷的拍打声中的停顿被坟墓附近矮树的沉闷沙沙声和溪流在石床上发出的微弱的冰冷气泡声所填补。沉闷的场景和沉闷的时刻。当我在教堂门廊下的藏身之处数着晚上的时间时，我的情绪迅速下降。

天还没黑——夕阳的余辉还残留在天空中，我独自守夜的前半个小时才过去——这时我听到了脚步声和声音。脚步声从教堂的另一边传来，声音是女人的。

“亲爱的，你不必为这封信而烦恼，”那个声音说道。 “我很安全地将它交给了那个小伙子，而那个小伙子一言不发地从我手中夺走了它。他走他的路，我走我的路，之后没有一个活着的灵魂跟随我——我保证。”

这些话让我的注意力陷入了一种近乎痛苦的期待之中。一阵沉默，但脚步声仍在前行。又过了一会儿，两个人，都是女人，从门廊的窗户进入了我的视野范围。他们径直走向坟墓；因此他们背对着我。

其中一名妇女戴着帽子，披着披肩。另一个穿着深蓝色的长旅行斗篷，兜帽拉在头上。斗篷下面露出几英寸的长袍。当我注意到颜色时，我的心跳得很快——它是白色的。

在教堂和坟墓之间前进了大约一半后，他们停了下来，穿斗篷的女人把头转向她的同伴。但她的侧脸，现在戴上帽子也许可以让我看到，却被厚重的、突出的兜帽边缘遮住了。

“请记得穿上那件舒适温暖的斗篷，”我已经听到过的同一个声音说道——那是披着披肩的女人的声音。 “太太。托德说得对，你昨天穿着一身白衣，看起来太特别了。你在这儿的时候我会出去走走，教堂墓地一点也不妨碍我，无论你的教堂墓地是什么。在我回来之前完成你想做的事，让我们确定在晚上之前再回家。”

说完，她转过身来，折回脚步，脸朝我走来。那是一张上了年纪的女人的脸，棕色的，粗犷的，健康的，没有任何不诚实或可疑的样子。在教堂附近，她停下来，把披肩拉得更紧一些。

“奇怪，”她对自己说，“从我记事起，她的奇思怪想和行为方式就一直很奇怪。不过，无害——就像一个无害的可怜的灵魂，就像一个小孩子一样。”

她叹了口气，紧张地环顾墓地，摇了摇头，仿佛这沉闷的前景决不令她高兴，然后就消失在教堂的拐角处。

我犹豫了一会儿是否应该跟着她并和她说话。我对与她的同伴面对面的强烈焦虑帮助我做出了否定的决定。我可以通过在教堂墓地附近等待直到她回来来确保看到那个披着披肩的女人——尽管她是否能给我我正在寻找的信息似乎非常值得怀疑。送信的人无关紧要。写这本书的人是一个兴趣中心，也是一个信息来源，而我现在确信的那个人就在墓地里的我面前。

当这些想法在我脑海中闪过时，我看到那个穿斗篷的女人走近坟墓，站在那里看了一会儿。然后她环顾四周，从斗篷下拿出一块白色的亚麻布或手帕，转向小溪。小溪从墙底的一个小拱门下流入教堂墓地，蜿蜒几十码后，又从一个类似的开口处流出来。她把布浸入水中，然后回到坟墓。我看到她亲吻了白色的十字架，然后跪在铭文前，用湿布擦拭它。

在考虑如何才能尽可能不让她受到惊吓后，我决定越过面前的墙，绕过墙，从坟墓附近的栅栏再次进入教堂墓地，以便她能看到当我走近时。她全神贯注于她的工作，直到我跨过栅栏她才听到我的到来。然后她抬起头，发出一声微弱的叫声，站了起来，站在我面前，惊恐得说不出话来，一动不动。

“别害怕，”我说。 “你肯定还记得我吧？”

我说话时停了下来，然后轻轻地向前走了几步，然后又停了下来，就这样一点一点地靠近，直到我靠近她。如果我心中还存有任何疑问，那么现在它一定已经得到了解决。在那里，自己感到害怕——在费尔利夫人的坟墓上，有一张同样的脸在我面前，这张脸第一次在夜间在公路上看到我的坟墓。

“你记得我？”我说。 “我们见面很晚了，我帮你找到了去伦敦的路。你肯定没有忘记吧？”

她的脸色放松下来，长长地舒了一口气。我看到她脸上因恐惧而死一般的寂静之下，新的认识生命正在慢慢地苏醒。

“暂时不要试图和我说话，”我继续说道。 “花点时间恢复自己——花点时间确信我是一个朋友。”

“你对我真好。”她低声说道。 “现在和那时的你一样友善。”

她停了下来，我站在一边保持沉默。我不仅为她争取了冷静的时间，也为自己争取了时间。在苍白狂野的夜光下，那个女人和我再次相遇，我们之间是一座坟墓，我们周围都是死者，孤独的山峦将我们包围在四面八方。那个时间、地点、环境，我们现在在那个沉闷的山谷的夜晚的寂静中面对面站着——终生的兴趣可能会悬置在我们之间下一次偶然的话语中——这种感觉，我无论如何都知道相反，劳拉·菲尔利一生的整个未来，无论好坏，都可能取决于我能否赢得或失去这个站在她母亲坟墓旁颤抖的孤独生物的信心——所有这些都威胁着动摇她的稳定和自我。我现在可能取得的每一寸进步都依赖于这种控制。当我感觉到这一点时，我努力尝试拥有我所有的资源；我尽最大努力将这短暂的反思时间变成最好的结果。

“你现在平静一些了吗？”我一想到是时候再说话了，就说道。 “你能和我说话时不感到害怕，并且不忘记我是朋友吗？”

“你怎么到这里来了？”她问道，没有注意到我刚才对她说的话。

“你不记得我们上次见面时我告诉过你我要去坎伯兰吗？从那时起我就一直住在坎伯兰——我一直住在利默里奇别墅。”

“在利默里奇别墅！”当她重复这句话时，她苍白的脸变得明亮起来，她那双游移不定的眼睛突然充满了兴趣地盯着我。 “啊，你一定很高兴吧！”她热切地看着我说道，脸上没有一丝先前不信任的影子。

我利用她对我重新燃起的信心来观察她的脸，带着一种注意力和好奇心，为了谨慎起见，我迄今为止一直克制自己没有表现出来。我看着她，满脑子都是那张可爱的脸，这张脸不祥地让我想起月光下露台上的她。我在《菲尔利小姐》中看到过安妮·凯瑟里克的影子。我现在在安妮·凯瑟里克身上看到了费尔利小姐的相似之处——看得更清楚了，因为两者之间的不同点和相似点都呈现在我面前。在面部的总体轮廓和五官的总体比例中——头发的颜色和嘴唇的紧张的不确定性——人物的高度和大小，以及头部和身体的姿势，相似性看起来比我以前感觉到的更加令人震惊。但相似之处就此结束，细节上的不同之处开始了。费尔利小姐娇美的肤色、清澈透明的眼睛、光滑纯净的皮肤、嘴唇上娇嫩的色彩，在现在转向我的那张憔悴疲惫的脸上都消失了。虽然我讨厌自己竟然有这样的想法，但当我看着眼前的女人时，这个想法还是会在我的脑海中浮现，一个悲伤的变化，在未来，就是想让相似性变得完整的唯一原因，我现在发现它在细节上是如此不完美。如果悲伤和痛苦在费尔利小姐青春美丽的脸上留下了亵渎的痕迹，那么，也只有安妮·凯瑟里克和她才会成为偶然相似的双胞胎姐妹，彼此活生生的倒影。

我一想到这里就浑身发抖。我脑海中浮现出的对未来的盲目、无理的不信任，似乎暗示着某种可怕的东西。感觉到安妮·凯瑟里克的手放在我的肩膀上，这是一个值得欢迎的打断。这种触摸就像我们第一次见面的那个晚上让我从头到脚吓呆的另一种触摸一样隐秘而突然。

“你看着我，你在想什么，”她说，语速怪异，气喘吁吁。 “它是什么？”

“没什么特别的，”我回答道。 “我只是想知道你是怎么来到这里的。”

“我和一个对我很好的朋友一起来的。我才来这里两天。”

“昨天你找到了去这个地方的路吗？”

“你怎么知道？”

“我只是猜测而已。”

她转身离开我，再次在碑文前跪下。

“如果不在这里，我该去哪里？”她说。 “对我来说比母亲更好的朋友是我在利默里奇唯一要去拜访的朋友。哦，看到她坟墓上的污迹，我的心好痛！为了她，它应该保持洁白如雪。昨天我很想开始清理它，今天我忍不住又回来继续清理它。这有什么问题吗？我希望不是。我为了费尔利夫人所做的事情肯定没有什么错吧？

对她的恩人的仁慈的古老感激之情显然仍然是这个可怜的女人心中的主导思想——自从她年轻和快乐的日子的第一印象以来，她的狭隘思想已经很明显地没有接受任何其他持久的印象。我发现，赢得她信任的最佳机会在于鼓励她继续从事她来到墓地所追求的朴素工作。当我告诉她她可以这样做时，她立即恢复了，温柔地触摸着坚硬的大理石，仿佛它是一个有知觉的东西，并一遍又一遍地对自己耳语着铭文的文字，仿佛逝去的日子她的少女时代又回来了，她再次在费尔利夫人的膝下耐心地吸取教训。

“你应该很想知道，”我一边说，一边尽可能谨慎地为接下来的问题做好准备，“我是否承认，在这里见到你对我来说是一种满足和惊喜？你把我留在出租车里后，我对你感到非常不安。”

她迅速抬起头，疑惑地看着。

“不安，”她重复道。 “为什么？”

“那天晚上我们分手后，发生了一件奇怪的事情。两个男人用马车追上了我。他们没有看到我站在哪里，但他们在我附近停下来，并与路另一边的一名警察交谈。”

她立即​​暂停了工作。她拿着湿布擦拭铭文的手垂到了身边。另一只手抓住了坟头的大理石十字架。她的脸慢慢地转向我，脸上再次出现了僵硬的恐惧表情。我不顾一切继续前行——现在撤退已经太晚了。

“这两个人与警察交谈，”我说，“并问他是否见过你。他没有看见你；然后其中一个人又说话了，说你已经逃离了他的庇护所。”

她跳了起来，仿佛我的最后一句话已经让追赶者追踪到了她的踪迹。

“停止！听听结局吧。”我哭道。 “停止！你就会知道我是如何和你成为朋友的。我只要一句话就能告诉他们你们走了哪条路——但我从来没有说过这个词。我帮助你逃脱了——我让它安全可靠。思考，尝试思考。试着理解我告诉你的话。”

我的举止似乎比我的言语对她的影响更大。她努力去领会这个新想法。她的手犹豫地把湿布从一块移到另一块，就像我第一次见到她的那天晚上他们移动小旅行包一样。慢慢地，我话语的目的似乎强行冲破了她内心的混乱和不安。慢慢地，她的表情放松了，她的眼睛看着我，眼神中充满了好奇，而很快就失去了恐惧。

“完全 你认为我不应该回到疯人院，是吗？”她说。

“当然不是。我很高兴你逃脱了——我很高兴我帮助了你。”

“是的，是的，你确实帮了我； “你在困难的时候帮了我。”她有点茫然地继续说道。 “逃走很容易，不然我也不应该逃走。他们从来没有像怀疑其他人那样怀疑我。我是那么安静，那么听话，那么容易被吓到。找到伦敦是最困难的部分，而你帮助了我。我当时有感谢你吗？我现在非常诚挚地感谢你。”

“精神病院离你遇见我的地方远吗？来！表明你相信我是你的朋友，并告诉我它在哪里。”

她提到了这个地方——据我所知，这是一个私人精神病院；离我见到她的地方不远的一个私人精神病院——然后，带着明显的怀疑，我可能会对她的回答有什么用处，焦急地重复了她之前的询问，“完全 你不认为我应该被带回去吗？”

“我再次很高兴你逃脱了——我很高兴你在离开我后过得很好。”我回答道。 “你说你有一个在伦敦的朋友可以去拜访。找到那个朋友了吗？”

“是的。天已经很晚了，但家里有一个女孩在做针线活，她帮我叫醒了克莱门茨太太。克莱门茨夫人是我的朋友。一个善良、善良的女人，但不像费尔利夫人。啊不，没有人能像菲尔利夫人那样！”

“克莱门茨夫人是你的老朋友吗？你认识她很久了？”

“是的，她曾经是我们的邻居，在汉普郡的家里，她喜欢我，在我还是个小女孩的时候照顾我。几年前，当她离开我们时，她在我的祈祷书上为我写下了她将在伦敦居住的地方，她说：“安妮，如果你遇到麻烦，就来找我吧。”我没有活着的丈夫可以对我说不，也没有孩子需要照顾，而我会照顾你。”善意的话语，不是吗？我想我记得他们是因为他们很友善。而且我记得的已经够少了——够少了，够少了！”

“你没有爸爸妈妈照顾吗？”

“父亲？——我从未见过他——我从未听母亲提起过他。父亲？啊，亲爱的！我想他已经死了。”

“还有你妈妈？”

“我和她相处得不好。我们是彼此的麻烦和恐惧。”

给彼此带来麻烦和恐惧！听到这句话，我第一次怀疑她的母亲可能就是束缚她的人。

“别问我关于母亲的事，”她继续说道。 “我更想谈谈克莱门茨夫人。克莱门茨夫人和你一样，她认为我不应该回到疯人院，而且她和你一样很高兴我能逃离疯人院。她为我的不幸而哭泣，并说这件事必须对所有人保密。”

她的“不幸”。她在什么意义上使用这个词？从某种意义上说，这可以解释她写匿名信的动机吗？从某种意义上说，这可能表明这是一种太常见、太习惯的动机，导致许多女人对毁了她的男人的婚姻进行匿名阻碍？我决定在双方进一步交谈之前尝试消除这个疑虑。

“什么不幸？”我问。

“我被关起来真是不幸。”她回答道，看上去对我的问题感到惊讶。 “还能有什么不幸呢？”

我决定尽可能微妙、隐忍地坚持下去。非常重要的是，我应该对我现在提前获得的调查中的每一步都绝对有把握。

“还有另一种不幸，”我说，“女人可能会遭遇这种不幸，并因此遭受终生的悲伤和耻辱。”

“它是什么？” 她急切地问道。

“太天真地相信自己的美德以及她所爱的男人的信仰和荣誉是不幸的，”我回答道。

她抬头看着我，带着孩子般的天真困惑。她的脸上没有丝毫的混乱或脸色的变化——没有任何一丝隐秘的羞耻意识挣扎着浮现出来——那张脸以如此透明的清晰度出卖了所有其他的情感。无论说过什么话，都无法让我确信，就像她现在的表情和举止让我确信的那样，我为她写这封信并将其寄给费尔利小姐的动机显然是错误的。无论如何，现在这个疑虑已经消除了。但它的消除本身就开启了一个充满不确定性的新前景。据我从积极的证词中得知，这封信指向珀西瓦尔·格莱德爵士，尽管它没有提到他的名字。她一定有某种强烈的动机，源于某种深深的伤害感，才用她所用的语言向费尔利小姐秘密地谴责他，而这种动机无疑不能追溯到她的纯真和品格的丧失。无论他对她造成什么错误，都不是这种性质的。它可能是什么性质的？

“我不明白你的意思，”她显然很努力地试图找出我上次对她说的话的含义，但徒劳无功。

“没关系，”我回答道。 “让我们继续我们正在谈论的事情吧。告诉我你在伦敦和克莱门茨夫人待了多久，以及你是怎么来到这里的。”

“多久？”她重复道。 “两天前，我一直和克莱门茨夫人一起来到这个地方。”

“那你住在村子里吗？”我说。 “奇怪的是，我竟然没有听说过你，虽然你才来这里两天。”

“不，不，不在村里。三英里外的一个农场。你了解农场吗？他们称之为托德角。”

我清楚地记得那个地方——我们开车时经常经过它。它是附近最古老的农场之一，坐落在两座山交界处的内陆一处偏僻、隐蔽的地方。

“他们是托德角的克莱门茨夫人的亲戚，”她接着说，“他们经常邀请她去看望他们。她说她会带我一起去，享受安静和新鲜的空气。这非常友善，不是吗？我愿意去任何安静、安全、不碍事的地方。但当我听说托德角就在利默里奇附近时——哦！我很高兴我会赤脚一路走到那里，再次看到学校、村庄和利默里奇别墅。托德角的他们都是非常好的人。我希望我能在那里呆很长时间。我只有一件事不喜欢他们，也不喜欢克莱门茨夫人——”

“它是什么？”

“他们会取笑我穿全白衣服——他们说这看起来很特别。他们怎么知道？费尔利夫人最清楚。菲尔利夫人绝对不会让我穿上这件难看的蓝色斗篷！啊!她生前就喜欢白色，她的坟墓周围有白色的石头——我为了她的缘故把它弄得更白。她自己经常穿白色衣服，她的小女儿也总是穿白色的衣服。菲尔利小姐身体好吗，快乐吗？她现在穿的是白色的衣服吗，就像她小时候那样吗？”

当她问起有关费尔利小姐的问题时，她的声音沉了下来，她把头转得离我越来越远。我想，从她态度的改变中，我察觉到她在寄出这封匿名信时所面临的风险，感到不安，于是我立即决定用我的回答来吓唬她，让她惊讶地承认这封信是有风险的。

“费尔利小姐今天早上不太舒服，也不太高兴，”我说。

她低声说了几句话，但语气又那么含糊不清，又那么低沉，我什至猜不出她的意思。

“你有没有问我为什么菲尔利小姐今天早上既不舒服也不高兴？”我继续说道。

“不，”她快速而急切地说，“哦不，我从来没有问过这个。”

“不用你问，我就会告诉你，”我继续说道。 “菲尔利小姐收到了你的信。”

当我们一起谈话时，她已经跪下一段时间了，小心翼翼地清除铭文上最后留下的风化痕迹。我刚才对她说的第一句话让她停下了手中的工作，慢慢地转过身来，没有从膝盖上站起来，面对着我。第二句话简直把她吓呆了。她手里拿着的布掉了下来——她的嘴唇裂开——她脸上本来就有的一点血色瞬间消失了。

“你怎么知道？”她淡淡地说。 “谁给你看的？”血液涌回了她的脸上——以压倒性的速度涌上来，因为她感觉到自己的话背叛了她。她绝望地双手合十。 “我从来没有写过，”她惊恐地喘着气说。 “我对此一无所知！”

“是的，”我说，“你写了它，你也知道它。寄出这样的信是错误的，吓唬费尔利小姐是错误的。如果你有什么话要说，让她听是正确和必要的，你应该亲自去利默里奇庄园——你应该亲口和那位年轻女士说。”

她蹲在坟墓的平坦石头上，直到把脸埋在上面，没有回答。

“如果你是好意的话，菲尔利小姐会像她母亲一样对你很好，”我继续说道。 “菲尔利小姐会保守你的秘密，不会让你受到任何伤害。明天你会在农场见到她吗？你会在利默里奇庄园的花园里见到她吗？”

“哦，如果我能死，并被隐藏起来并安息， 您！”她的嘴唇靠近墓碑，以充满激情的爱慕语气向下面的死者低声念叨着这些话。 “完全 知道我多么爱你的孩子，都是为了你！噢，菲尔利夫人！费尔利夫人！告诉我如何拯救她。再次成为我的亲爱的和我的母亲，告诉我该怎么做才是最好的。”

我听到她的嘴唇亲吻石头——我看到她的双手热情地敲打着石头。声音和景象深深地影响了我。我弯下腰，温柔地握住那双可怜无助的手，试图安抚她。

这是没用的。她从我手中夺过双手，脸始终没有离开石头。看到迫切需要不惜一切代价、以任何方式让她安静下来，我诉诸于她似乎感受到的唯一的焦虑，与我和我对她的看法有关——让我相信她适合做情妇的焦虑。她自己的行动。

“来吧，来吧。”我轻轻地说。 “尽量让自己平静下来，否则你会让我改变对你的看法。别让我以为把你送进疯人院的人可能有什么借口——”

接下来的话就从我嘴里消失了。当我冒着偶然提到把她送进疯人院的人的风险时，她立刻跪了下来。她身上发生了极其不寻常、令人震惊的变化。她的脸平时看起来很动人，神经质、敏感、虚弱和不确定，突然变得阴沉，脸上露出一种疯狂的、强烈的仇恨和恐惧的表情，每一个特征都传达出一种狂野的、不自然的力量。她的眼睛在昏暗的夜色中放大，就像野兽的眼睛。她像抓死一只可以杀死的活物一样，抓起落在身边的布，用双手用力捏碎，力气大得让布上残留的几滴水珠滴在了衣服上。她脚下的石头。

“说点别的吧。”她咬牙切齿地说。 “如果你谈论这个，我会失去自我。”

几乎一分钟后，她脑海中充满的那些温和的想法现在似乎都被清除了。显然，费尔利夫人的善良给她留下的印象并不像我想象的那样，是她记忆中唯一的强烈印象。人们对她在利默里奇的学生时代怀有感激的回忆，同时也对她被关在疯人院所遭受的错误怀有报复性的回忆。谁做错了？难道真的是她妈妈？

很难放弃继续进行调查直到最后一点，但我强迫自己放弃所有继续调查的想法。当我现在看到她时，除了让她恢复镇静的必要性和人性之外，再想任何事情都是残酷的。

“我不会说任何让你难过的事情。”我安慰道。

“你想要一些东西，”她尖锐而怀疑地回答。 “别用那样的眼神看着我。跟我说话——告诉我你想要什么。”

“我只是想让你安静一下，等你平静下来之后，好好想想我说的话。”

“说？”她停了下来，前后扭动手中的布，低声自言自语：“他说什么？”她再次转向我，不耐烦地摇摇头。 “你为什么不帮我？”她突然生气地问道。

“是的，是的，”我说，“我会帮助你，你很快就会记住的。我请你明天去见菲尔利小姐，告诉她这封信的真相。”

“啊！菲尔利小姐——菲尔利——菲尔利——”

只要说出那个熟悉的名字，她似乎就安静了。她的脸变得柔和起来，又变得像原来一样了。

“你不必害怕菲尔利小姐，”我继续说道，“也不必担心因为这封信而惹上麻烦。她已经知道很多了，所以你可以毫无困难地告诉她一切。如果几乎没有什么可以隐瞒的，那么隐瞒的必要性就很小。你在信中没有提到任何名字；但菲尔利小姐知道你写的人是珀西瓦尔·格莱德爵士——”

我一念出这个名字，她就站了起来，她发出一声尖叫，响彻整个教堂墓地，让我的心因恐惧而跳动。刚刚离开她脸上的阴暗畸形表情再次低垂下来，强度加倍、三倍。听到这个名字的尖叫声，以及随之而来的仇恨和恐惧的表情，说明了一切。现在连最后的疑虑都没有了。她母亲将她囚禁在疯人院是无罪的。一个男人让她闭嘴了——那个男人就是珀西瓦尔·格莱德爵士。

尖叫声传到了我以外的其他人的耳朵里。一侧我听到教堂司事小屋的门打开的声音；另一边，我听到了她同伴的声音，那个披着围巾的女人，就是她所说的克莱门茨夫人。

“我来了！我来了！”那声音从矮树丛后面传来。

过了一会儿，又有克莱门茨夫人匆匆出现在视野中。

“你是谁？”当她踏上栅栏时，她坚定地面向我喊道。 “你怎么敢这样吓唬一个可怜无助的女人？”

在我回答之前，她就站在安妮·凯瑟里克身边，用一只手臂搂住了她。 “什么事，亲爱的？”她说。 “他对你做了什么？”

“没什么，”可怜的生物回答道。 “没有什么。我只是害怕而已。”

克莱门茨夫人带着无畏的愤怒转向我，为此我尊重她。

“如果我活该受到那种愤怒的目光，我应该为自己感到由衷的羞愧，”我说。 “但我不值得。不幸的是，我无意中吓到了她。这不是她第一次见到我。你自己去问她，她会告诉你，我不会心甘情愿地伤害她或任何女人。”

我说得很清楚，以便安妮·凯瑟里克能够听到并理解我的意思，我看到这些话及其含义已经传达给了她。

“是的，是的，”她说——“他曾经对我很好——他帮助了我——”她在朋友耳边低声说了剩下的事情。

“确实很奇怪！”克莱门茨夫人一脸困惑地说。 “不过，这一切都不同了。先生，我很抱歉我对你说话太粗鲁了；但你必须承认，陌生人的外表看起来很可疑。迁就她的奇思怪想，让她一个人呆在这样的地方，这更多的是我的错，而不是你的错。来吧，亲爱的——现在就回家吧。”

我觉得这位好心的女人对步行回去的前景感到有点不安，于是我主动提出和他们一起走，直到他们都可以看到家了。克莱门茨夫人礼貌地向我表示感谢，但拒绝了。她说，他们一到达荒原，肯定会遇到一些农场工人。

“试着原谅我，”当安妮·凯瑟里克挽着她朋友的手臂要走时，我说道。尽管我无意吓唬和激怒她，但当我看着那张可怜的、苍白的、受惊的脸时，我的心猛地一痛。

“我会尝试，”她回答。 “但你知道的太多了——我担心你现在总是会吓着我。”

克莱门茨夫人看了我一眼，怜悯地摇摇头。

“晚安，先生，”她说。 “我知道你没办法，但我希望你吓到的是我，而不是她。”

他们退开几步。我以为他们已经离开我了，但安妮突然停了下来，和她的朋友分开了。

“等一下，”她说。 “我必须说再见了。”

她回到坟墓，双手温柔地放在大理石十字架上，亲吻它。

“我现在好多了。”她叹了口气，静静地抬头看着我。 “我原谅你。”

她再次与她的同伴会合，他们离开了墓地。我看到他们在教堂附近停下来，和教堂司事的妻子说话，她从小屋里过来，一直在远处看着我们。然后他们又沿着通向沼泽的小路继续前行。我看着安妮·凯瑟里克消失，直到她的所有踪迹都在暮色中消失——看上去既焦虑又悲伤，仿佛这是我在这个白衣女人的疲惫世界中最后一次见到她。

XIV

半小时后，我回到了家里，并将所发生的一切告诉了哈尔科姆小姐。

她从头到尾都以一种稳定、安静的注意力听我讲话，对于她这样的气质和性情的女人来说，这是我的叙述对她产生了严重影响的最有力的证明。

“我的心在怀疑我。”我做完后，她只说了这么一句话。 “我的心对未来感到悲伤。”

“未来可能取决于，”我建议，“我们如何利用现在。安妮·凯瑟里克对女人说话比对我说话更容易、更毫无保留，这并非不可能。如果菲尔利小姐——”

“暂时不要想，”哈尔科姆小姐用她最坚决的态度插话道。

“那么，我建议你，”我继续说道，“你应该亲自去见安妮·凯瑟里克，并尽一切努力赢得她的信任。就我个人而言，我不敢再惊动这个可怜的生物，因为我已经非常不幸地惊动过她了。你看有人反对明天陪我去农舍吗？

“什么都没有。为了劳拉的利益，我会去任何地方、做任何事情。你说那个地方叫什么？”

“你一定很了解这一点。它叫托德角。”

“当然。托德角是费尔利先生的农场之一。我们这里的挤奶女工是农民的二女儿。她不断地在这座房子和她父亲的农场之间来回走动，她可能听到或看到了一些对我们可能有用的东西。我要立即确认一下那个女孩是否在楼下吗？

她按响了门铃，让仆人传达了他的信息。他回来了，并宣布挤奶女工当时就在农场。她已经三天没来了，管家允许她晚上回家一两个小时。

“明天我可以和她说话，”仆人再次离开房间后，哈尔科姆小姐说道。 “同时，让我彻底了解我采访安妮·凯瑟里克的目的。你心里确信把她关在疯人院的人就是珀西瓦尔·格莱德爵士吗？”

“没有任何怀疑的影子。唯一剩下的谜团就是他的谜团 动机。考虑到他和她的生活地位之间的巨大差异，这似乎排除了他们之间最遥远的关系的所有想法，这是最后重要的——即使假设她真的需要受到限制——知道为什么 he 应该是负有让她闭嘴的严重责任的人——”

“我想你是说在私人收容所吧？”

“是的，在私人精神病院里，那里必须支付一笔任何穷人都付不起的钱，以支付她作为病人的生活费。”

“我明白了问题所在，哈特赖特先生，我向你保证，无论安妮·凯瑟里克明天是否协助我们，问题都会得到解决。如果吉尔摩先生和我都不满意，珀西瓦尔·格莱德爵士就不会在这所房子里呆太久了。我姐姐的未来是我一生中最关心的事情，我对她有足够的影响力，在她的婚姻问题上我有一定的权力来处理它。”

我们分手过夜。

第二天早餐后，一个障碍阻止了我们立即前往农场，前一天晚上发生的事情已经让我忘记了。这是我在利默里奇宅邸的最后一天，邮件一收到，我就必须听从哈尔科姆小姐的建议，并请求费尔利先生的允许，将我的约会时间缩短一个月，因为考虑到不可预见的必要性，我回到伦敦。

幸运的是，就表面看来，这个借口的可能性很大，那天早上，邮局给我带来了两封伦敦朋友的来信。我立即把他们带到自己的房间，并派仆人给费尔利先生捎信，询问我什么时候可以因公事见他。

我等待着那个人回来，丝毫没有担心他的主人会以何种方式收到我的申请。不管费尔利先生是否请假，我都必须走了。意识到现在已经迈出了沉闷旅程的第一步，从此我的生活与费尔利小姐的生活分开，这似乎削弱了我对与我自己有关的每一个考虑的敏感度。我已经摆脱了我可怜人敏感的骄傲——我已经摆脱了我所有的小艺术家的虚荣心。菲尔利先生的无礼，如果他选择无礼的话，现在不会伤害我了。

仆人带着一条消息回来，我对此并非没有准备。费尔利先生感到遗憾的是，那天早上他的健康状况使他完全没有希望接待我。因此，他恳求我接受他的道歉，并以信的形式友好地传达我要说的话。在我住在这所房子里的三个月里，类似的信息时不时地传到过我。在那段时间里，费尔利先生一直很高兴能“拥有”我，但一直没能第二次见到我。仆人带着我的“敬意”将我装裱并修复的每一批新图纸带回给他的主人，但空手而归，并带着菲尔利先生的“善意的赞美”、“最诚挚的谢意”和“诚挚的遗憾”。由于健康原因，他仍然不得不独自囚禁在自己的房间里。不可能有比这更令双方满意的安排了。在这种情况下，很难说我们中的哪一个对菲尔利先生的包容性感到最感激。

我立即坐下来写这封信，尽可能礼貌、清晰、简短地表达自己的想法。菲尔利先生并没有急于做出答复。将近一个小时过去了，答案才送到了我的手里。它是用紫罗兰色的墨水写在像象牙一样光滑、几乎和纸板一样厚的便条纸上，字迹优美、整齐，它是用这些话对我说的——

“先生。菲尔利对哈特赖特先生的致意。费尔利先生（以他目前的健康状况）对哈特赖特先生的申请感到无比惊讶和失望。费尔利先生不是商人，但他咨询了他的管家，管家是商人，而那个人证实了费尔利先生的观点，即哈特赖特先生要求解除婚约的请求无论出于何种必要性都没有正当理由，也许除了一个生死攸关的案件。如果费尔利先生对艺术及其教授的高度欣赏的感情——这是菲尔利先生痛苦的存在所培养的安慰和幸福——可以轻易动摇的话，那么哈特赖特先生目前的做法就会动摇它。但它并没有这样做——除了哈特赖特先生本人的例子。

“已经表达了他的观点——到目前为止，也就是说，由于剧烈的神经痛苦将允许他表达任何东西——先生。费尔利没有什么可补充的，只是表达了他的决定，并提到了向他提出的非常不规则的申请。身体和心灵的完美休息对他来说至关重要，费尔利先生不会让哈特赖特先生在双方本质上都令人恼火的情况下留在房子里打扰他的休息。因此，费尔利先生放弃了拒绝的权利，纯粹是为了维护自己的安宁，并通知哈特赖特先生他可以走了。

我把信折起来，和其他文件一起收起来。当时我应该将其视为一种侮辱而感到愤恨——现在我接受了它，作为我解除婚约的书面声明。当我下楼去早餐室，告诉哈尔科姆小姐我准备和她一起步行去农场时，这件事已经被我抛在了脑后，几乎已经从我的记忆中消失了。

“菲尔利先生给你一个满意的答复了吗？”当我们离开家时，她问道。

“他允许我走了，哈尔科姆小姐。”

她迅速抬头看着我，然后，自从我认识她以来，她第一次主动握住了我的手臂。任何言语都无法如此微妙地表达她理解我离开工作的许可是如何获得的，她不是作为我的上司，而是作为我的朋友向我表示同情。我没有感受到那个男人的无礼信，但我深深地感受到了那个女人的赎罪善意。

在去农场的路上，我们安排哈尔科姆小姐独自进屋，而我则在外面等候，随叫随到。我们之所以采用这种方式，是因为我们担心，前一天晚上在教堂墓地发生的事情之后，我的出现可能会重新激起安妮·凯瑟里克的紧张恐惧，并使她对一位女士的主动表示不信任，因为她是一位女士。对她来说很陌生。哈尔科姆小姐离开我，打算首先与农夫的妻子交谈（她确信她友好地愿意以任何方式帮助她），而我则在房子附近等她。

我本来已经预料到会被单独留下一段时间。然而，令我惊讶的是，只过了五分钟多一点，哈尔科姆小姐就回来了。

“安妮·凯瑟里克拒绝见你吗？”我惊讶地问道。

“安妮·凯瑟里克走了。”哈尔科姆小姐回答道。

“去了？”

和克莱门茨夫人走了。他们今天早上八点就离开了农场。”

我什么也说不出来——我只能感觉到我们发现他们的最后机会已经消失了。

“我知道托德夫人对她的客人的一切了解，”哈尔科姆小姐继续说道，“这让我和她一样，一无所知。昨晚他们离开你后都安全回来了，他们像往常一样和托德先生的家人一起度过了晚上的第一部分。然而，就在晚饭时间之前，安妮·凯瑟里克突然感到头晕，吓了他们一跳。在她到达农场的那天，她也遭受过类似的袭击，但没有那么令人震惊。托德夫人当时把它与她当时在我们当地报纸上读到的一些东西联系起来，报纸就放在农场的桌子上，而她在一两分钟前才拿起它。

“托德夫人知道报纸上的哪一段话对她产生了这样的影响吗？”我询问道。

“不，”哈尔科姆小姐回答道。 “她已经看过了，并没有发现其中有什么可以激怒任何人的地方。我请假，轮到我看一下，翻开第一页，我就发现编辑借用了我们家的事，丰富了他那不多的新闻，还刊登了我姐姐的订婚信，其中包括：他的其他公告抄自伦敦报纸《上流社会的婚姻》。我立即得出结论，这一段对安妮·凯瑟里克产生了如此奇怪的影响，我想我也从中看到了她第二天寄到我们家的那封信的来源。

“无论哪种情况都是毫无疑问的。但是昨天晚上她第二次晕倒的消息你听说了什么？”

“没有什么。其原因完全是个谜。房间里没有陌生人。唯一的访客是我们的挤奶女工，正如我告诉过你的，她是托德先生的女儿之一，唯一的谈话就是有关当地事务的常见八卦。他们听到她的叫声，看到她毫无理由地脸色惨白。托德夫人和克莱门茨夫人带她上楼，克莱门茨夫人留下来陪着她。人们听到他们在一起说话，直到通常的就寝时间过后很久，今天一早，克莱门茨夫人把托德夫人拉到一边，让她惊讶的是，他们必须走了。托德夫人能从她的客人那里得到的唯一解释是，发生了一些事情，这不是农舍里任何人的错，但情况严重到足以让安妮·凯瑟里克决定立即离开利默里奇。强迫克莱门茨夫人说得更明确是毫无用处的。她只是摇摇头，说看在安妮的份上，她必须乞求并祈祷，不要让任何人质疑她。她所能重复的只是安妮必须走，她必须和她一起走，而且她俩可能要去的目的地必须对所有人保密。我不想再向您讲述托德夫人热情好客的抗议和拒绝。最后，她开车送他们俩到最近的车站，三个多小时过去了。她努力想办法让他们说得更直白一些，但没有成功。她把他们放在车站门外，他们如此不客气地突然离开，而且他们不友好地不愿对她有丝毫信任，她感到非常受伤和生气，所以她愤怒地开车走了，甚至没有停下来向他们打招呼。 -再见。这正是所发生的事情。哈特赖特先生，搜索一下你自己的记忆，告诉我昨天晚上墓地里是否发生了什么事情，足以解释这两个女人今天早上非同寻常的离开。

“哈尔科姆小姐，我想首先解释一下安妮·凯瑟里克的突然变化，这让农舍里的他们感到震惊，就在她和我分手几个小时后，当时间已经过去了，足以平息我可能不幸的任何剧烈骚动。足以引起。你有没有特别询问她晕倒时房间里发生的流言蜚语？”

“是的。但那天晚上，托德夫人的注意力似乎被家庭事务和农舍客厅里的谈话所分散。她只能告诉我这‘只是新闻’——我想，这意味着他们都像往常一样谈论彼此。”

“挤奶女工的记忆力可能比她母亲好，”我说。 “我们一回来，你最好和那个女孩哈尔科姆小姐谈谈。”

我们一回到家，我的建议就被采纳了。哈尔科姆小姐领着我去了仆人办公室，我们在奶牛场找到了那个女孩，她把袖子挽到肩膀上，正在清洗一个大奶锅，一边愉快地唱着她的工作。

“汉娜，我带这位先生来参观你的乳制品厂，”哈尔科姆小姐说。 “这是这座房子的景点之一，它总是值得你称赞。”

女孩脸红了，行了屈膝礼，害羞地说，她希望自己总是尽力保持东西整洁干净。

“我们刚从你父亲那里回来，”哈尔科姆小姐继续说道。 “我听说你昨天晚上在那儿，你在房子里发现了访客吗？”

“是的，女士。”

“据我所知，其中一人晕倒并患病。我想没有说什么或做什么来吓唬她吧？你不是在谈论什么非常可怕的事情吧？”

“噢，不，小姐！”女孩笑着说。 “我们只是在谈论新闻。”

“我想，你的姐妹们在托德角告诉了你这个消息吧？”

“是的，女士。”

“你在利默里奇庄园告诉了他们这个消息？”

“是的，女士。我很确定没有说什么来吓唬这个可怜的东西，因为当她生病时我正在说话。小姐，这让我大吃一惊，我自己从来没有晕倒过。”

在向她提出更多问题之前，她被叫去牛奶店门口领取一篮子鸡蛋。当她离开我们时，我低声对哈尔科姆小姐说——

“问问她昨晚是否碰巧提到利默里奇庄园有访客。”

哈尔科姆小姐看了我一眼，表明她明白了，挤奶女工一回到我们身边，她就提出了问题。

“哦，是的，小姐，我提到过这一点。”女孩简单地说。 “公司来了，还有斑纹牛的事故，这就是我必须带到农场的所有消息。”

“你提到名字了吗？你有没有告诉他们珀西瓦尔·格莱德爵士将于周一到来？”

“是的，小姐——我告诉他们珀西瓦尔·格莱德爵士要来。我希望这没有什么坏处——我希望我没有做错事。”

“哦，不，没有坏处。来吧，哈特赖特先生，如果我们再打扰她的工作，汉娜就会开始认为我们碍事了。”

当我们再次独处时，我们停下来互相看着对方。

“你心中是否有任何疑问， 现在哈尔科姆小姐？

“哈特赖特先生，珀西瓦尔·格莱德爵士将消除这个疑虑，否则劳拉·菲尔利永远不会成为他的妻子。”

XV

当我们走到房子前面时，一只来自铁路的苍蝇沿着车道向我们飞来。哈尔科姆小姐在门口的台阶上等着，直到苍蝇飞过来，然后上前与一位老绅士握手，台阶一放下，这位老绅士就轻快地走了出去。吉尔摩先生来了。

当我们互相介绍时，我看着他，带着难以掩饰的兴趣和好奇。我离开后，这位老人将留在利默里奇庄园，他将听取珀西瓦尔·格莱德爵士的解释，并根据他的经验向哈尔科姆小姐提供帮助，以帮助她做出判断。他要等到婚姻问题得到解决。如果这个问题得到肯定的答复，他将签署和解协议，使费尔利小姐不可撤销地履行订婚义务。即使在那时，当我与现在所知道的相比一无所知时，我仍然以一种兴趣看着家庭律师，这是我以前在任何一个对我来说完全陌生的人面前从未有过的感觉。

从外表上看，吉尔摩先生与传统意义上的老律师截然相反。他的脸色红润，白发留得很长，精心梳理着，黑色的外套、背心和裤子非常合身，白色的领带系得小心翼翼，手上可能还戴着淡紫色的小山羊皮手套。一个时髦的牧师，没有恐惧，没有责备。他的举止令人愉快地表现出旧派礼貌的正式优雅和精致，由于一个人的精力充沛的锐利和准备，他的生活迫使他始终保持他的才能处于良好的工作状态。乐观的体质和美好的前景——随后漫长的职业生涯，值得信赖和舒适的繁荣——快乐、勤奋、受到广泛尊重的晚年——这就是我从对吉尔摩先生的介绍中得到的总体印象，但这只是对他来说公平的是，我通过后来更好的经验获得的知识只会证实这些。

我留下老先生和哈尔科姆小姐一起进屋，不受陌生人在场的束缚，谈论家庭事务。他们穿过大厅前往客厅，我又走下台阶，独自在花园里闲逛。

我在利默里奇庄园的时间已经屈指可数了——第二天早上我的离开已经不可挽回地解决了——我在匿名信中所承担的调查工作已经结束了。如果我在所剩无几的时间里再次放开我的心，从必要性迫使我强加于它的冷酷残酷的克制中，告别那些场景，除了我自己，不会对任何人造成伤害。这与我的幸福和爱情的短暂梦想时间有关。

我本能地转向书房窗下的那条路，前一天晚上我曾在那里见过她和她的小狗，然后沿着她亲爱的脚经常走过的小路，直到我来到通向她玫瑰花丛的小门前。花园。冬天的荒凉现在笼罩着整个大地。她教我区分它们的名字的花朵，我教她画画的花朵都消失了，床铺之间的白色小路已经湿漉漉的，呈绿色。我继续走向林荫大道，在那里我们一起呼吸着八月夜晚温暖的芬芳，在那里我们一起欣赏了无数的树荫和阳光的组合，它们在我们脚下的地面上斑驳可见。树叶从呻吟的树枝上飘落到我周围，空气中泥土般的腐烂让我感到彻骨的寒冷。再往前走一点，我就走出了场地，沿着那条蜿蜒向上的小路到达了最近的山丘。我们坐在路边休息的那棵被砍倒的老树，已经被雨水浸湿了，我为她画的一簇蕨类植物和草丛，依偎在我们面前粗糙的石墙下，已经变成了一片绿色。一池水，在杂草丛生的岛屿周围停滞。我登上了山顶，眺望着我们在快乐时光经常欣赏的景色。寒冷、贫瘠——不再是我记忆中的景象了。她的阳光已经离我很远了——她迷人的声音不再在我耳边低语。她在我现在往下看的地方，对我谈到了她的父亲，她是她最后一个幸存的父母——告诉我他们曾经多么相爱，当她进入某些地方时，她仍然多么悲伤地想念他。房子里的房间，以及当她从事与他有关的被遗忘的职业和娱乐活动时。我听着这句话时看到的景色，就是我现在独自站在山顶看到的景色吗？我转身离开了它——我又蜿蜒返回，越过沼泽，绕过沙丘，来到海滩。这里有汹涌的海浪，还有跳跃的海浪的无数光辉——但她曾经在沙滩上撑着阳伞画出闲人的地方在哪里——我们坐在一起的地方，她与人交谈的地方。她向我讲述了我自己和我的家，而她则像一个女人那样细心地问我关于我母亲和姐姐的问题，并天真地想知道我是否应该离开我孤独的房间，拥有自己的妻子和房子？风浪早已抹平了她在沙滩上留下的痕迹，我望着单调的海边景色，我们两人消磨阳光时光的地方我感到迷失，仿佛我从未认识过它；对我来说，我感到陌生，仿佛我已经站在异国的海岸上。

海滩上空荡荡的寂静让我的心感到寒冷。我回到房子和花园，那里到处都留下了与她交谈的痕迹。

在西露台步道上我遇到了吉尔摩先生。他显然是在寻找我，因为当我们看到对方时，他加快了脚步。我的精神状态不太适合与陌生人交往。但这次会面是不可避免的，我只好辞职以充分利用这次机会。

“你正是我想见的人。”老先生说道。 “亲爱的先生，我有两句话要对您说：如果你不反对的话我会利用现在的机会。说白了，哈尔科姆小姐和我一直在谈论家庭事务——这也是我来这里的原因——在我们谈话的过程中，她自然而然地向我讲述了与匿名信有关的这件不愉快的事情，以及迄今为止您在诉讼程序中最值得信赖和最适当的份额。我完全理解，这种分享给了你一种你可能不会感受到的兴趣，因为你知道你已经开始的调查的未来管理将被置于安全的手中。亲爱的先生，请让自己在这一点上保持轻松——它将被放在 my 手。”

“吉尔摩先生，在这件事上，你在各方面都比我更适合提出建议和采取行动。我问你是否已决定采取何种行动，是不是一种轻率的行为？”

“哈特赖特先生，只要有可能做出决定，我就决定了。我打算将这封信的副本连同情况说明寄给珀西瓦尔·格莱德爵士在伦敦的律师，我与他有些熟人。我将把这封信留在这里，以便珀西瓦尔爵士一到就向他出示。我已经通过派费尔利先生的一名仆人（一位机密人员）到车站进行询问来提供对这两名妇女的追踪。男人有钱，有方向，一旦发现任何线索，他就会跟踪女人。在珀西瓦尔爵士周一到来之前，这就是所能做的一切。我坚信，一位绅士和一位有荣誉感的人会很乐意给出任何解释。珀西瓦尔爵士地位很高，先生——地位显赫，声誉无可怀疑——我对结果感到很轻松——很轻松，我很高兴向你保证。在我的经历中，类似的事情经常发生。匿名信——不幸的女人——悲伤的社会状况。我不否认这个案子有特殊的复杂性；但最不幸的是，这种情况本身很常见——很常见。”

“吉尔摩先生，恐怕我对这个案子的看法与你不同。”

“就是这样，亲爱的先生——就是这样。我是一个老人，我的观点很实际。你是个年轻人，你的观点很浪漫。我们不要争论我们的观点。哈特赖特先生，我的职业生涯生活在一种争论的氛围中，我很高兴能够逃离这种氛围，就像我逃离这里一样。我们将等待事件发生——是的，是的，是的——我们将等待事件发生。这个迷人的地方。射击好不好？可能不会，我想费尔利先生的土地都没有被保留下来。不过，这是一个迷人的地方，还有令人愉快的人们。我听说，你画画，哈特赖特先生？令人羡慕的成就。什么风格？”

我们开始了一般性的交谈，或者更确切地说，吉尔摩先生说话，我听着。我的注意力远离了他，也远离了他流利谈论的话题。过去两个小时的孤独行走对我产生了影响——它让我产生了加快离开利默里奇庄园的想法。为什么我要把告别的艰难考验延长一分钟呢？有人需要我提供哪些进一步的服务？我留在坎伯兰没有任何有用的目的——我的雇主给予我的离开许可没有时间限制。为什么不立即结束呢？

我决定结束它。天还剩几个小时——我没有理由不在那天下午开始返回伦敦的旅程。我为离开吉尔摩先生找到了第一个礼貌的借口，然后立即回到了房子。

在上楼回自己房间的路上，我在楼梯上遇见了哈尔科姆小姐。她从我匆忙的动作和态度的变化看出我有新的目的，就问发生了什么事。

我告诉她促使我考虑加快离开的原因，正如我在这里告诉他们的那样。

“不，不，”她真诚而友善地说，“像朋友一样离开我们吧——再和我们一起吃面包吧。留在这里吃饭，留在这里，帮助我们尽可能快乐地与您度过最后一个晚上，就像我们的第一个晚上一样。这是我的邀请函——夫人。维西的邀请——”她犹豫了一下，又补充道，“还有劳拉的邀请。”

我答应留下来。天知道我不想给他们中的任何一个人留下哪怕一丝悲伤的印象。

在晚餐铃声响起之前，我自己的房间对我来说是最好的地方。我在那里等着，直到下楼的时间。

那天我没有和费尔利小姐说过话——我什至没有见过她。当我走进客厅时与她的第一次见面，对她和我的自制力来说都是一次艰难的考验。她也尽了最大努力，让我们的最后一晚重温过去的黄金时光——那是永远不会再来的时光。她穿的裙子是我以前最欣赏的，比她拥有的任何其他衣服都要多——一件深蓝色丝绸，用老式蕾丝装饰得古雅而漂亮；她像以前一样准备好迎接我——她向我伸出了手，带着幸福时光中坦率、天真的善意。围绕着我的冰冷的手指颤抖着——苍白的脸颊中间有一个鲜红的斑点在燃烧——她嘴唇上的淡淡微笑挣扎着，当我看着它时又消失了，告诉我要付出怎样的牺牲。她自己则保持着外表的镇静。我的心无法让她离我更近，否则我当时就应该爱她，就像我从未爱过她一样。

吉尔摩先生给了我们很大的帮助。他心情很好，以不屈不挠的精神主导着谈话。哈尔科姆小姐坚决支持他，我也竭尽全力以她为榜样。当我们第一次坐在餐桌旁时，那双慈祥的蓝眼睛，我已经学会很好地解读它最细微的表情变化，用吸引人的目光看着我。帮助我的妹妹——那张可爱而焦虑的脸似乎在说——帮助我的妹妹，你就会帮助我 me.

至少从表面上看，我们很愉快地度过了晚餐。当女士们从餐桌上站起来，吉尔摩先生和我独自留在餐厅时，一种新的兴趣出现了，吸引了我们的注意力，并给了我一个机会，让自己安静下来，几分钟的必要和欢迎安静。被派去追踪安妮·凯瑟里克和克莱门茨夫人的仆人带着报告回来了，并立即被带进了餐厅。

“那么，”吉尔摩先生说，“你发现了什么？”

“先生，我发现，”那人回答道，“两位女士都是在我们车站买了开往卡莱尔的车票。”

“当你听到这个消息时，你当然去了卡莱尔？”

“我做到了，先生，但我很遗憾地告诉你，我找不到他们的进一步踪迹。”

“你问过铁路局吗？”

“是的先生。”

“那在不同的旅馆里呢？”

“是的先生。”

“那你把我给你写的口供留在警察局了？”

“我做到了，先生。”

“好吧，我的朋友，你已经做了你能做的一切，我也做了我能做的一切，事情就到此为止，直到另行通知。我们已经打出了我们的王牌，​​哈特赖特先生，”仆人退后，老绅士继续说道。 “至少目前，妇女们已经战胜了我们，我们现在唯一的办法就是等到下周一珀西瓦尔·格莱德爵士来到这里。你不会再倒满你的杯子吗？好瓶波特酒——醇厚、醇厚、陈年的葡萄酒。不过，我在自己的地窖里已经好多了。”

我们回到客厅——我一生中最快乐的夜晚就是在这个房间里度过的——自从昨晚之后，我就再也没有见过这个房间。由于白天变短，天气变冷，它的面貌发生了变化。露台一侧的玻璃门关着，并被厚厚的窗帘遮住。我们过去坐在的昏暗柔和的暮色中，现在明亮的灯光让我眼花缭乱。一切都变了——室内和室外都变了。

哈尔科姆小姐和吉尔摩先生一起坐在牌桌旁——哈尔科姆太太。维西坐在她惯用的椅子上。对处置没有任何限制 其 晚上，我通过观察它更加痛苦地感受到我的支配能力受到限制。我看到费尔利小姐在乐谱架附近徘徊。我本来可以去那里和她一起去的。我犹豫不决地等待着——我不知道该去哪里，也不知道下一步该做什么。她快速地看了我一眼，突然从架子上拿出一首乐曲，主动朝我走来。

“我可以弹一些你以前非常喜欢的莫扎特的小旋律吗？”她问道，紧张地打开音乐，说话时低头看着它。

我还没来得及感谢她，她就赶紧走到钢琴前。旁边那张我一直习惯坐的椅子却空着。她弹奏了几首和弦，然后回头看了我一眼，然后又回头看了看她的音乐。

“你不去你原来的地方吗？”她说，语气非常唐突、非常低沉。

“我可以在昨晚拿走，”我回答道。

她没有回答——她的注意力一直集中在音乐上——她凭记忆记住的音乐，以前在没有书的情况下，她已经一遍又一遍地演奏过这些音乐。我只知道她听到了我的声音，只知道她知道我离她很近，看到离我最近的脸颊上的红点渐渐褪去，脸色变得苍白。

“我很抱歉你要走了，”她说，她的声音几乎低到耳语，她的眼睛越来越专注地看着音乐，她的手指在钢琴的琴键上飞舞，带着一种我从未有过的奇怪的狂热能量。之前注意到她。

“在明天过去很久之后，我会记住那些善意的话，菲尔利小姐。”

她的脸色变得更加苍白，她把脸转得离我更远。

“不要谈论明天，”她说。 “让音乐用比我们更快乐的语言来讲述今晚的故事。”

她的嘴唇颤抖着——嘴里发出一声微弱的叹息，她试图压抑，却徒劳无功。她的手指在钢琴上颤抖着——她弹了一个错误的音符，在试图把它调正时感到困惑，然后愤怒地将双手放在腿上。哈尔科姆小姐和吉尔摩先生惊讶地从他们正在玩的牌桌上抬起头来。连坐在椅子上打瞌睡的维西夫人也因音乐的突然停止而惊醒，询问发生了什么事。

“哈特赖特先生，你玩惠斯特吗？”哈尔科姆小姐问道，她的目光明显地盯着我所在的地方。

我明白她的意思——我知道她是对的，我立刻站起来走向牌桌。当我离开钢琴时，费尔利小姐翻了一页乐谱，用更加坚定的手再次触动琴键。

“ 将 弹奏吧，”她几乎充满激情地敲着音符说道。 “我 将 昨晚就玩了。”

“来吧，维西夫人，”哈尔科姆小姐说，“维西先生。”吉尔摩和我厌倦了电子牌游戏——来成为哈特赖特先生在惠斯特的合伙人吧。”

老律师讽刺地笑了笑。他的手是赢家，他刚刚成为国王。他显然将哈尔科姆小姐牌桌安排的突然改变归因于一位女士无法参加失败的比赛。

整个晚上，她都没有说话，也没有看一眼。她把自己的位置放在钢琴上，我把我的位置放在牌桌上。她不间断地演奏——演奏得好像音乐是她逃避自我的唯一避难所。有时，她的手指触碰着音符，带着一种挥之不去的喜爱——一种轻柔、哀伤、垂死的温柔，听上去难以形容的美丽和悲伤；有时，他们会犹豫不决，让她失望，或者机械地匆匆走过仪器，就好像他们的任务对他们来说是一种负担。但是，尽管他们对音乐的表达方式可能会发生变化和动摇，但他们演奏的决心从未动摇过。当我们都站起来道晚安时，她才从钢琴上站起来。

维西夫人离门口最近，也是第一个与我握手的人。

“我不会再见到你了，哈特赖特先生，”老太太说。 “你的离开我真的很抱歉。您非常友善和细心，像我这样的老妇人感受到了友善和关注。祝您幸福，先生——祝您再见。”

接下来是吉尔摩先生。

“我希望我们将来有机会加深认识，哈特赖特先生。你很明白生意安全这一点小事在我手里吗？是的，是的，当然。上帝保佑我，天气多冷啊！别让我把你留在门口。一路顺风，亲爱的先生——正如法国人所说，一路顺风。”

哈尔科姆小姐跟在后面。

“明天早上七点半，”她说道，然后低声补充道，“我听到和看到的比你想象的要多。你今晚的行为使我成为你一生的朋友。”

费尔利小姐是最后一个。当我握住她的手时，当我想到第二天早上时，我不敢相信自己会看着她。

“我的离开一定很早，”我说。 “我会在你之前离开，费尔利小姐——”

“不，不，”她急忙插嘴，“在我走出房间之前。我要和玛丽安一起吃早餐。我没那么忘恩负义，没那么忘记这三个月——”

她的声音消失了，她的手轻轻地握着我的手——然后突然放了下来。我还没来得及说“晚安”，她就走了。

末日很快就来迎接我了——这是不可避免的，就像最后一个早晨的阳光照耀在利默里奇宅邸一样。

我下楼的时候才七点半，但我发现他们俩都在早餐桌上等我。在寒冷的空气中，在昏暗的灯光下，在屋子里早晨阴沉的寂静中，我们三个人坐在一起，试着吃饭，试着说话。维持外表的斗争是无望且无用的，我站起来结束了它。

当我伸出手时，离我最近的哈尔科姆小姐握住了我的手，菲尔利小姐突然转过身，匆匆离开了房间。

“这样更好，”门关上后，哈尔科姆小姐说道，“这样对你和她来说都更好。”

我等了一会儿才开口说话——失去她是很难受的，没有一句临别之词，也没有一个临别眼神。我控制住了自己——我试图用恰当的措辞向哈尔科姆小姐告别；但我还是没有答应。但所有我想说的告别话语都只剩下一句话。

“我值得你写信给我吗？”我只能说。

“只要我们还活着，你值得我为你做的一切。不管结局是什么，你都会知道的。”

“如果我能再次提供帮助，在未来的任何时候，在我的傲慢和愚蠢的记忆被遗忘很久之后……” 。 ”。

我无法再补充了。我的声音有些颤抖，我的眼睛不自觉地湿润了。

她抓住我的双手——她以男人般有力、稳定的抓握力压住它们——她的黑眼睛闪闪发光——她棕色的肤色深红——她脸上的力量和能量在她慷慨的纯粹内心光芒中焕发着美丽。和她的怜悯。

“我会相信你——如果时机成熟，我会相信你 my 朋友和 这里 朋友，作为 my 兄弟和 这里 兄弟。”她停了下来，把我拉近她——这个无所畏惧、高贵的生物——用她的嘴唇像姐妹一样碰触我的额头，并用我的教名呼唤我。 “上帝保佑你，沃尔特！”她说。 “你一个人在这里等一下，冷静一下——为了我们俩的缘故，我最好不要留下来——我最好看着你从楼上的阳台上走。”

她离开了房间。我转身面向窗子，窗外什么也没有，只有孤独的秋景——我转过身去控制自己，然后我也离开了房间，永远地离开了它。

一分钟过去了——简直不能更久了——这时我听到门再次轻轻地打开，地毯上女人的衣服发出沙沙的声音向我走来。当我转过身时，我的心剧烈地跳动着。费尔利小姐从房间的另一端向我走来。

当我们的目光相遇，当她看到我们独自一人时，她停了下来，犹豫了。然后，带着女人在小紧急情况下经常失去的勇气，而在重大紧急情况下却很少有这种勇气，她走到我身边，脸色出奇地苍白，出奇地安静，一只手沿着她走过的桌子拉在后面，握住我的手。另一个人身上有什么东西在她身边，被衣服的褶皱遮住了。

“我进客厅只是为了找这个，”她说。它可能会让您想起您来这里的经历，以及您留下的朋友。你告诉我，当我这么做的时候，我进步了很多，我想你可能会喜欢——”

她转过头，给了我一张我们第一次见面的避暑别墅的草图，全是她用自己的铅笔画的。当她把纸递给我时，纸在她手中颤抖——当我从她手中接过纸时，纸在我手中颤抖。

我不敢说出我的感受，我只回答说：“它永远不会离开我，它将是我一生中最珍视的财富。我非常感激——非常感激 您，不辞而别，不让我走。”

“哦！”她天真地说道：“我们一起度过了那么多快乐的日子，我怎么可能放开你呢！”

“那些日子可能一去不复返了，菲尔利小姐——我的生活方式和你的生活方式相去甚远。但如果有一天，当我全心全意、全力以赴的时候，能给你带来片刻的快乐，或者让你免去片刻的悲伤，你会试着记住那位教过你的可怜的绘画大师吗？哈尔科姆小姐已经答应信任我——你也答应吗？”

慈祥的蓝眼睛里，透过她积聚的泪水，隐约闪烁着告别的悲伤。

“我保证，”她断断续续地说。 “哎哟，别用这种眼神看我啊！我全心全意地保证。”

我冒险靠近她一点，伸出了手。

“你有很多爱你的朋友，菲尔利小姐。你的幸福未来是许多人期盼的美好目标。临别时我可以说，这是我的心爱之物 my 也希望吗？”

泪水顺着她的脸颊快速流下。她把一只颤抖的手放在桌子上以稳定自己，同时把另一只手交给了我。我把它拿在手里——我紧紧地握住它。我的头低垂在它上面，我的泪水落在它上面，我的嘴唇压着它——不是爱；哦，不是在爱情中，在最后一刻，而是在绝望的痛苦和自我放弃中。

“看在上帝的份上，离开我吧！”她淡淡地说。

那些恳求的话语中，她内心的秘密倾诉而出。我没有权利听到他们的声音，没有权利回答他们——这些话以她神圣的弱点的名义将我逐出房间。一切都结束了。我放下她的手，不再说话。令人眼花缭乱的泪水将她挡在了我的眼前，我把它们甩开，最后看她一眼。一眼望去，她跌坐在椅子上，双臂垂在桌子上，白皙的头疲倦地垂在手臂上。一个告别的眼神，门就在她面前关闭了——巨大的分离鸿沟在我们之间打开了——劳拉·费尔利的形象已经成为过去的记忆。

哈特赖特叙述的结尾

I

我是应我的朋友沃尔特·哈特赖特先生的要求写下这些文字的。它们旨在描述严重影响费尔利小姐利益的某些事件，这些事件发生在哈特赖特先生离开利默里奇庄园之后。

我不需要说我自己的观点是否批准披露这个非凡的家庭故事，我的叙述是其中的重要组成部分。哈特赖特先生自己承担了这一责任，而尚未相关的情况将表明，如果他选择行使这一权利，他已经充分赢得了这样做的权利。他所采取的以最真实、最生动的方式向他人讲述这个故事的计划要求，在事件发展的每个连续阶段，都应该由当时与这些事件直接相关的人来讲述。它们发生的时间。我作为叙述者出现在这里，就是这种安排的必然结果。珀西瓦尔·格莱德爵士在坎伯兰逗留期间我在场，并亲自关心他在费尔利先生家短暂居住的一项重要结果。因此，我有责任将这些新的环节添加到事件的链条中，并在目前只有哈特赖特先生放弃的地方重新拾起链条本身。

我于 11 月 2 日星期五抵达利默里奇别墅。

我的目的是留在费尔利先生家里，直到珀西瓦尔·格莱德爵士到来。如果那件事导致珀西瓦尔爵士与费尔利小姐结合的任何一天，我将带着必要的指示返回伦敦，并忙于起草这位女士的婚姻协议。

周五我没有受到费尔利先生的青睐接受采访。过去几年他一直是，或者自以为是，一个病人，而且他的身体状况还不足以接待我。哈尔科姆小姐是我见到的第一个家庭成员。她在门口迎接我，并将我介绍给哈特赖特先生，他已经在利默里奇住了一段时间。

直到当天晚些时候，晚餐时间我才见到菲尔利小姐。她看起来不太好，我很遗憾看到她的样子。她是一个甜美可爱的女孩，对身边的每一个人都和蔼可亲，体贴入微，就像她曾经的优秀母亲一样——不过，就个人而言，她很像她的父亲。费尔利夫人有着黑色的眼睛和头发，她的大女儿哈尔科姆小姐让我强烈地想起了她。费尔利小姐晚上给我们演奏——我想，没有平时那么好。我们玩了惠斯特棋，就比赛而言，这纯粹是对这项高贵游戏的亵渎。在我们第一次互相介绍时，哈特赖特先生给我留下了很好的印象，但我很快发现他并没有摆脱与他的年龄有关的社交失败。有三件事是当代年轻人都做不到的。他们不能坐下来喝酒，不能玩惠斯特牌，也不能恭维女士。哈特赖特先生也不例外。除此之外，即使在最初的日子里，在短暂的相识中，他也给我留下了一个谦虚而绅士般的年轻人的印象。

就这样周五就过去了。我对那天引起我注意的更严重的事情只字不提——给费尔利小姐的匿名信，当我向我提到这件事时我认为采取的正确措施，以及我所相信的每一种可能的解释珀西瓦尔·格莱德爵士很容易提供这种情况，据我所知，在之前的叙述中，所有这些都已得到充分注意。

星期六，在我吃早餐之前，哈特赖特先生就离开了。费尔利小姐整天呆在自己的房间里，而哈尔科姆小姐在我看来精神不振。这所房子已经不再是菲利普·菲尔利夫妇时代的样子了。上午，我独自散步，参观了三十多年前我在利默里奇处理家族生意时第一次见到的地方。他们也不再是以前的样子了。

两点钟，费尔利先生派人说他已经康复，可以见我了。 He 无论如何，自从我第一次认识他以来，他就没有改变过。他的谈话和往常一样，都是为了他自己和他的疾病、他精美的硬币和他无与伦比的伦勃朗蚀刻画。当我试图谈论把我带到他家的事情时，他闭上了眼睛，说我“让他不高兴”。我不断地回到这个话题，让他心烦意乱。我所能确定的是，他把他侄女的婚姻视为已成定局，是她父亲批准的，也是他亲自批准的，这是一桩理想的婚姻，当担心的事情解除时，他个人应该感到高兴。超过。至于和解，如果我能咨询他的侄女，然后尽可能深入地了解我自己对家庭事务的了解，并准备好一切，并限制他作为监护人在业务中的份额，在在正确的时刻——当然，他会非常高兴地满足我的观点和其他人的观点。与此同时，我在那里看到了他，一个无助的受害者，被限制在自己的房间里。我觉得他看起来像是想取笑吗？不，那为什么要捉弄他呢？

如果我对家庭事务的了解不足以提醒我，菲尔利先生在监护人的角色上如此缺乏自我主张，也许我会感到有点惊讶，如果我对家庭事务的了解不足以提醒我，他是一个单身人士。人，而且他对利默里奇庄园的财产只有终身利益。因此，就目前情况而言，我对采访的结果既不感到惊讶也不失望。菲尔利先生简单地证明了我的期望——事情就这样结束了。

星期天是沉闷的一天，无论在室内还是室外。珀西瓦尔·格莱德爵士的律师寄来了一封信给我，确认已收到我的匿名信副本和随附的案件陈述。菲尔利小姐下午加入了我们，她看上去苍白而沮丧，完全不像她自己。我和她聊了一会儿，并大胆地微妙地提到了珀西瓦尔爵士。她听着，什么也没说。所有其他科目她都心甘情愿地追求，但这个科目她允许放弃。我开始怀疑她是否会后悔自己的订婚——就像年轻的女士们经常做的那样，当后悔来得太晚时。

周一，珀西瓦尔·格莱德爵士抵达。

我发现他是一个最有魅力的人，无论是举止还是外表。他看起来比我想象的要苍老一些，额头已经秃了，脸上有些伤痕和憔悴，但动作却像年轻人一样活跃，精神抖擞。他与哈尔科姆小姐的会面是令人愉快的、诚恳的、不做作的，当我被介绍给他时，他对我的接待是那么轻松愉快，我们相处得像老朋友一样。他到达时费尔利小姐不在我们身边，但大约十分钟后她进入了房间。珀西瓦尔爵士起身，以完美的优雅致意。他对看到这位年轻女士的容貌恶化感到明显的担忧，他的语气、声音和举止都表现出温柔和尊重，语气、声音和举止都谦逊而精致，这同样归功于他良好的教养和良好的判断力。在这种情况下，我很惊讶地看到菲尔利小姐在他面前仍然显得拘谨和不安，而且她又抓住了第一次离开房间的机会。珀西瓦尔爵士既没有注意到她接待他时的克制，也没有注意到她突然退出我们的社交圈。当她在场时，他没有打扰她，也没有在哈尔科姆小姐离开时暗示她的离开，让她难堪。当我在利默里奇庄园与他为伴时，无论是在这一次还是在其他任何场合，他的机智和品味都没有错。

菲尔利小姐一离开房间，他就主动提及这封匿名信，以免我们在这封匿名信上感到尴尬。他在从汉普郡出发的途中在伦敦停留，见过他的律师，阅读了我转发的文件，然后前往坎伯兰，急于通过言语所能传达的最迅速和最全面的解释来满足我们的想法。听到他这样表达后，我向他提供了我保留下来供他检查的那封信原件。他向我表示感谢，但拒绝看，说他看过副本，并且很愿意把原件留在我们手中。

他立即发表的声明本身就像我一直预期的那样简单而令人满意。

他告诉我们，凯瑟里克夫人在过去的几年里让他承担了一些义务，要求他为他的家人和他自己提供忠实的服务。她更加不幸，因为她嫁给了一个抛弃了她的丈夫，而且她有一个独生子，她的智力从小就处于紊乱状态。尽管她的婚姻使她搬到了汉普郡的一个远离珀西瓦尔爵士财产所在社区的地方，但他还是小心翼翼地不让她看不见——考虑到她过去的服务，他对这个可怜的女人怀有友好的感情，他对她在应对灾难时表现出的耐心和勇气的钦佩，使他更加坚定了自己的信念。随着时间的推移，她不幸的女儿的精神痛苦症状日益严重，以至于有必要将她置于适当的医疗护理之下。凯瑟里克夫人本人认识到这种必要性，但她也感受到了与她享有受人尊敬的地位的人普遍存在的偏见，反对让她的孩子作为乞丐进入公共收容所。珀西瓦尔爵士尊重这种偏见，就像他尊重任何阶层生活中诚实的情感独立一样，并决定通过支付凯瑟里克夫人的女儿的费用来表达他对凯瑟里克夫人早期对自己和家人利益的依恋的感激之情。在值得信赖的私人庇护所进行维护。让她母亲感到遗憾的是，也让他自己感到遗憾的是，这个不幸的人发现了环境促使他对她进行限制，并因此对他产生了最强烈的仇恨和不信任。她逃亡后写的那封匿名信显然可以归因于这种仇恨和不信任——这种仇恨和不信任在精神病院中以各种方式表达出来。如果哈尔科姆小姐或吉尔摩先生对文件的回忆没有证实这一观点，或者如果他们希望了解有关庇护所的任何其他详细信息（他提到的地址，以及其证明上的两位医生的姓名和地址）病人已入院），他已准备好回答任何问题并消除任何不确定性。他已经对这位不幸的年轻女子尽了自己的责任，指示他的律师不遗余力地寻找她，并让她再次得到医疗护理，现在他只渴望对费尔利小姐和她的家人尽自己的责任。 ，以同样简单、直接的方式。

我是第一个回应这一呼吁的人。我自己的课程对我来说很简单。法律的伟大之处在于，它可以对任何人类在任何情况下做出的、任何形式的陈述提出质疑。如果我觉得专业上有必要根据珀西瓦尔·格莱德爵士自己的解释对他提起诉讼，那么毫无疑问我会这样做。但我的职责并不在于这个方向——我的职能纯粹是司法性质的。我要权衡我们刚刚听到的解释，充分考虑提供解​​释的绅士的崇高声誉，并诚实地决定根据珀西瓦尔爵士自己的表现，这些可能性是否明显支持他，或者明显不利于他。我自己的信念是，他们显然是支持他的，因此我宣布，在我看来，他的解释无疑是令人满意的。

哈尔科姆小姐非常认真地看着我之后，也说了几句话，表达了同样的意思——不过，她的态度有些犹豫，但在我看来，当时的情况并不值得这样做。我无法肯定地说珀西瓦尔爵士是否注意到了这一点。我的观点是，他确实这么做了，因为他有针对性地重新开始了这个话题，尽管他现在可能完全适当地允许这个话题停下来。

“如果我对事实的简单陈述只是针对吉尔摩先生，”他说，“我应该认为没有必要进一步提及这个令人不快的事情。我可以公平地期望吉尔摩先生，作为一位绅士，相信我的话，当他公正地对待我时，我们之间关于这个话题的所有讨论都结束了。但我和女士的立场不一样。我欠她的——我不会向任何活着的人承认的—— 证明 我的主张的真实性。哈尔科姆小姐，你不能要求提供这个证据，因此我有责任向你提供它，尤其是费尔利小姐。请您立即写信给这位不幸妇女的母亲——凯瑟里克夫人——请求她提供证词来支持我刚才向您提供的解释。

我看到哈尔科姆小姐变色了，看上去有些不安。珀西瓦尔爵士的建议，尽管表达得很礼貌，在她看来，正如在我看来，非常微妙地指出了她的举止在一两分钟后流露出的犹豫。

“珀西瓦尔爵士，我希望您不要认为我不信任您，这对我来说是不公平的，”她很快说道。

“当然不是，哈尔科姆小姐。我提出我的建议纯粹是为了关注 您。如果我仍然敢于坚持下去，你能原谅我的固执吗？”

说话间，他走到写字台前，拉过一把椅子，打开了纸盒。

“请允许我写下这张便条，”他说，“作为一个帮助 me。它不需要占用您超过几分钟的时间。你只需问凯瑟里克夫人两个问题。首先，她的女儿是否在她知情并同意的情况下被安置在精神病院。其次，我在这件事上所承担的责任是否值得她对我表达感激之情？吉尔摩先生在这个不愉快的话题上心情很轻松，你的心情也很轻松——请写下这张便条，让我也心情轻松。

“珀西瓦尔爵士，你强迫我答应你的请求，而我宁愿拒绝。”

说完这句话，哈尔科姆小姐从座位上起身，走到写字台前。珀西瓦尔爵士向她表示感谢，递给她一支笔，然后朝壁炉走去。费尔利小姐的意大利小灰狗躺在地毯上。他伸出手，和蔼地叫那只狗。

“来吧，尼娜，”他说，“我们记得彼此，不是吗？”

那只小野兽像宠物狗一样，胆小、脾气暴躁，猛地抬头看了他一眼，从他伸出的手上退缩了，哀嚎着，瑟瑟发抖，躲到了沙发底下。他几乎不可能因为狗对待他这样的小事而感到沮丧，但我观察到，他突然朝窗户走去。也许他的脾气有时会很暴躁。如果是这样，我可以同情他。我的脾气有时也很暴躁。

哈尔科姆小姐很快就写下了这张便条。写完后，她从写字台上站起来，把打开的纸递给珀西瓦尔爵士。他弯下腰​​，从她手中接过，看也不看里面的内容，立即将其折叠起来，密封好，写上地址，默默地递还给她。我一生中从未见过比这更优雅、更恰当的事情了。

“珀西瓦尔爵士，你坚持要我寄这封信吗？”哈尔科姆小姐说。

“我求你把它贴出来，”他回答道。 “现在它已经写好并密封起来，请允许我问一两个关于它所提到的不幸女人的最后问题。我已阅读吉尔摩先生亲切地写给我的律师的信函，其中描述了匿名信作者身份的情况。但该声明未提及某些要点。安妮·凯瑟里克看到菲尔利小姐了吗？

“当然不是，”哈尔科姆小姐回答道。

“她看到你了吗？”

“没有。”

“当时她没看到房子里有任何人，除了一位哈特赖特先生，他在这里的教堂墓地偶然遇见了她？”

“没有其他人。”

“先生。我相信哈特赖特在利默里奇受聘担任绘画大师？他是某个水彩画协会的成员吗？”

“我相信他是，”哈尔科姆小姐回答。

他顿了顿，似乎在思考最后一个答案，然后补充道——

“你知道安妮·凯瑟里克在这个街区时住在哪里吗？”

“是的。在荒原上的一个农场，名叫托德角。”

“追踪她是我们对这个可怜生物的责任，”珀西瓦尔爵士继续说道。 “她可能在托德角说了一些话，这可能有助于我们找到她。有机会我会去那里打探一下。与此同时，由于我无法说服自己与费尔利小姐讨论这个痛苦的话题，请哈尔科姆小姐，请您向她做出必要的解释，当然，要推迟到您收到对此问题的答复为止。笔记。”

哈尔科姆小姐答应遵守他的要求。他谢过她，愉快地点点头，然后离开我们，去自己的房间安顿下来。当他打开门时，那只粗纹灰狗从沙发下面探出了尖利的口鼻，对他狂吠、猛咬。

“早上好，哈尔科姆小姐，”当我们只剩下我们时，我说道。 “焦虑的一天已经结束了。”

“是的，”她回答道。 “毫无疑问。我很高兴你的心情得到了满足。”

“My 头脑！想必，你手里有这张纸条，心里也踏实了吧？”

“噢，是的——不然怎么可能呢？我知道事情不可能是这样，”她继续说道，更多的是自言自语，而不是对我说。 “但我几乎希望沃尔特·哈特赖特能在这里呆足够长的时间来出席解释，并听到我写这张便条的建议。”

我对这最后一句话感到有点惊讶——也许也有点生气。

“确实，哈特赖特先生与这封信的事件有着非常显着的联系，”我说。 “我欣然承认，从各方面考虑，他的举止非常谨慎和谨慎。但我完全不知道他的存在会对珀西瓦尔爵士的言论对你我的思想产生什么有用的影响。”

“这只是一个幻想，”她心不在焉地说。 “没有必要讨论这个问题，吉尔摩先生。你的经历应该而且确实是我所期望的最好的指导。”

我完全不喜欢她以这种明显的方式把全部责任推到我的肩上。如果费尔利先生这么做了，我就不会感到惊讶。但意志坚定、头脑清醒的哈尔科姆小姐是世界上最不可能出现在表达自己观点时退缩的人。

“如果还有什么疑问困扰着你，”我说，“为什么不立即向我提及呢？直接告诉我，你有什么理由不信任珀西瓦尔·格莱德爵士吗？”

“什么都没有。”

“你在他的解释中看到什么不可能或矛盾的地方吗？”

“在他向我提供了事实证明之后，我怎么能说我愿意呢？吉尔摩先生，还有比那个女人母亲的证词更好的对他有利的证词吗？

没有比这更好的了。如果你的询问函的答复令人满意，我看不出珀西瓦尔爵士的朋友还能对他抱有什么期望。”

“然后我们会张贴便条，”她说着起身离开房间，“并在得到答案之前不再提及该主题。不要对我的犹豫施加任何压力。我无法给出更好的理由，因为我最近对劳拉感到过度焦虑——吉尔摩先生，焦虑让我们中最坚强的人感到不安。

她突然离开了我，说最后一句话时她自然坚定的声音有些颤抖。敏感、激烈、多情——在这个琐碎、肤浅的时代里的万千女人。我从她很小的时候就认识她了——随着她的成长，我目睹了她在不止一次艰难的家庭危机中经受的考验，而我长期的经验使我重视她在此处详述的情况下的犹豫，我当然应该这样做在另一个女人的情况下没有这种感觉。我看不出有任何不安或怀疑的理由，但她让我有点不安，而且有点怀疑。在我年轻的时候，我应该在自己不合理的心态的刺激下感到恼火和烦恼。在我这个年纪，我知道得更清楚，并以哲学的方式走出去走出去。

II

晚餐时间我们又见面了。

珀西瓦尔爵士情绪如此激动，我几乎认不出他就是在早上的采访中给我留下深刻印象的那个人，他的安静机智、文雅和良好的判断力。我能察觉到的他以前的唯一痕迹，时不时地在他对待菲尔利小姐的态度上再次出现。她的一个眼神或一句话，让他最大声的笑声停了下来，停止了他最欢快的谈话，瞬间让他把所有的注意力都集中到了她身上，而不是餐桌上的其他人。虽然他从来没有公开试图拉她加入谈话，但他从来没有失去过她给他的哪怕一丁点机会，让她无意中陷入其中，并在那些有利的情况下对她说这些话，这是一个不那么机智和不那么机智的男人所能够做到的。当他想到这些的时候，美味佳肴就会有针对性地向她提出。令我惊讶的是，菲尔利小姐似乎意识到了他的关注，但并未被其感动。当他看着她，或者跟她说话时，她时不时会感到有点困惑；但她对他从来没有热情过。地位、财富、教养、美貌、君子的尊重、情人的忠诚，都卑微地放在她的脚下，就外表而言，全都是白送的。

第二天，也就是星期二，珀西瓦尔爵士早上（带着一名仆人作为向导）去了托德角。我后来听说，他的询问没有结果。回来后，他与费尔利先生进行了面谈，下午他和哈尔科姆小姐一起骑马出去了。没有发生任何其他值得记录的事情。晚上像往常一样过去了。珀西瓦尔爵士没有改变，费尔利小姐也没有改变。

周三的帖子带来了一件大事——凯瑟里克夫人的回复。我拿了这份文件的副本，并将其保存下来，不妨将其放在这里。它的运行如下——

“女士，我谨确认收到您的来信，询问我的女儿安妮是否在我知情和同意的情况下接受了医疗监督，以及珀西瓦尔·格莱德爵士在此事中所承担的份额是否值得表达我对这位先生的感激之情。请高兴地接受我对这两个问题的肯定回答，并相信我仍然是您服从的仆人，

“简·安妮·凯瑟里克。”

简短、尖锐、切中要点；这封信的形式更像是一封女性写的商务信——实质上是对珀西瓦尔·格莱德爵士声明的简单确认。这是我的意见，哈尔科姆小姐的意见也是如此，但有一些小小的保留。当珀西瓦尔爵士把这封信拿给他看时，他似乎并没有被其中尖锐而简短的语气所震惊。他告诉我们，凯瑟里克夫人是一个寡言少语的女人，头脑清醒，直率，缺乏想象力，她写的东西简单明了，就像她说话一样。

既然已经收到答复，接下来要完成的任务就是让费尔利小姐了解珀西瓦尔爵士的解释。哈尔科姆小姐已经答应这样做，并离开房间去找她姐姐，这时她突然又回来了，坐在我正在看报纸的安乐椅旁边。珀西瓦尔爵士在一分钟前出去查看马厩，除了我们之外，房间里没有人。

“我想我们真的已经尽力了？”她一边说，一边转过身来，扭动着手中凯瑟里克夫人的信。

“如果我们是珀西瓦尔爵士的朋友，了解他并信任他，那么我们已经做了所有的事情，而且比所有的事情都更重要，这是必要的，”我回答道，对她再次犹豫不决感到有点恼火。 “但如果我们是怀疑他的敌人——”

“甚至连这种替代方案都想不到，”她插话道。 “我们是珀西瓦尔爵士的朋友，如果慷慨和宽容可以增加我们对他的尊敬，那么我们也应该成为珀西瓦尔爵士的崇拜者。你知道他昨天见到了费尔利先生，后来他就和我出去了。”

“是的。我看见你们一起骑马走了。”

“我们首先谈论了安妮·凯瑟里克，以及哈特赖特先生与她会面的独特方式。但我们很快就放弃了这个话题，珀西瓦尔爵士接下来以最无私的方式谈到了他与劳拉的订婚。他说，他观察到她情绪低落，如果没有相反的情况，他愿意将其归因于她在这次访问期间对他态度的改变。然而，如果有任何更严重的原因需要改变，他会恳求费尔利先生或我不要对她的倾向施加任何限制。在这种情况下，他所要求的只是她最后一次回忆起他们之间是在什么情况下订婚的，以及从求爱开始到现在他的行为是什么。 。如果，在对这两个问题进行了适当的思考之后，她真诚地希望他放弃成为她丈夫的荣誉——如果她能亲口如此直白地告诉他——他就会牺牲自己，让她完全自由地去生活。退出婚约。”

“没有人能说得更多，哈尔科姆小姐。就我的经历而言，很少有像他这样处境的人会这么说。”

我说完这句话后，她停了下来，用一种奇怪的困惑和痛苦的表情看着我。

“我没有指控任何人，我也没有怀疑任何事情，”她突然说道。 “但我不能也不会承担说服劳拉接受这桩婚姻的责任。”

“这正是珀西瓦尔·格莱德爵士亲自要求你采取的课程，”我惊讶地回答道。 “他恳求你不要强迫她的意愿。”

“如果我向她传达他的信息，他就间接迫使我强迫他们。”

“怎么可能？”

“吉尔摩先生，请查阅您对劳拉的了解。如果我让她反思一下她订婚的情况，我会立即诉诸她本性中最强烈的两种情感——她对父亲记忆的热爱，以及她对真理的严格尊重。你知道她一生中从未违背过诺言——你知道她是在她父亲病重之初订婚的，而他在临终前充满希望和幸福地谈到了她与珀西瓦尔·格莱德爵士的婚姻。”

我承认我对这个案子的这种看法有点震惊。

“当然，”我说，“你不会是想推断，珀西瓦尔爵士昨天与你交谈时，他推测了你刚才提到的结果吧？”

在她说话之前，她那张坦率、无所畏惧的脸就已经为她做出了回答。

“你认为我会和一个我怀疑如此卑鄙的人待在一起吗？”她愤怒地问道。

我喜欢感受她以这种方式向我倾诉衷肠的愤慨。在我的职业中，我们看到如此多的恶意，却很少看到愤怒。

“那么，”我说，“请原谅我用我们的法律用语告诉你，你的旅行不在记录范围内。无论后果是什么，珀西瓦尔爵士有权要求你的妹妹在要求解除婚约之前，从各个合理的角度仔细考虑她的订婚。如果那封不幸的信使她对他产生了偏见，请立即去告诉她，他已经在你和我的眼中洗清了自己。之后她还能对他提出什么反对意见呢？她有什么借口可以改变对一个两年多前她实际上已经接受为丈夫的男人的看法呢？”

“从法律和理性的角度来看，吉尔摩先生，我敢说，没有任何借口。如果她仍然犹豫不决，如果我仍然犹豫不决，如果你愿意的话，你必须将我们奇怪的行为归因于这两种情况的反复无常，而我们必须尽我们所能承受这种指责。”

说完这句话，她突然起身离开了我。当一个明智的女人被问到一个严肃的问题，却以轻率的回答来回避时，百分之九十九的情况就明确表明她有什么事情要隐瞒。我又重新仔细阅读报纸，强烈怀疑哈尔科姆小姐和费尔利小姐之间有秘密，她们瞒着珀西瓦尔爵士，也瞒着我。我认为这对我们俩都很严厉，尤其是对珀西瓦尔爵士。

当我当天晚些时候再次见到哈尔科姆小姐时，她的语言和态度证实了我的怀疑——或者更准确地说，我的信念。她向我讲述她与她姐姐面谈的结果时，语气简短而含蓄，令人怀疑。费尔利小姐似乎静静地听着，而这封信的事情以正确的角度摆在她面前，但是当哈尔科姆小姐接下来说珀西瓦尔爵士访问利默里奇的目的是说服她让订婚的日子定下来了，她请求时间检查所有与此主题有关的进一步内容。如果珀西瓦尔爵士同意暂时放过她，她将承诺在年底前给他最终答复。她带着如此焦虑和激动的心情请求推迟，哈尔科姆小姐答应在必要时利用她的影响力来实现这一目标，在费尔利小姐的恳求下，所有关于婚姻问题的进一步讨论都结束了。

这样提出的纯粹临时安排对这位年轻女士来说可能足够方便，但事实证明这对这几行的作者来说有点尴尬。那天早上的邮件带来了我伴侣的一封信，这迫使我第二天乘下午的火车回到城里。在这一年剩下的时间里，我很可能不会再有第二次在利默里奇庄园露面的机会了。在那种情况下，假设费尔利小姐最终决定坚持她的订婚，在我与她达成和解之前，我与她进行必要的个人沟通将变得完全不可能，我们应该有义务致力于写下始终应该解决的问题。双方通过口耳相传进行讨论。在就所需的延误问题与珀西瓦尔爵士进行协商之前，我对这一困难只字不提。他是一位非常有礼貌的绅士，不会立即答应这个请求。当哈尔科姆小姐告诉我这件事时，我告诉她，在离开利默里奇之前，我绝对必须和她姐姐谈谈，因此，安排我第二天早上在菲尔利小姐自己的客厅里见她。晚上她没有下来吃晚饭，也没有和我们一起。身体不适就是借口，我想珀西瓦尔爵士听到这件事后看起来有点恼火，他也可能是这样。

第二天早上，早餐一吃完，我就去了费尔利小姐的客厅。那个可怜的女孩看上去那么苍白、那么悲伤，却那么高兴、那么漂亮地走上前来欢迎我，以至于我在上楼的路上一直想教训她的反复无常和优柔寡断，但我当场就失败了。我领着她回到她起身的椅子旁，坐在她对面。她那条脾气暴躁的宠物灰狗就在房间里，我完全预料到会受到狂吠和厉声的接待。说来奇怪，这个异想天开的小畜生辜负了我的期望，在我坐下的那一刻，它跳到我的腿上，用它锋利的口鼻熟悉地戳我的手。

“亲爱的，当你还是个孩子的时候，你经常坐在我的膝盖上，”我说，“现在你的小狗似乎决心要继承你的空缺王位。你画的画漂亮吗？”

我指着她身边桌子上的一本小相册，当我进来时，她显然正在翻阅它。打开的页面上整齐地镶嵌着一幅小水彩风景画。正是这幅画提出了我的问题——一个足够无聊的问题——但我怎么能一开口就开始和她谈论正事呢？

“不，”她困惑地把目光从画上移开，说道，“这不是我做的。”

她的手指有一个不安分的习惯，我记得她小时候就有这样的习惯，每当有人和她说话时，她总是把玩第一个到手的东西。这次，他们走到相册前，心不在焉地摆弄着那幅小水彩画的边缘。她脸上忧郁的表情加深了。她没有看那幅画，也没有看我。她的目光不安地从房间里的一个物体移到另一个物体，这清楚地表明她怀疑我来和她说话的目的。看到这一点，我想最好尽快达到目的。

“亲爱的，我来这里的目的之一就是向你道别，”我开始说道。 “我今天必须回到伦敦：在我离开之前，我想和你谈谈你自己的事情。”

“吉尔摩先生，我很遗憾你要走了，”她亲切地看着我说道。 “有你在这里就像是快乐的旧时光。

“我希望我能够回来再次回忆起那些美好的回忆，”我继续说道； “但由于未来存在一些不确定性，我必须抓住机会，现在就和你谈谈。我是你的老律师，也是你的老朋友，我确信，在无意冒犯的情况下，我可以提醒你，你有可能嫁给珀西瓦尔·格莱德爵士。”

她突然把手从小相册上拿开，仿佛它变热了，烧伤了她。她的手指在腿上紧张地缠在一起，她的眼睛再次低头看着地板，脸上露出一种拘束的表情，看起来几乎像是一种痛苦的表情。

“我的婚约真的有必要提吗？”她低声问道。

“有必要参考它，”我回答说，“但不要纠缠它。我们只是说你可以结婚，也可以不结婚。在第一种情况下，我必须事先做好与您达成和解的准备，出于礼貌，我不应该在没有先咨询您的情况下这样做。这可能是我听到您的愿望的唯一机会。因此，让我们假设一下你结婚的情况，然后让我用尽可能简短的语言告诉你，你现在的处境是什么，如果你愿意的话，将来你可以做什么。”

我向她解释了婚姻解决的目的，然后准确地告诉她她的前景是什么——首先是她成年后，其次是她叔叔去世后——标志着两者之间的区别她仅拥有终身权益的财产，以及由她自己控制的财产。她专注地听着，脸上的表情依然拘谨，双手仍然紧张地握在腿上。

“现在，”我最后说道，“告诉我，如果你能想到任何条件，在我们假设的情况下，你希望我为你提出条件——当然，要得到你监护人的批准，因为你还没有成年。”

她在椅子上不安地移动着，然后突然非常认真地看着我的脸。

“如果这真的发生了，”她有气无力地说，“如果我——”

“如果你结婚了，”我补充道，帮助她。

“别让他把我和玛丽安分开，”她突然爆发出能量，大声喊道。 “噢，吉尔摩先生，请立法规定玛丽安要和我住在一起！”

在其他情况下，我可能会对我的问题以及之前的冗长解释的这种本质上女性化的解释感到好笑。但当她说话时，她的表情和语气让我变得更加严肃——它们让我感到痛苦。她的言语虽然不多，却暴露了她对过去的绝望执着，这对未来来说是不祥的预兆。

“你让玛丽安·哈尔科姆和你住在一起很容易通过私人安排解决，”我说。 “我想你很难理解我的问题。它指的是你自己的财产——你的钱的处置。假设你成年后要立遗嘱，你希望这笔钱给谁？”

“玛丽安对我来说既是母亲又是妹妹，”这个善良、深情的女孩说道，她漂亮的蓝眼睛在说话时闪闪发光。 “吉尔摩先生，我可以把它交给玛丽安吗？”

“当然，亲爱的，”我回答道。 “但请记住，这是一笔多么大的数目。你想把这一切都交给哈尔科姆小姐吗？

她犹豫了；她的颜色来了又去，她的手又偷偷地放回了小相册里。

“不是全部，”她说。 “除了玛丽安之外，还有一个人——”

她停了下来；她的脸色变得更红了，放在相册上的手指轻轻地敲打着图画的边缘，仿佛她的记忆让它们随着一首最喜欢的曲子的记忆而机械地运转。

“你是说除了哈尔科姆小姐之外还有其他家庭成员吗？”看到她不知如何继续，我建议道。

颜色越来越浓，蔓延到了她的额头和脖子上，紧张的手指突然紧紧地抓住了书的边缘。

“还有另外一个人，”她说道，没有注意到我最后说的话，尽管她显然已经听到了。 “如果——如果我可以把它留下的话，其他人可能会喜欢一件小纪念品。我先死也没什么坏处——”

她又停了下来。原本在她脸颊上蔓延的颜色突然消失了，也突然消失了。抓着相册的手松开了，微微颤抖着，把书从她身边移开。她看了我一眼，然后把头转向椅子上。当她改变姿势时，她的手帕掉到了地上，她赶紧用手捂住脸。

伤心！记住她，就像我一样，是一个最活泼、最快乐的孩子，整天都在笑，而现在看到她，在她的年龄和她的美丽中，如此破碎，如此堕落！

在她给我带来的痛苦中，我忘记了过去的岁月，以及它们给我们彼此的立场带来的改变。我把椅子移到她身边，从地毯上拿起她的手帕，轻轻地把她的手从脸上拉开。 “别哭，亲爱的，”我说，并亲手擦干了她眼中聚集的泪水，仿佛她就是十年前的小劳拉·菲尔利。

这是我能采取的最好的方式来塑造她。她把头靠在我的肩上，泪流满面地微笑着。

“我很抱歉忘记了自己，”她天真地说道。 “我身体不太好，最近感到非常虚弱和紧张，一个人的时候我经常无缘无故地哭泣。我现在好多了——我可以按我应该的方式回答你，吉尔摩先生，我确实可以。”

“不，不，亲爱的，”我回答道，“我们现在就考虑这个话题了。你已经说得足够多了，足以让我尽可能地照顾你的利益，我们可以在下次有机会解决细节问题。咱们先把正事说完了，聊点别的吧。”

我立即引导她谈论其他话题。十分钟后，她的精神好多了，我起身告辞。

“你再来这里吧。”她认真地说。 “如果你愿意再来的话，我会努力更值得你对我和我的利益的善意。”

仍然执着于过去——我以我的方式向她代表的过去，就像哈尔科姆小姐以她的方式一样！看到她在职业生涯的开始时回首往事，就像我在我的职业生涯结束时回首往事一样，我感到非常困扰。

“如果我再来，我希望能找到更好的你。”我说。 “更好、更快乐。上帝保佑你，亲爱的！”

她只是把脸颊凑到我面前让我亲吻作为回应。即使律师也是有心的，当我与她告别时，我的心有点痛。

我们之间的整个会面才持续了半个多小时——当着我的面，她没有吐出一句话来解释她对婚姻前景的明显痛苦和沮丧，但她却设法赢得了我的青睐。对于她这边的问题，我既不知道如何，也不知道为什么。我走进房间，觉得珀西瓦尔·格莱德爵士有充分的理由抱怨她对待他的方式。我留下了它，暗暗希望事情最终能以她相信他的话并要求释放她为结局。像我这样年纪、有经验的人应该知道不会以这种不合理的方式犹豫不决。我无法为自己找任何借口；我只能实话实说，而且——确实如此。

我离开的时间已经临近了。我派人给费尔利先生说，如果他愿意的话，我会等他请假，但他必须原谅我太匆忙了。他用铅笔在纸条上写了一条回信：“亲切的爱和最美好的祝愿，亲爱的吉尔摩。任何形式的匆忙都会对我造成难以言喻的伤害。祈祷照顾好自己。再见。”

就在我离开之前，我单独见到了哈尔科姆小姐一会儿。

“你对劳拉说了你想说的一切了吗？”她问。

“是的，”我回答道。 “她非常虚弱而且紧张——我很高兴有你来照顾她。”

哈尔科姆小姐锐利的眼睛仔细地审视着我的脸。

“你正在改变你对劳拉的看法，”她说。 “你比昨天更愿意体谅她了。”

任何明智的男人都不会在毫无准备的情况下与女人进行一场言语剑术比赛。我只回答——

“让我知道发生什么事。在收到你的消息之前我不会采取任何行动。”

她仍然严肃地看着我。 “我希望一切都结束了，而且结束得很好，吉尔摩先生——你也一样。”说完这句话，她就离开了我。

珀西瓦尔爵士非常有礼貌地坚持送我到马车门口。

“如果你曾经在我家附近，”他说，“请不要忘记我真诚地渴望增进我们的了解。这个家庭里久经考验且值得信赖的老朋友将永远是我任何一个家里的受欢迎的客人。”

一个真正令人难以抗拒的男人——彬彬有礼、体贴、令人愉快地没有骄傲——他的每一寸都是一位绅士。当我驱车前往车站时，我觉得我可以愉快地做任何事情来促进珀西瓦尔·格莱德爵士的利益——除了为他的妻子签订婚姻协议之外，我可以做任何事情。

III

我回到伦敦一周过去了，却没有收到哈尔科姆小姐的任何来信。

第八天，她手写的一封信被放在我桌子上的其他信件中。

它宣布珀西瓦尔·格莱德爵士已被明确接受，婚礼将按照他最初的愿望在年底前举行。仪式很可能会在十二月的最后两周举行。费尔利小姐的二十一岁生日是在三月底。因此，通过这种安排，她将在成年前大约三个月成为珀西瓦尔爵士的妻子。

我不应该感到惊讶，我不应该感到抱歉，但尽管如此，我还是感到惊讶和抱歉。哈尔科姆小姐的信的简短程度令人不满意，引起了一些小小的失望，这些失望与这些感情交织在一起，扰乱了我这一天的平静。我的通讯员用六行文字宣布了拟议的婚姻——在另外三行文字中，她告诉我珀西瓦尔爵士已经离开坎伯兰回到他在汉普郡的家，在最后的两句话中，她告诉我，首先，劳拉悲伤地想要改变和欢乐的社会；其次，她决定立即带妹妹去约克郡拜访一些老朋友，尝试一下这种改变的效果。信就这样结束了，没有任何一句话来解释是什么情况让费尔利小姐在我上次见到她之后的短短一周内决定接受珀西瓦尔·格莱德爵士。

后来我才向我充分解释了突然做出这个决定的原因。我不该根据道听途说的证据来不完美地叙述它。这些情况来自哈尔科姆小姐的个人经历，当她的叙述接替我的时候，她会准确地描述它们所发生的每一个细节。与此同时，在我放下笔并退出这个故事之前，我要履行的明确职责是讲述与我所关心的费尔利小姐求婚有关的剩余事件，即：结算图。

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 are yet to come.

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 age.

Let us take the land first.

In the time of Miss Fairlie’s paternal grandfather (whom we will call Mr. Fairlie, the elder) the entailed succession to the Limmeridge estate stood thus—

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 death, if the said Frederick died without leaving male issue.

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 life-interest 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 settlement—or, in other words, with the settlement I meant to make for her—the 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 他的 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 inheritance of Limmeridge for his son, if he had one.

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 between Sir Percival’s lawyer and myself.

The personal estate, or, in other words, the money to which Miss Fairlie would become entitled on reaching the age of twenty-one years, is the next point to consider.

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 life-interest 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 nobleman—seeing 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 intercession—was 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 her death.

All preliminary explanations being now cleared out of the way, I come at last to the real knot of the case—to the twenty thousand pounds.

This sum was absolutely Miss Fairlie’s own on her completing her twenty-first year, and the whole future disposition of it depended, in the first instance, on the conditions I could obtain for her in her marriage-settlement. 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 sufficient to give the necessary abstract of it.

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 life—afterwards 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 half-sister 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 clause—and no one who reads it can fail, I think, to agree with me that it meted out equal justice to all parties.

We shall see how my proposals were met on the husband’s side.

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 following note was appended to them—

“Not admissible. The 主要 to go to Sir Percival Glyde, in the event of his surviving Lady Glyde, and there being no issue.”

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 husband.

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 client—Miss Fairlie not having yet completed her twenty-first year—Mr. 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 他的 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 expression of it.

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 twenty-one 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 over-estimate 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 thousand pounds, was it not a fair bargain? Surely, yes. Then why not make it?”

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 good-humour. A fat, well fed, smiling, friendly man of business is of all parties to a bargain the most hopeless to deal with. Mr. Merriman was one of this class.

“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. Do—now pray do let us settle this little difference of ours by word of mouth, if we can! Have you heard from your client yet?”

“Yes. Have you heard from yours?”

“My dear, good sir! I wish I had heard from him to any purpose—I wish, with all my heart, the responsibility was off my shoulders; but he is obstinate—or let me rather say, resolute—and 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 bound—don’t you see, my dear sir?—my hands are bound.”

“You maintain your note on the clause, then, to the letter?” I said.

“Yes—deuce 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 me—what does your side say?”

I was ashamed to tell him. I attempted to gain time—nay, I did worse. My legal instincts got the better of me, and I even tried to bargain.

“Twenty thousand pounds is rather a large sum to be given up by the lady’s friends at two days’ notice,” I said.

“Very true,” replied Mr. Merriman, looking down thoughtfully at his boots. “Properly put, sir—most properly put!”

“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 itself into a matter of bargaining after all. What is the least you will take?”

“The least we will take,” said Mr. Merriman, “is nineteen- thousand-nine-hundred-and-ninety-nine-pounds-nineteen-shillings- and-elevenpence-three-farthings. Ha! ha! ha! Excuse me, Mr. Gilmore. I must have my little joke.”

“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 good-humoured on my side; I came back to business, and closed the interview.

“This is Friday,” I said. “Give us till Tuesday next for our final answer.”

“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 woman who wrote the anonymous letter, have they?”

“Nothing more,” I answered. “Have you found no trace of her?”

“Not yet,” said my legal friend. “But we don’t despair. Sir Percival has his suspicions that Somebody is keeping her in hiding, and we are having that Somebody watched.”

“You mean the old woman who was with her in Cumberland,” I said.

“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 guard—watch 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 good-morning, sir. On Tuesday next I shall hope for the pleasure of hearing from you.” He smiled amiably and went out.

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 business-like indifference towards Miss Fairlie. I had an honest feeling of affection and admiration for her—I remembered gratefully that her father had been the kindest patron and friend to me that ever man had—I 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 of—it 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 interests of my old friend’s only child.

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 stopped and spoke to me. It was Mr. Walter Hartright.

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 haggard—his manner was hurried and uncertain—and 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 you happen to know Mr. Gilmore?”

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 might be, on the subject of Miss Fairlie’s marriage.

“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 were when we last met.”

A momentary nervous contraction quivered about his lips and eyes, and made me half reproach myself for having answered him in such a significantly guarded manner.

“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 might be watching us.

“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 to-day 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.

IV

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 mighty bad humour to breakfast by myself the next morning.

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 writing-desk. 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 glass.

“You very best of good old friends,” said Mr. Fairlie, leaning back lazily before he could look at me, “are you 相当 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, serenely twirling the magnifying glass between his white fingers and thumbs.

“I have come to speak to you on a very important matter,” I said, “and you will therefore excuse me, if I suggest that we had better be alone.”

The unfortunate valet looked at me gratefully. Mr. Fairlie faintly repeated my last three words, “better be alone,” with every appearance of the utmost possible astonishment.

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.

Mr. Fairlie arched his eyebrows and pursed up his lips in sarcastic surprise.

“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 object, Gilmore, to a portfolio stand?”

“ do object. For the third time, Mr. Fairlie, I beg that we may be alone.”

My tone and manner left him no alternative but to comply with my request. He looked at the servant, and pointed peevishly to a chair at his side.

“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 hand-bell quite within my reach? Yes? Then why the devil don’t you go?”

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 don’t bully me. I’m not strong enough.”

I was determined not to let him provoke me, for Laura Fairlie’s sake.

“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 time.”

Mr. Fairlie shook his head and sighed piteously.

“This is heartless of you, Gilmore—very heartless,” he said. “Never mind, go on.”

I put all the points to him carefully—I 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 smelling-bottle 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 nature!”

“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 way—he must give way, I tell you, or he exposes himself to the base imputation of marrying Miss Fairlie entirely from mercenary motives.”

Mr. Fairlie shook the silver smelling-bottle at me playfully.

“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 are—oh, 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 不能 put up with being called a Radical. My blood boiled at it—I started out of my chair—I was speechless with Indignation.

“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 quarrel—I haven’t stamina enough. Shall we drop the subject? Yes. Come and look at these sweet etchings. Do let me teach you to understand the heavenly pearliness of these lines. Do now, there’s a good Gilmore!”

While he was maundering on in this way I was, fortunately for my own self-respect, returning to my senses. When I spoke again I was composed enough to treat his impertinence with the silent contempt that it deserved.

“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 tinkle my bell for Louis, and have him sent out of the house immediately.”

“You shall not irritate me, Mr. Fairlie—for 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 leave the room.”

“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’t—I haven’t stamina enough. You want to upset me, to upset yourself, to upset Glyde, and to upset Laura; and—oh, 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?”

“Yes, please. So glad we understand each other at last. Sit down again—do!”

I walked at once to the door, and Mr. Fairlie resignedly “tinkled” his hand-bell. Before I left the room I turned round and addressed him for the last time.

“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.”

The door opened behind me, and the valet stood waiting on the threshold.

“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 lunch!”

I was too much disgusted to reply—I turned on my heel, and left him in silence. There was an up train at two o’clock in the afternoon, and by that train I returned to London.

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 have drawn up the deed if I had refused to undertake it.

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 under such a settlement as I was compelled to make for Laura Fairlie.

Limmeridge House, Nov. 8.[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.

This morning Mr. Gilmore left us.

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 with Sir Percival, and went up to Laura’s room instead.

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 should ask her the questions I had come to put, or not.

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 longer—I must and will end it.”

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 drawings—the fatal book that she will dream over whenever she is alone—was in one of her hands. I began by gently and firmly taking it from her, and putting it out of sight on a side-table.

“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 helpless—I can’t control myself. For my own sake, and for all our sakes, I must have courage enough to end it.”

“Do you mean courage enough to claim your release?” I asked.

“No,” she said simply. “Courage, dear, to tell the truth.”

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 breast.

“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 forgotten my father’s dying words, to make that wretchedness worse.”

“What is it you propose, then?” I asked.

“To tell Sir Percival Glyde the truth with my own lips,” she answered, “and to let him release me, if he will, not because I ask him, but because he knows all.”

“What do you mean, Laura, by ‘all’? Sir Percival will know enough (he has told me so himself) if he knows that the engagement is opposed to your own wishes.”

“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.”

“Laura! you will never lower yourself by making a confession to him?”

“I shall lower myself, indeed, if I gain my release by hiding from him what he has a right to know.”

“He has not the shadow of a right to know it!”

“Wrong, Marian, wrong! I ought to deceive no one—least 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 falsehood.”

I held her away from me in astonishment. For the first time in our lives we had changed places—the resolution was all on her side, the hesitation all on mine. I looked into the pale, quiet, resigned young face—I saw the pure, innocent heart, in the loving eyes that looked back at me—and 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 would have made me deceitful too.

“Don’t be angry with me, Marian,” she said, mistaking my silence.

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 frighten every one about me.

“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 to-morrow—in your presence, Marian. I will say nothing that is wrong, nothing that you or I need be ashamed of—but, 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 to say, let him act towards me as he will.”

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 me, and we passed gradually into talking of other things.

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 music-stand. She took the volume away herself, so that nobody might find it out and ask her to play from it.

I had no opportunity of discovering whether her purpose of the morning had changed or not, until she wished Sir Percival good-night—and 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 sitting-room 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 good-night 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 cheeks, and drew my face down to hers till our lips met.

“Leave it there to-night,” she whispered; “to-morrow may be cruel, and may make me say good-bye to it for ever.”

9th.—The first event of the morning was not of a kind to raise my spirits—a 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 of his letter, which has almost alarmed me.

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 life.

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 self-control.

“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 me—hidden even from herself, till love found it, and suffering called it forth.

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 embarrassment any longer.

There was just one moment of dead silence before Laura addressed him.

“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 say—I speak from my own thoughts, not from hers. I am sure you will be kind enough to understand that before I go any farther?”

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 one another plainly.

“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 only doing myself justice to tell you that I decline to accept it.”

His attentive face relaxed a little. But I saw one of his feet, softly, quietly, incessantly beating on the carpet under the table, and I felt that he was secretly as anxious as ever.

“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 now—I 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 best, and that his hopes and wishes ought to be my hopes and wishes too.”

Her voice trembled for the first time. Her restless fingers stole their way into my lap, and held fast by one of my hands. There was another moment of silence, and then Sir Percival spoke.

“May I ask,” he said, “if I have ever proved myself unworthy of the trust which it has been hitherto my greatest honour and greatest happiness to possess?”

“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 act, Sir Percival—not mine.”

The uneasy beating of his foot suddenly stopped, and he leaned forward eagerly across the table.

“My act?” he said. “What reason can there be on my side for withdrawing?”

I heard her breath quickening—I felt her hand growing cold. In spite of what she had said to me when we were alone, I began to be afraid of her. I was wrong.

“A reason that it is very hard to tell you,” she answered. “There is a change in me, Sir Percival—a 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 us.

“What change?” he asked. The tone in which he put the question jarred on me—there was something painfully suppressed in it.

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 then addressed Sir Percival one more, but this time without looking at him.

“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 so any longer?”

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 grief—it was hard to say which—there was no significant trembling in them. There was nothing, absolutely nothing, to tell the secret of his thoughts at that moment—the moment which was the crisis of his life and the crisis of hers.

I was determined to make him declare himself, for Laura’s sake.

“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 right to hear from her.”

That last rash sentence opened a way for him by which to escape me if he chose, and he instantly took advantage of it.

“Pardon me, Miss Halcombe,” he said, still keeping his hand over his face, “pardon me if I remind you that I have claimed no such right.”

The few plain words which would have brought him back to the point from which he had wandered were just on my lips, when Laura checked me by speaking again.

“I hope I have not made my painful acknowledgment in vain,” she continued. “I hope it has secured me your entire confidence in what I have still to say?”

“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 expectant—it 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 me—no word ever can pass—neither 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 withdrawing from your engagement.”

“You have said more than enough,” he answered, “to make it the dearest object of my life to 保持 the engagement.” With those words he rose from his chair, and advanced a few steps towards the place where she was sitting.

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 give me the opportunity of putting him in the wrong.

“You have left it to me, Miss Fairlie, to resign you,” he continued. “I am not heartless enough to resign a woman who has just shown herself to be the noblest of her sex.”

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 give her love.”

“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 wife, Sir Percival—your loving wife, if I know my own heart, never!”

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 pity him, in spite of myself.

“I gratefully accept your faith and truth,” he said. “The least that 您 can offer is more to me than the utmost that I could hope for from any other woman in the world.”

Her left hand still held mine, but her right hand hung listlessly at her side. He raised it gently to his lips—touched it with them, rather than kissed it—bowed to me—and then, with perfect delicacy and discretion, silently quitted the room.

She neither moved nor said a word when he was gone—she 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 time—so long and so weary, that I grew uneasy and spoke to her softly, in the hope of producing a change.

The sound of my voice seemed to startle her into consciousness. She suddenly drew herself away from me and rose to her feet.

“I must submit, Marian, as well as I can,” she said. “My new life has its hard duties, and one of them begins to-day.”

As she spoke she went to a side-table 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 the key to me.

“I must part from everything that reminds me of him,” she said. “Keep the key wherever you please—I shall never want it again.”

Before I could say a word she had turned away to her book-case, 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 hands—then lifted it to her lips and kissed it.

“Oh, Laura! Laura!” I said, not angrily, not reprovingly—with nothing but sorrow in my voice, and nothing but sorrow in my heart.

“It is the last time, Marian,” she pleaded. “I am bidding it good-bye for ever.”

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 say—oh, Marian, say for me, then, what I can never say for myself—say I loved him!”

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 on the sofa in a paroxysm of sobs and tears that shook her from head to foot.

I tried vainly to soothe her and reason with her—she 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 remainder of the day.

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, gently but firmly, in the middle of my remonstrances.

“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 was honestly innocent of the slightest feeling of anxiety to hear more.

He waited after saying those words and looked at me. I was so conscious of my unreasonable prejudice against him—so 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 ask—that 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 the engagement altogether.

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 could—only 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 be—in the first case, on her own showing, there was no hope at all.

I answered him—more 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 it—and that he 民政事务总署 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, as he says they do, from the irresistible strength of his attachment to Laura.

Before I close my diary for to-night I must record that I wrote to-day, in poor Hartright’s interest, to two of my mother’s old friends in London—both 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 abroad—I hope, most earnestly and anxiously, that it will end well.

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! Don’t bang the door!”

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 inexpressibly—it 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 cause no more, Marian—let Sir Percival decide.”

I remonstrated warmly, but nothing that I could say moved her.

“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 anxiety enough, and I will cause no more.”

She used to be pliability itself, but she was now inflexibly passive in her resignation—I might almost say in her despair. Dearly as I love her, I should have been less pained if she had been violently agitated—it 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 him what she had said.

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 what his wishes were to Miss Halcombe.

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 married—before the end of the year. My very fingers burn as I write it!

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, kind-hearted, hospitable people, and she has known them from her childhood. When I had put the letter in the post-bag 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 您, Marian. I dare say you are right—I dare say the change will do me good.”

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 at home?

16th.—The carriage is at the door. Laura and I set out on our visit to the Arnolds to-day.

POLESDEAN LODGE, YORKSHIRE.

23rd.—A week in these new scenes and among these kind-hearted 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 back to Limmeridge till there is an absolute necessity for our return.

24th.—Sad news by this morning’s post. The expedition to Central America sailed on the twenty-first. We have parted with a true man—we have lost a faithful friend. Water Hartright has left England.

25th.—Sad news yesterday—ominous news to-day. Sir Percival Glyde has written to Mr. Fairlie, and Mr. Fairlie has written to Laura and me, to recall us to Limmeridge immediately.

What can this mean? Has the day for the marriage been fixed in our absence?

II

LIMMERIDGE HOUSE.

November 27th.—My forebodings are realised. The marriage is fixed for the twenty-second 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 hands of the workmen.

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 December—perhaps the twenty-second, or twenty-fourth, 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 mentioned—the twenty-second of December, and had written to recall us to Limmeridge in consequence.

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 to-day. 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 one more family responsibility from his own shoulders to mine.

This morning I spoke to Laura as I had promised. The composure—I may almost say, the insensibility—which 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.

“Not so soon!” she pleaded. “Oh, Marian, not so soon!”

The slightest hint she could give was enough for me. I rose to leave the room, and fight her battle for her at once with Mr. Fairlie.

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 own way.”

She sighed bitterly, and still held my dress.

“No!” she said faintly. “Too late, Marian, too late!”

“Not a minute too late,” I retorted. “The question of time is 我们的 question—and trust me, Laura, to take a woman’s full advantage of it.”

I unclasped her hand from my gown while I spoke; but she slipped both her arms round my waist at the same moment, and held me more effectually than ever.

“It will only involve us in more trouble and more confusion,” she said. “It will set you and my uncle at variance, and bring Sir Percival here again with fresh causes of complaint—”

“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 peace—they drag us away from our parents’ love and our sisters’ friendship—they 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, Laura—I’m mad when I think of it!”

The tears—miserable, 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 weakness—the weakness of all others which she knew that I most despised.

“Oh, Marian!” she said. “完全 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 heart-burnings 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 这里, 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 and my sympathy for her into a new direction.

“While we were at Polesdean,” she said, “you had a letter, Marian——”

Her altered tone—the abrupt manner in which she looked away from me and hid her face on my shoulder—the hesitation which silenced her before she had completed her question, all told me, but too plainly, to whom the half-expressed inquiry pointed.

“I thought, Laura, that you and I were never to refer to him again,” I said gently.

“You had a letter from him?” she persisted.

“Yes,” I replied, “if you must know it.”

“Do you mean to write to him again?”

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 gone where no letters could reach him for months, perhaps for years, to come.

“Suppose I do mean to write to him again,” I said at last. “What then, Laura?”

Her cheek grew burning hot against my neck, and her arms trembled and tightened round me.

“Don’t tell him about the twenty-second,” she whispered. “Promise, Marian—pray promise you will not even mention my name to him when you write next.”

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 room—called to him as harshly as possible, “Laura consents to the twenty-second”—and dashed out again without waiting for a word of answer. I banged the door after me, and I hope I shattered Mr. Fairlie’s nervous system for the rest of the day.

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 这里? 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 necessity for it?

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 suspicion—so obstinate, so unaccountable, and so alarming—that 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 不能 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 conviction—I entreat you to remember what I say.” These are his own expressions. There is no danger of my forgetting them—my 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 ill—I may die. Better to burn it at once, and have one anxiety the less.

It is burnt. The ashes of his farewell letter—the last he may ever write to me—lie in a few black fragments on the hearth. Is this the sad end to all that sad story? Oh, not the end—surely, 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 please her!

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 can be obtained for the purpose.

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 London—but 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 travels—none if she remains at home.

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 他的 Laura instead of mine! 他的 Laura! I am as little able to realise the idea which those two words convey—my mind feels almost as dulled and stunned by it—as if writing of her marriage were like writing of her death.

December 1st.—A sad, sad day—a 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 child—for a child she is still in many things—was 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 rival—not 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 his—that is all my consolation—better mine than his.

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 mind. It certainly never existed in former times.

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 duty—doubly my duty now—not 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 is over! I am seriously dissatisfied with myself—I will write no more to-day.

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 Percival is concerned.

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 soon, Marian,” she said; “I must make the most of you while I can.”

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 distrust—that is to say, I have done with writing about either the one or the other in this journal.

Sir Percival is to arrive to-morrow. 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 to-day, 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 self-possession. 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 to-day, 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 think—that 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 to-day 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 years younger than he really is.

There can be no doubt—though some strange perversity prevents me from seeing it myself—there can be no doubt that Laura’s future husband is a very handsome man. Regular features form a personal advantage to begin with—and he has them. Bright brown eyes, either in man or woman, are a great attraction—and 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 powers—all 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 excitability—which may be caused, naturally enough, by unusual energy of character. The other, his short, sharp, ill-tempered 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 it—Sir Percival is a very handsome and a very agreeable man. There! I have written it down at last, and I am glad it’s over.

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 questions—he told me at once that he had been to the farm to inquire if Mr. or Mrs. Todd had received any tidings, since his last visit to Limmeridge, of Anne Catherick.

“You found, of course, that they had heard nothing?” I said.

“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 artist—Mr. Hartright—is in a position to give us any further information?”

“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 and protection which she so urgently needs.”

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 praise—and there’s an end of it.

19th.—More discoveries in the inexhaustible mine of Sir Percival’s virtues.

To-day 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, exactly as I had always lived with her before it.

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 with—capricious, 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 member of the family, and he may have mine to begin with.

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 wonder if he will ever come to England? I wonder if I shall like him?

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 Percival’s warmest friend.

20th.—I hate Sir Percival! I flatly deny his good looks. I consider him to be eminently ill-tempered 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 Glyde—smiled with the most odious self-complacency, and whispered something in her ear. I don’t know what it was—Laura has refused to tell me—but I saw her face turn to such a deadly whiteness that I thought she would have fainted. He took no notice of the change—he 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 words—how 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 me to discover on looking back at the entries in my journal.

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 wedding-day draws nearer and nearer? Impossible to say. I know that I have the idea—surely the wildest idea, under the circumstances, that ever entered a woman’s head?—but try as I may, I cannot trace it back to its source.

This last day has been all confusion and wretchedness. How can I write about it?—and yet, I must write. Anything is better than brooding over my own gloomy thoughts.

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 pupil—a 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 wedding-day.

“Dear Laura” was to receive his present—a 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 wedding-dress 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 ，尤其是 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 self-composed, 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 called me away to new duties downstairs.

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 forgotten—there were trunks to be packed and unpacked and packed again—there 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 twenty-first 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 bed—the bed she has occupied since the days of her girlhood.

There she lay, unconscious that I was looking at her—quiet, more quiet than I had dared to hope, but not sleeping. The glimmer of the night-light showed me that her eyes were only partially closed—the traces of tears glistened between her eyelids. My little keepsake—only a brooch—lay on the table at her bedside, with her prayer-book, 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 night-dress never moved—I waited, looking at her, as I have seen her thousands of times, as I shall never see her again—and 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 brother—no 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 to-morrow! If ever he forgets it—if ever he injures a hair of her head!——

THE TWENTY-SECOND OF DECEMBER. 七点钟. A wild, unsettled morning. She has just risen—better and calmer, now that the time has come, than she was yesterday.

有时间. She is dressed. We have kissed each other—we 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 他的 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 church.

十一点. It is all over. They are married.

三点钟. They are gone! I am blind with crying—I can write no more——

[The First Epoch of the Story closes here.]

I

BLACKWATER PARK, HAMPSHIRE.

June 11th, 1850.—Six months to look back on—six long, lonely months since Laura and I last saw each other!

How many days have I still to wait? Only one! To-morrow, the twelfth, the travellers return to England. I can hardly realise my own happiness—I can hardly believe that the next four-and-twenty hours will complete the last day of separation between Laura and me.

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 abiding-place (as I may now venture to add on my account) of plain Marian Halcombe, spinster, now settled in a snug little sitting-room, 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 country-house. 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 begin with.

Last night I slept in London, and was delayed there so long to-day by various calls and commissions, that I did not reach Blackwater this evening till after dusk.

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 north-country notions, by trees. I have seen nobody but the man-servant 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 round it once, and that it gets its name of Blackwater from a lake in the park.

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 example?

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 well-known 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 night-gallop, eastward, to meet the rising sun—a 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 to compose myself in some feeble and feminine way.

Reading is out of the question—I 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 life—of persons and events, of chances and changes, during the past six months—the long, weary, empty interval since Laura’s wedding-day?

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 of news from the expedition has appeared in any of the public journals.

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 us—lost, 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 pupil—I 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 preposterous—he used to let months pass in the old times without attempting to see her—and 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 sun-pictures 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 night?

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

Does he treat her kindly? Is she happier now than she was when I parted with her on the wedding-day? 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 well—that travelling agrees with her—that she is getting through the winter, for the first time in her life, without catching cold—but 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 twenty-second 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 seldom—in nine cases out of ten she gives him his title.

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 months, and never Lady Glyde.

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 bosom friend, Count Fosco.

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 better—so much quieter, and so much more sensible as a wife than she was as a single woman—that 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, patience—this uncertainty, and many uncertainties more, cannot last much longer. To-morrow will see all my doubts in a fair way of being cleared up, sooner or later.

Twelve o’clock has struck, and I have just come back to close these pages, after looking out at my open window.

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 discoveries—a more interesting day, for many reasons, than I had ventured to anticipate.

I began my sight-seeing, of course, with the house.

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 portraits—every 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 long time past.

So much, then, for the main building. Two wings are added at either end of it. The half-ruined 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 ancestors—I don’t remember, and don’t care which—tacked 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 me with undisguised admiration of my extraordinary common-sense.

We went next to the wing on the right, which was built, by way of completing the wonderful architectural jumble at Blackwater Park, in the time of George the Second.

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 drawing-room, a dining-room, a morning-room, 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 morning—part 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 fish-pond 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 luncheon-time, and after that took my broad straw hat and wandered out alone in the warm lovely sunlight to explore the grounds.

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 flower-garden on my left hand, and walked towards it to see what I could discover in that direction.

On a nearer view the garden proved to be small and poor and ill kept. I left it behind me, opened a little gate in a ring fence, and found myself in a plantation of fir-trees.

A pretty winding path, artificially made, led me on among the trees, and my north-country 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 turn—the 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 Blackwater lake from which the house takes its name.

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 the lake.

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 boat-house 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 fright—called out—received no answer—summoned 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 dog—a 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 house.

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 house-maids answered it, in a state of cheerful stupidity which would have provoked the patience of a saint. The girl’s fat, shapeless face actually stretched into a broad grin at the sight of the wounded creature on the floor.

“What do you see there to laugh at?” I asked, as angrily as if she had been a servant of my own. “Do you know whose dog it is?”

“No, miss, that I certainly don’t.” She stooped, and looked down at the spaniel’s injured side—brightened suddenly with the irradiation of a new idea—and pointing to the wound with a chuckle of satisfaction, said, “That’s Baxter’s doings, that is.”

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 Baxter’s doings and Baxter’s dooty—that’s what it is.”

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!”

“Whose?” I asked, in the utmost astonishment.

“Mrs. Catherick’s. You seem to know Mrs. Catherick, Miss Halcombe?”

“Not personally, but I have heard of her. Does she live here? Has she had any news of her daughter?”

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

“什么时候？”

“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?”

“In the old shed that looks out on the lake.”

“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 county—five-and-twenty miles off, at least.”

“I suppose you have known Mrs. Catherick for some years?”

“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 respectable-looking. She seemed sorely put out when she found that there was no foundation—none, at least, that any of us could discover—for the report of her daughter having been seen in this neighbourhood.”

“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 gentleman—a 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 anxious to have her visit at Blackwater Park kept a secret from him?

“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 young——Ah, dear! I thought how it would end. Look, Miss Halcombe, the poor thing is out of its misery at last!”

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 suddenness—in 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 carriage wheels and run downstairs to find myself in Laura’s arms?

The poor little dog! I wish my first day at Blackwater Park had not been associated with death, though it is only the death of a stray animal.

Welmingham—I 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’ feet—I hear the rolling wheels——

II

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 in it as collectedly as usual.

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 again—for which reason only I have thought fit to mention it here.

She has found me unaltered, but I have found her changed.

Changed in person, and in one respect changed in character. I cannot absolutely say that she is less beautiful than she used to be—I can only say that she is less beautiful to me.

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 her—something 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 ever-varying and yet ever-remaining 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 rate!

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 were no secrets between us.

“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 not—they 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 me—I wouldn’t have you think that for the world. But—I 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 sitting-room, in which we were talking. “Ah!” she cried, clapping her hands with a bright smile of recognition, “another old friend found already! Your book-case, Marian—your dear-little-shabby-old-satin-wood book-case—how 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, gipsy-face, 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 mine—and I will keep all my little treasures from Limmeridge here—and 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—unless—unless you are very fond of your husband—but 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, suddenly-altered 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 recovered himself—and forgotten me？“

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 creatures have existed—but what does our own experience say in answer to books?

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 friends—perhaps, 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 interview—my 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 ill-fated attachment still remains (no matter how innocently, how harmlessly) rooted as deeply as ever in her heart—all 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 them—a consolation that ought to comfort me, and that does comfort me. All the graces and gentleness of her character—all the frank affection of her nature—all 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 manner—at least his manner towards me—is 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 times—no polite speeches of welcome—no appearance of extraordinary gratification at seeing me—nothing but a short shake of the hand, and a sharp “How-d’ye-do, Miss Halcombe—glad 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 to pass me over altogether.

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 flower-blossoms 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-table, as fiercely as if they had personally insulted him.

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 annoying circumstance did really happen to Sir Percival in my presence.

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 say—but he was seriously discomposed, beyond all doubt.

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 Laura’s husband alone for the present.

The two guests—the Count and Countess Fosco—come next in my catalogue. I will dispose of the Countess first, so as to have done with the woman as soon as possible.

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 has been produced in Madame Fosco.

As Eleanor Fairlie (aged seven-and-thirty), 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 long-suffering male humanity. As Madame Fosco (aged three-and-forty), she sits for hours together without saying a word, frozen up in the strangest manner in herself. The hideously ridiculous love-locks 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 old-fashioned 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 saw—I mean the structure of the female skeleton, in the upper regions of the collar-bones and the shoulder-blades. Clad in quiet black or grey gowns, made high round the throat—dresses that she would have laughed at, or screamed at, as the whim of the moment inclined her, in her maiden days—she 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 impression, however, is, that I am right. Time will show.

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 again—the Count himself? What of the Count?

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 does—I should have held my tongue when he looked at me, as she holds hers.

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 he has worked the miracle is more than I can tell.

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 unable to blame them, or to ridicule them in 他?

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 good-humour 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 hindrance from his own odious corpulence. Marvellous indeed!

Is it his face that has recommended him?

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 regularity—his 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 sallow-fairness, so much at variance with the dark-brown 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 extraordinary power of his eyes.

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 mentioned—his extraordinary fondness for pet animals.

Some of these he has left on the Continent, but he has brought with him to this house a cockatoo, two canary-birds, 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 top-knot 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 gaily-painted 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 grown-up 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 canary-birds amid an assembly of English fox-hunters, and would only pity them as barbarians when they were all laughing their loudest at him.

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 organ-boy 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 canary-birds, 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 house-spaniel get a whipping, went into the stable-yard on the morning after his arrival, and put his hand on the head of a chained bloodhound—a 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, yellow-white fingers, on which the canary-birds 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 unawares—anything 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 already—all of light garish colours, and all immensely large even for him—in the two days of his residence at Blackwater Park.

His tact and cleverness in small things are quite as noticeable as the singular inconsistencies in his character, and the childish triviality of his ordinary tastes and pursuits.

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 sugar-plums 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 company—it is a private rod, and is always kept upstairs.

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 him—I know he flatters my vanity, when I think of him up here in my own room—and 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 stable-yard, 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 manner—always 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 good-humoured father bears with a wayward son.

The interest which I really cannot help feeling in this strangely original man has led me to question Sir Percival about his past life.

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 Vienna—but 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 breakfast-table, with a huge, official-looking seal on it. Perhaps he is in correspondence with his government? And yet, that is hardly to be reconciled either with my other idea that he may be a political exile.

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 business-like way I can only repeat that I do assuredly feel, even on this short acquaintance, a strange, half-willing, half-unwilling 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 to-day besides my own ideas and impressions. A visitor has arrived—quite 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 boarding-schools) had just amused us by asking gravely for his fourth tart—when the servant entered to announce the visitor.

“Mr. Merriman has just come, Sir Percival, and wishes to see you immediately.”

Sir Percival started, and looked at the man with an expression of angry alarm.

“Mr. Merriman!” he repeated, as if he thought his own ears must have deceived him.

“Yes, Sir Percival—Mr. Merriman, from London.”

“他在哪里？”

“In the library, Sir Percival.”

He left the table the instant the last answer was given, and hurried out of the room without saying a word to any of us.

“Who is Mr. Merriman?” asked Laura, appealing to me.

“I have not the least idea,” was all I could say in reply.

The Count had finished his fourth tart, and had gone to a side-table to look after his vicious cockatoo. He turned round to us with the bird perched on his shoulder.

“Mr. Merriman is Sir Percival’s solicitor,” he said quietly.

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 news—news which may be either very good or very bad, but which cannot, in either case, be of the common everyday kind.

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 leave the room.

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 the oddest manner.

“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 具有 发生了。”

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 secretly that she was afraid something had happened.

III

June 16th.—I have a few lines more to add to this day’s entry before I go to bed to-night.

About two hours after Sir Percival rose from the luncheon-table 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, point the other?

I listened—and under similar circumstances I would listen again—yes! with my ear at the keyhole, if I could not possibly manage it in any other way.

“You quite understand, Sir Percival,” the lawyer went on. “Lady Glyde is to sign her name in the presence of a witness—or of two witnesses, if you wish to be particularly careful—and 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 perfectly successful, and the anxiety will be all over. If not——”

“What do you mean by ‘if not’?” asked Sir Percival angrily. “If the thing 必须 be done it 将 be done. I promise you that, Merriman.”

“Just so, Sir Percival—just 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 raised when the bills fall due——”

“Damn the bills! The money is only to be got in one way, and in that way, I tell you again, it 将 be got. Take a glass of wine, Merriman, before you go.”

“Much obliged, Sir Percival, I have not a moment to lose if I am to catch the up-train. 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 dog-cart 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 turned about and walked back to the library.

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 heard.

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 name.”

“Who do you think the gentleman was, then?” I asked.

“Some person who has heavy claims on Sir Percival,” she answered, “and who has been the cause of Mr. Merriman’s visit here to-day.”

“Do you know anything about those claims?”

“No, I know no particulars.”

“You will sign nothing, Laura, without first looking at it?”

“Certainly not, Marian. Whatever I can harmlessly and honestly do to help him I will do—for 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—suppose we go and dream away the afternoon in the grounds?”

On leaving the house we directed our steps to the nearest shade.

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 violet-coloured ribbon round it. A blue blouse, with profuse white fancy-work 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 fancy-work 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 throwings-up 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 years of age.

“Take my word for it, Laura, that man knows something of Sir Percival’s embarrassments,” I said, as we returned the Count’s salutation from a safe distance.

“什么让你有那个想法？” 她问。

“How should he have known, otherwise, that Mr. Merriman was Sir Percival’s solicitor?” I rejoined. “Besides, when I followed you out of the luncheon-room, he told me, without a single word of inquiry on my part, that something had happened. Depend upon it, he knows more than we do.”

“Don’t ask him any questions if he does. Don’t take him into our confidence!”

“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 guess—I am afraid Laura can guess—and I am sure Count Fosco knows. I caught Sir Percival looking at him for approval more than once in the course of the evening.

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 morning-room, where his wife and I were waiting, with our hats on, for Madame Fosco to join us, and inquired for the Count.

“We expect to see him here directly,” I said.

“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 asked, “or were you just going out?”

“We were all thinking of going to the lake this morning,” said Laura. “But if you have any other arrangement to propose——”

“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 morning—I’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 words had referred. My heart sank within me as I drew the inevitable inference.

The Count and his wife joined us at that moment. The lady had her husband’s embroidered tobacco-pouch, 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 pagoda-cage, 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 here—my poor-little-harmless-pretty-Mouseys, out for an airing along with us. There are dogs about the house, and shall I leave my forlorn white children at the mercies of the dogs? Ah, never!”

He chirruped paternally at his small white children through the bars of the pagoda, and we all left the house for the lake.

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 walking-sticks for his own use. The mere act of cutting and lopping at hazard appears to please him. He has filled the house with walking-sticks 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 but going on and making more.

At the old boat-house 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 feelings, and to resist it for the future as resolutely as I can.

The boat-house was large enough to hold us all, but Sir Percival remained outside trimming the last new stick with his pocket-axe. 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 good-humouredly 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 pagoda-cage on his lap, and let out the mice to crawl over him as usual. They are pretty, innocent-looking 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 lake made the view look doubly wild, weird, and gloomy.

“Some people call that picturesque,” said Sir Percival, pointing over the wide prospect with his half-finished walking-stick. “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 whole, the very worst place for a murder that I ever set my eyes on.”

“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 can—if you don’t choose, I am not going to trouble myself to explain my meaning.”

“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 with his mice that he did not notice her.

“I am sorry to hear the lake-view 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 copy-books.” 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 as long as you live.”

“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 不能 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 Halcombe—ha?”

“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 copy-book morality for you, Fosco. Crimes cause their own detection. What infernal humbug!”

“I believe it to be true,” said Laura quietly.

Sir Percival burst out laughing, so violently, so outrageously, that he quite startled us all—the Count more than any of us.

“I believe it too,” I said, coming to Laura’s rescue.

Sir Percival, who had been unaccountably amused at his wife’s remark, was just as unaccountably irritated by mine. He struck the new stick savagely on the sand, and walked away from us.

“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, “before I venture on giving my opinion in the presence of well-informed men.”

“Do you, indeed?” I said. “I remember the time, Countess, when you advocated the Rights of Women, and freedom of female opinion was one of them.”

“What is your view of the subject, Count?” asked Madame Fosco, calmly proceeding with her cigarettes, and not taking the least notice of me.

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 clap-trap. The machinery it has set up for the detection of crime is miserably ineffective—and 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 life-assurance 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 不能 reported, and the bodies that are found by the bodies that are 不能 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, highly-intelligent 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! Yes—all the crime 您 know of. And what of the rest?”

“Devilish true, and very well put,” cried a voice at the entrance of the boat-house. Sir Percival had recovered his equanimity, and had come back while we were listening to the Count.

“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 applaud him so loudly for doing it.”

“Do you hear that, Fosco?” asked Sir Percival. “Take my advice, and make your peace with your audience. Tell them virtue’s a fine thing—they like that, I can promise you.”

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 they know what virtue is, and I don’t.”

“You hear him?” said Sir Percival. “Isn’t it awful?”

“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 top-boots 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 pret-pret-pretty? A man who keeps you warm, and gives you plenty to eat. And a good notion, too, for it is intelligible, at the least.”

“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 kind—we commit no such dreadful crime—we abhor reckless bloodshed with all our hearts.”

“Quite right, Marian,” said Laura. “Well thought of, and well expressed.”

“Pray allow the Count to proceed,” said Madame Fosco, with stern civility. “You will find, young ladies, that he never speaks without having excellent reasons for all that he says.”

“Thank you, my angel,” replied the Count. “Have a bon-bon?” 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 society.”

“Be good enough to go on, Count,” said his wife, with a spiteful reference to myself. “Oblige me by answering Miss Halcombe.”

“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 countries—a 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 他的 career? When John-Howard-Philanthropist wants to relieve misery he goes to find it in prisons, where crime is wretched—not in huts and hovels, where virtue is wretched too. Who is the English poet who has won the most universal sympathy—who 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 suicide—your dear, romantic, interesting Chatterton. Which gets on best, do you think, of two poor starving dressmakers—the 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 fortune—it advertises her from length to breadth of good-humoured, charitable England—and 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 crime—and 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 estimations—I will get up and take a little airy walk of my own. Dear ladies, as your excellent Sheridan said, I go—and leave my character behind me.”

He got up, put the cage on the table, and paused for a moment to count the mice in it. “One, two, three, four——Ha!” he cried, with a look of horror, “where, in the name of Heaven, is the fifth—the youngest, the whitest, the most amiable of all—my Benjamin of mice!”

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 boat-house empty, so that her husband might search it to its remotest corners, we rose also to follow her out.

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 face was of a faint livid yellow hue all over.

“Percival!” he said, in a whisper. “Percival! come here.”

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.

“What’s the matter now?” he asked, lounging carelessly into the boat-house.

“Do you see nothing there?” said the Count, catching him nervously by the collar with one hand, and pointing with the other to the place near which he had found the mouse.

“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 his agitation. “Blood.”

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.”

Everybody was astonished, and everybody’s eyes were fixed on me inquiringly.

“How do you know that?” asked Sir Percival, speaking first.

“I found the dog here, dying, on the day when you all returned from abroad,” I replied. “The poor creature had strayed into the plantation, and had been shot by your keeper.”

“Whose dog was it?” inquired Sir Percival. “Not one of mine?”

“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 best—but the dog was mortally wounded, and he died under our hands.”

“Whose dog was it?” persisted Sir Percival, repeating his question a little irritably. “One of mine?”

“No, not one of yours.”

“Whose then? Did the housekeeper know?”

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 answer at once, without reference to results.

“Yes,” I said. “The housekeeper knew. She told me it was Mrs. Catherick’s dog.”

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 placed himself face to face with me under the open daylight.

“How came the housekeeper to know it was Mrs. Catherick’s dog?” he asked, fixing his eyes on mine with a frowning interest and attention, which half angered, half startled me.

“She knew it,” I said quietly, “because Mrs. Catherick brought the dog with her.”

“Brought it with her? Where did she bring it with her?”

“To this house.”

“What the devil did Mrs. Catherick want at this house?”

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 interposed to quiet him.

“My dear Percival!—gently—gently!”

Sir Percival looked round in his angriest manner. The Count only smiled and repeated the soothing application.

“Gently, my good friend—gently!”

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 the housekeeper the only person who saw her?”

“The only person,” I answered, “so far as I know.”

The Count interposed again.

“In that case why not question the housekeeper?” he said. “Why not go, Percival, to the fountain-head of information at once?”

“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 Hartright met with her to this day.

The effect of my information on him was, in one respect, curious enough.

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 know—but there is no misinterpreting the curiosity of blank surprise: if I ever saw it in my life I saw it in the Count’s face.

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 dog-cart, with the horse put to and the groom waiting by it in his stable-jacket. 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 manner, “You are going to drive out?”

“I am not going, sir,” replied the man, looking at his stable-jacket, and evidently wondering whether the foreign gentleman took it for his livery. “My master drives himself.”

“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 to-day?”

“I don’t know, sir,” answered the man. “The horse is a mare, if you please, sir. She’s the highest-couraged thing we’ve got in the stables. Her name’s Brown Molly, sir, and she’ll go till she drops. Sir Percival usually takes Isaac of York for the short distances.”

“And your shining courageous Brown Molly for the long?”

“Logical inference, Miss Halcombe,” continued the Count, wheeling round briskly, and addressing me. “Sir Percival is going a long distance to-day.”

I made no reply. I had my own inferences to draw, from what I knew through the housekeeper and from what I saw before me, and I did not choose to share them with Count Fosco.

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 distance, on Anne’s account again, to question Mrs. Catherick at Welmingham?

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 anxious—but 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 drive—a matter that I can’t very well put off. I shall be back in good time to-morrow—but before I go I should like that little business-formality, which I spoke of this morning, to be settled. Laura, will you come into the library? It won’t take a minute—a mere formality. Countess, may I trouble you also? I want you and the Countess, Fosco, to be witnesses to a signature—nothing more. Come in at once and get it over.”

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.

IV

June 17th.—Just as my hand was on the door of my room, I heard Sir Percival’s voice calling to me from below.

“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 join us in the library.”

I entered the room immediately with Sir Percival. Laura was waiting by the writing-table, 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 flowers in the window.

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 myself.”

“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 so—a splitter of straws—a man of trifles and crochets and scruples—but 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 desert her.

“I will readily remain in the room,” I said. “And if I find no reason for starting any small scruples on my side, you may rely on me as a witness.”

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 received her orders to leave the room.

“You needn’t go,” said Sir Percival.

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 book-cases, 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 his own house.

“Sign there,” he repeated, turning suddenly on Laura, and pointing once more to the place on the parchment.

“What is it I am to sign?” she asked quietly.

“I have no time to explain,” he answered. “The dog-cart 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 explained it first, and I always understood him.”

“I dare say he did. He was your servant, and was obliged to explain. I am your husband, and am 不能 obliged. How much longer do you mean to keep me here? I tell you again, there is no time for reading anything—the dog-cart 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?”

He lifted up the parchment, and struck it angrily on the table.

“Speak out!” he said. “You were always famous for telling the truth. Never mind Miss Halcombe, never mind Fosco—say, in plain terms, you distrust me.”

The Count took one of his hands out of his belt and laid it on Sir Percival’s shoulder. Sir Percival shook it off irritably. The Count put it on again with unruffled composure.

“Control your unfortunate temper, Percival,” he said “Lady Glyde is right.”

“Right!” cried Sir Percival. “A wife right in distrusting her husband!”

“It is unjust and cruel to accuse me of distrusting you,” said Laura. “Ask Marian if I am not justified in wanting to know what this writing requires of me before I sign it.”

“I won’t have any appeals made to Miss Halcombe,” retorted Sir Percival. “Miss Halcombe has nothing to do with the matter.”

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 已可以选用 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 the writing is which you wish her to sign.”

“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 matter that doesn’t concern you.”

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. But I was only a woman—and I loved his wife so dearly!

Thank God, that faithful love helped me, and I sat down again without saying a word. 她 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!”

“Come back and sign!” cried Sir Percival from the other side of the table.

“Shall I?” she asked in my ear; “I will, if you tell me.”

“No,” I answered. “The right and the truth are with you—sign nothing, unless you have read it first.”

“Come back and sign!” he reiterated, in his loudest and angriest tones.

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 remember it too.”

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 convinced man.

“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 document—and 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 last time, will you sign or will you not?”

Laura returned to his side of the table, and took up the pen again.

“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 half-suppressed return of his former violence.

“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 treated mine.”

This unfortunate, yet most natural, reference to the Count’s extraordinary power over her husband, indirect as it was, set Sir Percival’s smouldering temper on fire again in an instant.

“Scruples!” he repeated. “您一站式解决方案 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设立的区域办事处外，我们在美国也开设了办事处，以便我们为当地客户提供更多的支持。“

The instant he spoke those words, Laura threw down the pen—looked 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 dead silence.

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 surface-brutality 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 face that even a stranger might have seen it.

The Count, who was no stranger, saw it as distinctly as I did. When I left my chair to join Laura, I heard him whisper under his breath to Sir Percival, “You idiot!”

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 conscious that he had let his own licence of language seriously injure him.

“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 implore you!”

Laura would have left the room without noticing him, but I stopped her.

“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 us—master 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 to-day?”

“It is necessary to my plans and wishes,” returned the other sulkily. “But that consideration, as you may have noticed, has no influence with Lady Glyde.”

“Answer my plain question plainly. Can the business of the signature be put off till to-morrow—Yes or No?”

“Yes, if you will have it so.”

“Then what are you wasting your time for here? Let the signature wait till to-morrow—let it wait till you come back.”

Sir Percival looked up with a frown and an oath.

“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 time—give Lady Glyde time. Have you forgotten that your dog-cart is waiting at the door? My tone surprises you—ha? I dare say it does—it 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 wait—and renew it when you come back.”

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, Fosco—not 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 to-morrow!” The rest was lost in the noise of his opening the book-case 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. “Remember to-morrow!” he said to his wife, and went out.

We waited to give him time to cross the hall and drive away. The Count approached us while we were standing near the door.

“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 disgraceful manner in which he has broken out to-day.”

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 house—and it was a trial to 这里. 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 tie which now held me to Laura in the hour of her utmost need!

We heard the wheels of the dog-cart crashing on the gravel of the drive as we came into the hall. Sir Percival had started on his journey.

“Where is he going to, Marian?” Laura whispered. “Every fresh thing he does seems to terrify me about the future. Have you any suspicions?”

After what she had undergone that morning, I was unwilling to tell her my suspicions.

“How should I know his secrets?” I said evasively.

“I wonder if the housekeeper knows?” she persisted.

“Certainly not,” I replied. “She must be quite as ignorant as we are.”

劳拉怀疑地摇摇头。

“Did you not hear from the housekeeper that there was a report of Anne Catherick having been seen in this neighbourhood? Don’t you think he may have gone away to look for her?”

“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 you—I will indeed!”

“Hush! hush!” I replied; “don’t talk so. What is the trifling mortification of my pride compared to the dreadful sacrifice of your happiness?”

“You heard what he said to me?” she went on quickly and vehemently. “You heard the words—but you don’t know what they meant—you 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 to-day. You heard him sneer at my presuming to be scrupulous—you 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 now—later, Marian, when I am more sure of myself. My poor head aches, darling—aches, aches, aches. Where is your smelling-bottle? Let me talk to you about yourself. I wish I had given him my signature, for your sake. Shall I give it to him to-morrow? 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 could really trust!”

She sighed bitterly. I saw in her face that she was thinking of Hartright—saw 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, Laura—let us do all in our power to decide for the best.”

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 attainment of Sir Percival’s object.

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 meanest and the most fraudulent kind.

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 old-fashioned notions, his modesty with Laura, his candour with me, his moderation with Mr. Fairlie—all 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 with the contents.

Under these circumstances, the one chance for us when to-morrow 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 business as well as himself.

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, unencumbered by needless apologies and needless details.

Just as I was about to put the address on the envelope an obstacle was discovered by Laura, which in the effort and preoccupation of writing had escaped my mind altogether.

“How are we to get the answer in time?” she asked. “Your letter will not be delivered in London before to-morrow 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 to-morrow 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 drawing-room now. We may excite suspicion if we remain shut up together too long.”

“Suspicion?” she repeated. “Whose suspicion can we excite, now that Sir Percival has left the house? Do you mean Count Fosco?”

“Perhaps I do, Laura.”

“You are beginning to dislike him as much as I do, Marian.”

“No, not to dislike him. Dislike is always more or less associated with contempt—I can see nothing in the Count to despise.”

“You are not afraid of him, are you?”

“Perhaps I am—a little.”

“Afraid of him, after his interference in our favour to-day!”

“Yes. I am more afraid of his interference than I am of Sir Percival’s violence. Remember what I said to you in the library. Whatever you do, Laura, don’t make an enemy of the Count!”

We went downstairs. Laura entered the drawing-room, while I proceeded across the hall, with my letter in my hand, to put it into the post-bag, 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 on the steps outside, with their faces turned towards me.

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 fish-pond.

As we passed the Count on the steps he bowed and smiled, and then went at once into the house, pushing the hall door to after him, but not actually closing it.

The Countess walked me gently round the fish-pond. 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 boat-house 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 house.

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 fish-pond 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 begun—looked 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 was just putting a letter into the post-bag.

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 post-bag 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 security—are 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 unaccountable conduct on this occasion.

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 three-quarters 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, perhaps——No! it is quite revolting enough to feel that third conjecture stirring in my mind. I would rather not see it confronting me in plain black and white.

I almost dread to-morrow—so much depends on my discretion and self-control. 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.

V

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 second-rate Italian town, and wrote preposterous romances on the French model for a second-rate Italian newspaper—all 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 money, but they cannot resist a man’s tongue when he knows how to talk to them.

After dinner, while the favourable impression which he had produced on us was still vivid in our minds, the Count modestly withdrew to read in the library.

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 words—she looked actually proud of being the officiating medium through which her lord and master composed himself with tobacco-smoke!

Laura and I went out together alone.

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 near—it would fall probably with the fall of night.

“Which way shall we go?” I asked

“Towards the lake, Marian, if you like,” she answered.

“You seem unaccountably fond, Laura, of that dismal lake.”

“No, not of the lake but of the scenery about it. The sand and heath and the fir-trees 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 prefer it.”

“I have no favourite walks at Blackwater Park, my love. One is the same as another to me. Let us go to the lake—we may find it cooler in the open space than we find it here.”

We walked through the shadowy plantation in silence. The heaviness in the evening air oppressed us both, and when we reached the boat-house we were glad to sit down and rest inside.

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 leaves—no bird’s note in the wood—no cry of water-fowl from the pools of the hidden lake. Even the croaking of the frogs had ceased to-night.

“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 already on mine.

“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 sake—and 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, Marian—and especially if you were happily married—you would feel for me as no single woman 能够 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 eyes would let me.

“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 poverty—it has made you your own mistress, and has saved you from the lot that has fallen on me设立的区域办事处外，我们在美国也开设了办事处，以便我们为当地客户提供更多的支持。“

A sad beginning on the lips of a young wife!—sad in its quiet plain-spoken truth. The few days we had all passed together at Blackwater Park had been many enough to show me—to show any one—what her husband had married her for.

“You shall not be distressed,” she said, “by hearing how soon my disappointments and my trials began—or 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 reply—how could I, when I was crying behind my veil? ‘Ah, you light-complexioned 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 excuse.”

I was obliged to turn my face from her. “Don’t ask me!” I said. “Have I suffered as you have suffered? What right have I to decide?”

“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 bread—sitting at home and working for him and loving him all the better because I 民政事务总署 to work for him—seeing 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 他 并看到 他”

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, ill-omened view before us, as if they saw the friendly hills of Cumberland in the dim and threatening sky.

“Don’t speak of Walter any more,” I said, as soon as I could control myself. “Oh, Laura, spare us both the wretchedness of talking of him now!”

She roused herself, and looked at me tenderly.

“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——”

“It would not surprise him if he did hear me.”

She made that strange reply with a weary calmness and coldness. The change in her manner, when she gave the answer, startled me almost as much as the answer itself.

“Not surprise him!” I repeated. “Laura! remember what you are saying—you frighten me!”

“It is true,” she said; “it is what I wanted to tell you to-day, when we were talking in your room. My only secret when I opened my heart to him at Limmeridge was a harmless secret, Marian—you said so yourself. The name was all I kept from him, and he has discovered it.”

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’s—Mr. 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 nothing—you know why, Marian—and 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 man—modest and gentlemanlike—I am sure you will like him. ‘Think of those words being spoken to me publicly, in the presence of strangers—strangers who had been invited to meet the bride and bridegroom! I did all I could to control myself—I 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. Markland—I 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 drawing-room, 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 to-night. Your drawing-master 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 to-day 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 temper——Oh, Marian! don’t! don’t! you hurt me!”

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 summer-house 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.

For Sir Percival Glyde.

I heard her speaking, and I knew by the tone of her voice that she was comforting me—I, 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 prospect of the lake.

“It is late,” I heard her whisper. “It will be dark in the plantation.” She shook my arm and repeated, “Marian! it will be dark in the plantation.”

“Give me a minute longer,” I said—”a minute, to get better in.”

I was afraid to trust myself to look at her yet, and I kept my eyes fixed on the view.

It 是 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 stillness was all that remained.

“We are far from the house,” she whispered. “Let us go back.”

She stopped suddenly, and turned her face from me towards the entrance of the boat-house.

“Marian!” she said, trembling violently. “Do you see nothing? Look!”

“哪里？”

“Down there, below us.”

She pointed. My eyes followed her hand, and I saw it too.

A living figure was moving over the waste of heath in the distance. It crossed our range of view from the boat-house, and passed darkly along the outer edge of the mist. It stopped far off, in front of us—waited—and passed on; moving slowly, with the white cloud of mist behind it and above it—slowly, slowly, till it glided by the edge of the boat-house, and we saw it no more.

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 air.

“I am not certain.”

“Which do you think?”

“It looked like a woman.”

“I was afraid it was a man in a long cloak.”

“It may be a man. In this dim light it is not possible to be certain.”

“Wait, Marian! I’m frightened—I 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 living creature there before.”

We were now in the plantation. It was very dark—so dark, that we found some difficulty in keeping the path. I gave Laura my arm, and we walked as fast as we could on our way back.

Before we were half-way through she stopped, and forced me to stop with her. She was listening.

“Hush,” she whispered. “I hear something behind us.”

“Dead leaves,” I said to cheer her, “or a twig blown off the trees.”

“It is summer time, Marian, and there is not a breath of wind. Listen!”

I heard the sound too—a sound like a light footstep following us.

“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 shall be near enough to the house to be heard.”

We went on quickly—so quickly, that Laura was breathless by the time we were nearly through the plantation, and within sight of the lighted windows.

I waited a moment to give her breathing-time. 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 black depths of the trees.

“Who’s there?” I called out.

没有答案。

“Who’s there?” I repeated.

An instant of silence followed, and then we heard the light fall of the footsteps again, fainter and fainter—sinking away into the darkness—sinking, sinking, sinking—till 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 between us, reached the house.

In the light of the hall-lamp Laura looked at me, with white cheeks and startled eyes.

“I am half dead with fear,” she said. “Who could it have been?”

“We will try to guess to-morrow,” I replied. “In the meantime say nothing to any one of what we have heard and seen.”

“为什么不？”

“Because silence is safe, and we have need of safety in this house.”

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 easy-chair 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 library was answered the moment I set eyes on them.

Count Fosco rose in polite confusion and tied his cravat on when I entered the room.

“Pray don’t let me disturb you,” I said. “I have only come here to get a book.”

“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 pond outside.”

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 own merits.

“Have you and Lady Glyde been out this evening?” asked the Count, while I was taking a book from the shelves to preserve appearances.

“Yes, we went out to get a little air.”

“May I ask in what direction?”

“In the direction of the lake—as far as the boat-house.”

“Aha? As far as the boat-house?”

Under other circumstances I might have resented his curiosity. But to-night 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 wounded dog?”

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 mind is prying into mine overcomes me at these times, and it overcame me now.

“No,” I said shortly; “no adventures—no discoveries.”

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.

“Count, you are keeping Miss Halcombe standing,” she said.

The moment he turned round to get me a chair, I seized my opportunity—thanked him—made my excuses—and slipped out.

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.

“Have you been suffering much from the heat downstairs?” I asked.

“No, miss,” said the girl, “we have not felt it to speak of.”

“You have been out in the woods then, I suppose?”

“Some of us thought of going, miss. But cook said she should take her chair into the cool court-yard, outside the kitchen door, and on second thoughts, all the rest of us took our chairs out there too.”

The housekeeper was now the only person who remained to be accounted for.

“Is Mrs. Michelson gone to bed yet?” I inquired.

“I should think not, miss,” said the girl, smiling. “Mrs. Michelson is more likely to be getting up just now than going to bed.”

“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 belonging to the house.

Who could it have been?

It seems useless to inquire. I cannot even decide whether the figure was a man’s or a woman’s. I can only say that I think it was a woman’s.

VI

June 18th.—The misery of self-reproach which I suffered yesterday evening, on hearing what Laura told me in the boat-house, 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 night—I 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 sake.

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 boat-house 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 hands.

One o’clock has just struck. I am considering whether I had better wait here for the arrival of the messenger from London, or slip away quietly, and watch for him outside the lodge gate.

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 breakfast-room. I heard him, through the door, as I ran upstairs ten minutes since, exercising his canary-birds at their tricks:—”Come out on my little finger, my pret-pret-pretties! Come out, and hop upstairs! One, two, three—and up! Three, two, one—and down! One, two, three—twit-twit-twit-tweet!” The birds 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.

四点钟. 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 thoughts.

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 manner—said she preferred remaining near the house, nodded pleasantly, and re-entered 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 gates.

In less than a quarter of an hour I reached the lodge.

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 high-road. 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 respectable-looking man put his head out of the window to see what was the matter.

“I beg your pardon,” I said, “but am I right in supposing that you are going to Blackwater Park?”

“是的女士。”

“With a letter for any one?”

“With a letter for Miss Halcombe, ma’am.”

“You may give me the letter. I am Miss Halcombe.”

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 sake.

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

“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 being wanted at all.

“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 be 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 Lady Glyde knows to the contrary, may be a fraud upon her unborn children.

“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 course—for, 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 remain, Madam, your faithful servant,

“WILLIAM KYRLE.”

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 me while I was reading to receive his directions when I had done.

“Will you be good enough to say that I understand the letter, and that I am very much obliged?” I said. “There is no other reply necessary at present.”

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 high-road, 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 good-morning, and got into the fly again. I could not say a word to him—I was not even able to return his bow. The conviction that I was discovered—and by that man, of all others—absolutely petrified me.

“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 collected myself sufficiently to make a sign in the affirmative.

“I am going back too,” he said. “Pray allow me the pleasure of accompanying you. Will you take my arm? You look surprised at seeing me!”

I took his arm. The first of my scattered senses that came back was the sense that warned me to sacrifice anything rather than make an enemy of him.

“You look surprised at seeing me!” he repeated in his quietly pertinacious way.

“I thought, Count, I heard you with your birds in the breakfast-room,” I answered, as quietly and firmly as I could.

“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?”

“当然。”

“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 path—I 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 tainted by resting on his arm.

On the drive in front of the house we met the dog-cart being taken round to the stables. Sir Percival had just returned. He came out to meet us at the house-door. Whatever other results his journey might have had, it had not ended in softening his savage temper.

“Oh! here are two of you come back,” he said, with a lowering face. “What is the meaning of the house being deserted in this way? Where is Lady Glyde?”

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 afternoon. I shall expect to see her in half an hour.”

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 back at all tired?”

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

“And I want five minutes’ talk with you, Percival, first,” returned the Count. “Five minutes’ talk, my friend, here on the grass.”

“关于什么？”

“About business that very much concerns you.”

I lingered long enough in passing through the hall-door to hear this question and answer, and to see Sir Percival thrust his hands into his pockets in sullen hesitation.

“If you want to badger me with any more of your infernal scruples,” he said, “I for one won’t hear them. I want my lunch.”

“Come out here and speak to me,” repeated the Count, still perfectly uninfluenced by the rudest speech that his friend could make to him.

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 heart-sick 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 reach my ears.

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 drawing-room 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. Percival—who is capricious in everything, as you know—has 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 mention this pleasant change of circumstances to Lady Glyde.”

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 to-day, had offered him the means of interfering with certain success.

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 choice but to give it up again and return to the sofa, sorely against my will.

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 waking—for I knew nothing of what was going on about me, and not sleeping—for 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 day-dream of my fancy—I know not what to call it—I saw Walter Hartright. I had not thought of him since I rose that morning—Laura had not said one word to me either directly or indirectly referring to him—and yet I saw him now as plainly as if the past time had returned, and we were both together again at Limmeridge House.

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 trees—with rank creepers twining endlessly about their trunks, and hideous stone idols glimmering and grinning at intervals behind leaves and stalks and branches—surrounded 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 这里 和 me. Come back to us before the Pestilence reaches you and lays you dead like the rest!”

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设立的区域办事处外，我们在美国也开设了办事处，以便我们为当地客户提供更多的支持。“

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 gone—and 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设立的区域办事处外，我们在美国也开设了办事处，以便我们为当地客户提供更多的支持。“

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 drowns the rest will spare me设立的区域办事处外，我们在美国也开设了办事处，以便我们为当地客户提供更多的支持。“

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 young—and spares me. The Pestilence that wastes, the Arrow that strikes, the Sea that drowns, the Grave that closes over Love and Hope, are steps of my journey, and take me nearer and nearer to the End.”

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 grave—closed round the dreamer who looked on them. I saw and heard no more.

I was aroused by a hand laid on my shoulder. It was Laura’s.

She had dropped on her knees by the side of the sofa. Her face was flushed and agitated, and her eyes met mine in a wild bewildered manner. I started the instant I saw her.

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

She looked round at the half-open door, put her lips close to my ear, and answered in a whisper—

“Marian!—the figure at the lake—the footsteps last night—I’ve just seen her! I’ve just spoken to her!”

“Who, for Heaven’s sake?”

“Anne Catherick.”

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 away—we may be interrupted here—come at once into my room.”

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 that hung over the inside.

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 words—I could hardly even realise it dimly in my own thoughts. “Anne Catherick!” I whispered to myself, with useless, helpless reiteration—”Anne Catherick!”

Laura drew me to the nearest seat, an ottoman in the middle of the room. “Look!” she said, “look here!”—and pointed to the bosom of her dress.

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 my thoughts, and to help me to compose myself.

“Where did you find your brooch?” The first words I could say to her were the words which put that trivial question at that important moment.

“她 found it, Marian.”

“哪里？”

“On the floor of the boat-house. Oh, how shall I begin—how shall I tell you about it! She talked to me so strangely—she looked so fearfully ill—she left me so suddenly!”

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 her—just as the sight of the brooch had roused me to question her, the moment before.

“Speak low,” I said. “The window is open, and the garden path runs beneath it. Begin at the beginning, Laura. Tell me, word for word, what passed between that woman and you.”

“Shall I close the window?”

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

“At the boat-house, 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 boat-house, 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.'”

“Miss Fairlie!”

“Yes, my old name—the dear, familiar name that I thought I had parted from for ever. I started up—not frightened, the voice was too kind and gentle to frighten anybody—but very much surprised. There, looking at me from the doorway, stood a woman, whose face I never remembered to have seen before—”

“她穿得怎么样？”

“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 please—I’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!'”

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

“Yes, I remembered your asking me about Anne Catherick at Limmeridge, and your saying that she had once been considered like me.”

“What reminded you of that, Laura?”

“她 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 weary—but 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 discovery—I don’t know why—gave me such a shock, that I was perfectly incapable of speaking to her for the moment.”

“Did she seem hurt by your silence?”

“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 因为 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 alone—I have left the only friend I have in the world, anxious and frightened about me—I have risked being shut up again in the mad-house—and 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 creature to come in, and sit down in the boat-house, by my side.”

“Did she do so?”

“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 meant—my conscience told me while I was listening. Why did I ever let you marry him! Oh, my fear—my 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 fear—my 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 hear her.”

“Surely, Laura, you asked what the fear was which she dwelt on so earnestly?”

“Yes, I asked that.”

“她说什么？”

“She asked me in return, if I should not be afraid of a man who had shut me up in a mad-house, 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 here—I want to make atonement—I 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. ‘应 I undo the harm?’ she said to herself doubtfully. ‘You have friends to take your part. If 您 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 for more, but she stopped at those words.”

“You tried to make her go on?”

“I tried, but she only drew herself away from me again, and leaned her face and arms against the side of the boat-house. ‘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 foot—it 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 here—I 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 something to me. And the next day your husband——'”

“Yes! yes! Go on. What did she tell you about your husband?”

“She stopped again, Marian, at that point——”

“And said no more?”

“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 boat-house.”

“Surely you followed her?”

“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 boat-house. ‘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 alone—we are watched. Come here to-morrow at this time—by yourself—mind—by yourself.’ She pushed me roughly into the boat-house again, and I saw her no more.”

“Oh, Laura, Laura, another chance lost! If I had only been near you she should not have escaped us. On which side did you lose sight of her?”

“On the left side, where the ground sinks and the wood is thickest.”

“Did you run out again? did you call after her?”

“How could I? I was too terrified to move or speak.”

“But when you 做了 move—when you came out?”

“I ran back here, to tell you what had happened.”

“Did you see any one, or hear any one, in the plantation?”

“No, it seemed to be all still and quiet when I passed through it.”

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 discovery—failed utterly and irretrievably, unless Anne Catherick kept her appointment at the boat-house 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?”

“None that I can remember.”

“Did she not mention a companion and friend—a woman named Mrs. Clements?”

“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.”

“Was that all she said about Mrs. Clements?”

“是的，仅此而已。”

“She told you nothing about the place in which she took refuge after leaving Todd’s Corner?”

“Nothing—I am quite sure.”

“Nor where she has lived since? Nor what her illness had been?”

“No, Marian, not a word. Tell me, pray tell me, what you think about it. I don’t know what to think, or what to do next.”

“You must do this, my love: You must carefully keep the appointment at the boat-house to-morrow. 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 您. Whatever happens, she shall not escape me设立的区域办事处外，我们在美国也开设了办事处，以便我们为当地客户提供更多的支持。“

Laura’s eyes read mine attentively.

“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 strange—I 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 by his actions, and I believe there is a secret.”

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 Hartright—as I saw him in the body when he said farewell; as I saw him in the spirit in my dream—and I too began to doubt now whether we were not advancing blindfold to an appointed and an inevitable end.

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 journey from which Sir Percival had returned but a few hours since.

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 his friend were going out together for a long walk.

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 escort) cared for no exercise at all.

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 attend Sir Percival in the library.

“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 put off.”

“Put off?” Laura repeated amazedly. “Who told you so?”

“My authority is Count Fosco. I believe it is to his interference that we are indebted for your husband’s sudden change of purpose.”

“It seems impossible, Marian. If the object of my signing was, as we suppose, to obtain money for Sir Percival that he urgently wanted, how can the matter be put off?”

“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?”

“No, but I don’t remember——”

“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.”

“Oh, Marian, it sounds too good to be true!”

“Does it, my love? You complimented me on my ready memory not long since, but you seem to doubt it now. I will get my journal, and you shall see if I am right or wrong.”

I went away and got the book at once.

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 writing—it 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 new friend!

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 to-morrow 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 drawing-room, 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. Catherick—but the experience of to-night 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 to-morrow with sunrise and warn her.

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 Sentiment—of sentiment, as I believe, really felt, not assumed for the occasion.

For instance, he was quiet and subdued—his 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 in—it was made of pale sea-green 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 watch-chain resting in folds, like a golden serpent, on the sea-green protuberance of his waistcoat. His immense head lay languidly on one side, and he gently beat time with two of his yellow-white fingers. He highly approved of the music, and tenderly admired Laura’s manner of playing—not 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 him—he 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 fetched it myself.

“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 man—talk 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 Evening-time, 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 matter-of-fact world. Percival! I sanction the admission of the lamps. Lady Glyde—Miss Halcombe—Eleanor, my good wife—which of you will indulge me with a game at dominoes?”

He addressed us all, but he looked especially at Laura.

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 ground—ran out to hide from them in the darkness, to hide even from myself.

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 me, and held up his hand warningly—

“Listen!” he said. “There will be a change to-morrow.”

七

June 19th.—The events of yesterday warned me to be ready, sooner or later, to meet the worst. To-day is not yet at an end, and the worst has come.

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 boat-house at half-past two o’clock on the afternoon of yesterday. I accordingly arranged that Laura should just show herself at the luncheon-table to-day, 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 boat-house before half-past two, and (when I left the table, in my turn) would take me to a safe position in the plantation before three.

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’clock—when 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 breakfast-room window hastily, with his high boots and his waterproof coat on—and that was all.

The Count passed the morning quietly indoors, some part of it in the library, some part in the drawing-room, 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 能够 sigh and languish) on the smallest provocation.

Luncheon-time 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 them—it is another bond, dear ladies, between you and me.”

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 confidence from that moment, never to regain it again.

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 luncheon-room window. Nobody saw me and nobody followed me. It was then a quarter to three o’clock by my watch.

Once among the trees I walked rapidly, until I had advanced more than half-way 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 boat-house—stopped and listened—then went on, till I was close behind it, and must have heard any persons who were talking inside. Still the silence was unbroken—still far and near no sign of a living creature appeared anywhere.

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 boat-house 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 sand.

I detected the footsteps of two persons—large 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 boat-house. Close against one side of it, under shelter of the projecting roof, I discovered a little hole in the sand—a 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 which they might lead me.

They led me, starting from the left-hand side of the boat-house, 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 foot-track 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 court-yard and the offices. The first person whom I met in crossing the servants’ hall was Mrs. Michelson, the housekeeper.

“Do you know,” I asked, “whether Lady Glyde has come in from her walk or not?”

“My lady came in a little while ago with Sir Percival,” answered the housekeeper. “I am afraid, Miss Halcombe, something very distressing has happened.”

My heart sank within me. “You don’t mean an accident?” I said faintly.

“No, no—thank God, no accident. But my lady ran upstairs to her own room in tears, and Sir Percival has ordered me to give Fanny warning to leave in an hour’s time.”

Fanny was Laura’s maid—a good affectionate girl who had been with her for years—the only person in the house whose fidelity and devotion we could both depend upon.

“Where is Fanny?” I inquired.

“In my room, Miss Halcombe. The young woman is quite overcome, and I told her to sit down and try to recover herself.”

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 good-bye. 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 said, I shook hands with her and went upstairs.

The door which led to Laura’s room was the door of an ante-chamber opening on to the passage. When I tried it, it was bolted on the inside.

I knocked, and the door was opened by the same heavy, overgrown housemaid whose lumpish insensibility had tried my patience so severely on the day when I found the wounded dog.

I had, since that time, discovered that her name was Margaret Porcher, and that she was the most awkward, slatternly, and obstinate servant in the house.

On opening the door she instantly stepped out to the threshold, and stood grinning at me in stolid silence.

“Why do you stand there?” I said. “Don’t you see that I want to come in?”

“Ah, but you mustn’t come in,” was the answer, with another and a broader grin still.

“How dare you talk to me in that way? Stand back instantly!”

She stretched out a great red hand and arm on each side of her, so as to bar the doorway, and slowly nodded her addle head at me.

“Master’s orders,” she said, and nodded again.

I had need of all my self-control to warn me against contesting the matter with 这里, 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 forgotten—I 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 house—it actually did me good to feel how angry I was.

The drawing-room and the breakfast-room 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, “No—a thousand times over, no.”

I walked straight up to him, and looked him full in the face.

“Am I to understand, Sir Percival, that your wife’s room is a prison, and that your housemaid is the gaoler who keeps it?” I asked.

“就是那个 is what you are to understand,” he answered. “Take care my gaoler hasn’t got double duty to do—take care your room is not a prison too.”

“拿 您 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.”

Instead of answering me he turned round to the Count.

“What did I tell you?” he asked. “What do you say now?”

“What I said before,” replied the Count—”No.”

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 icily-suppressed 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 to-day!”

Sir Percival drew back a step, and stared at her in dead silence. The declaration he had just heard—a declaration which he well knew, as I well knew, Madame Fosco would not have ventured to make without her husband’s permission—seemed to petrify him with surprise. The Count stood by, and looked at his wife with the most enthusiastic admiration.

“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 is—mine.”

Sir Percival crumpled up the paper in his hand, and pushing past the Count, with another oath, stood between him and the door.

“Have your own way,” he said, with baffled rage in his low, half-whispering tones. “Have your own way—and see what comes of it.” With those words he left the room.

Madame Fosco glanced inquiringly at her husband. “He has gone away very suddenly,” she said. “What does it mean?”

“It means that you and I together have brought the worst-tempered 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 courage at a very trying moment.”

“Sincere admiration,” suggested Madame Fosco.

“Sincere admiration,” echoed the Count.

I had no longer the strength of my first angry resistance to outrage and injury to support me. My heart-sick anxiety to see Laura, my sense of my own helpless ignorance of what had happened at the boat-house, 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 lips—my breath came short and thick—my 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 ceased, the door opened, and the Count looked in.

“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 Percival, and I have therefore expressly returned to mention it.”

“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 a polite stranger, and drew back to let me pass out first.

Sir Percival was standing in the hall. As I hurried to the stairs I heard him call impatiently to the Count to come out of the library.

“What are you waiting there for?” he said. “I want to speak to you.”

“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 ante-chamber open, but I closed the door of the bedroom the moment I was inside it.

Laura was sitting alone at the far end of the room, her arms resting wearily on a table, and her face hidden in her hands. She started up with a cry of delight when she saw me.

“How did you get here?” she asked. “Who gave you leave? Not Sir Percival?”

In my overpowering anxiety to hear what she had to tell me, I could not answer her—I could only put questions on my side. Laura’s eagerness to know what had passed downstairs proved, however, too strong to be resisted. She persistently repeated her inquiries.

“The Count, of course,” I answered impatiently. “Whose influence in the house——”

She stopped me with a gesture of disgust.

“Don’t speak of him,” she cried. “The Count is the vilest creature breathing! The Count is a miserable Spy——!”

Before we could either of us say another word we were alarmed by a soft knocking at the door of the bedroom.

I had not yet sat down, and I went first to see who it was. When I opened the door Madame Fosco confronted me with my handkerchief in her hand.

“You dropped this downstairs, Miss Halcombe,” she said, “and I thought I could bring it to you, as I was passing by to my own room.”

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 door, and fixed on Laura.

She had been listening before she knocked! I saw it in her white face, I saw it in her trembling hands, I saw it in her look at Laura.

After waiting an instant she turned from me in silence, and slowly walked away.

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 是 a third person watching us in the plantation yesterday, and that third person—-”

“Are you sure it was the Count?”

“I am absolutely certain. He was Sir Percival’s spy—he was Sir Percival’s informer—he set Sir Percival watching and waiting, all the morning through, for Anne Catherick and for me.”

“Is Anne found? Did you see her at the lake?”

“No. She has saved herself by keeping away from the place. When I got to the boat-house no one was there.”

“是的？ 是的？”

“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 was—LOOK.”

“And you scraped away the sand, and dug a hollow place in it?”

“How do you know that, Marian?”

“I saw the hollow place myself when I followed you to the boat-house. Go on—go on!”

“Yes, I scraped away the sand on the surface, and in a little while I came to a strip of paper hidden beneath, which had writing on it. The writing was signed with Anne Catherick’s initials.”

“它在哪里？”

“Sir Percival has taken it from me.”

“Can you remember what the writing was? Do you think you can repeat it to me?”

“In substance I can, Marian. It was very short. You would have remembered it, word for word.”

“Try to tell me what the substance was before we go any further.”

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 to-day 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 see me again and that soon.—A. C.”

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 boat-house 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 drawing-room. In this case he could only have got to the neighbourhood of the boat-house 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 drawing-room, as compared with the time at which Laura and Anne Catherick had been speaking together, proved that fact to us at any rate, beyond a doubt.

Having arrived at something like a conclusion so far, my next great interest was to know what discoveries Sir Percival had made after Count Fosco had given him his information.

“How came you to lose possession of the letter?” I asked. “What did you do with it when you found it in the sand?”

“After reading it once through,” she replied, “I took it into the boat-house 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 standing in the doorway watching me.”

“Did you try to hide the letter?”

“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 helplessly—I 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 这里 yet, but I have caught 您. Give me the letter.’ He stepped close up to me—I was alone with him, Marian—what could I do?—I gave him the letter.”

“What did he say when you gave it to him?”

“At first he said nothing. He took me by the arm, and led me out of the boat-house, 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 last.'”

“你告诉他了吗？”

“I was alone with him, Marian—his cruel hand was bruising my arm—what could I do?”

“Is the mark on your arm still? Let me see it.”

“Why do you want to see it?”

“I want to see it, Laura, because our endurance must end, and our resistance must begin to-day. That mark is a weapon to strike him with. Let me see it now—I may have to swear to it at some future time.”

“Oh, Marian, don’t look so—don’t talk so! It doesn’t hurt me now!”

“让我看看！”

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 thought no more.

“Don’t think too seriously of it, Marian,” she said simply, as she pulled her sleeve down again. “It doesn’t hurt me now.”

“I will try to think quietly of it, my love, for your sake.—Well! well! And you told him all that Anne Catherick had said to you—all that you told me?”

“Yes, all. He insisted on it—I was alone with him—I could conceal nothing.”

“Did he say anything when you had done?”

“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 plantation—a path where there was no hope of our meeting 您—and 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 你 not mixed up in the conspiracy,’ he said. ‘You shall leave this house to-day. 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 it—he did indeed.”

“I do understand it, Laura. He is mad—mad 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 已可以选用 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 to-day, but he may withdraw that interference to-morrow. Sir Percival has already dismissed Fanny because she is a quick-witted 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 watch-dog in the yard. It is impossible to say what violent measures he may take next, unless we make the most of our opportunities while we have them.”

“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 so—I do think so. Don’t altogether forget poor Fanny in thinking of me. She wants help and comfort too.”

“I will not forget her. I saw her before I came up here, and I have arranged to communicate with her to-night. Letters are not safe in the post-bag at Blackwater Park, and I shall have two to write to-day, in your interests, which must pass through no hands but Fanny’s.”

“什么字母？”

“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 to-day. 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 room—he shall, before I rest to-night!”

“But think of the exposure, Marian!”

“I am calculating on the exposure. Sir Percival has more to dread from it than you have. The prospect of an exposure may bring him to terms when nothing else will.”

I rose as I spoke, but Laura entreated me not to leave her. “You will drive him to desperation,” she said, “and increase our dangers tenfold.”

I felt the truth—the disheartening truth—of 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 letter that I had proposed writing. To whom was it to be addressed?

“To Mr. Fairlie,” I said. “Your uncle is your nearest male relative, and the head of the family. He must and shall interfere.”

Laura shook her head sorrowfully.

“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 with him, Laura—I have had some practice.”

“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 doubtful—more than doubtful. And yet, hopeless as the experiment seemed, surely it was worth trying. I resolved to try it in sheer despair of knowing what better to do.

“Your uncle shall know the wish you have just expressed,” I said, “and I will ask the lawyer’s advice on the subject as well. Good may come of it—and will come of it, I hope.”

Saying that I rose again, and again Laura tried to make me resume my seat.

“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 Laura, and prevailed on her to recognise it as I did.

“I will come back again, love, in an hour or less,” I said. “The worst is over for to-day. Keep yourself quiet and fear nothing.”

“Is the key in the door, Marian? Can I lock it on the inside?”

“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 that the door was at her own command.

第八

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 blotting-paper, 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 guard—even 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.

Madame Fosco was alone in the hall looking at the weather-glass.

“Still falling,” she said. “I am afraid we must expect more rain.”

Her face was composed again to its customary expression and its customary colour. But the hand with which she pointed to the dial of the weather-glass still trembled.

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 self-betrayals which women notice in each other, that Madame Fosco, in spite of her well-assumed external civility, had not forgiven her niece for innocently standing between her and the legacy of ten thousand pounds—all rushed upon my mind together, all impelled me to speak in the vain hope of using my own influence and my own powers of persuasion for the atonement of Laura’s offence.

“May I trust to your kindness to excuse me, Madame Fosco, if I venture to speak to you on an exceedingly painful subject?”

She crossed her hands in front of her and bowed her head solemnly, without uttering a word, and without taking her eyes off mine for a moment.

“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 mentioned to the Count?”

“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 you, Miss Halcombe, that I 已可以选用 告诉他。”

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 Fosco—let me earnestly entreat the Count—to 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. May I hope that they will be considerately and generously forgiven?”

“Most assuredly,” said the Count’s quiet voice behind me. He had stolen on us with his noiseless tread and his book in his hand from the library.

“When Lady Glyde said those hasty words,” he went on, “she did me an injustice which I lament—and forgive. Let us never return to the subject, Miss Halcombe; let us all comfortably combine to forget it from this moment.”

“You are very kind,” I said, “you relieve me inexpressibly.”

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 failed on my lips, and I stood there in silence.

“I beg you on my knees to say no more, Miss Halcombe—I am truly shocked that you should have thought it necessary to say so much.” With that polite speech he took my hand—oh, 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 him—I tried to smile—I, who once mercilessly despised deceit in other women, was as false as the worst of them, as false as the Judas whose lips had touched my hand.

I could not have maintained my degrading self-control—it is all that redeems me in my own estimation to know that I could not—if 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 her age in an instant.

“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 hesitation to devote myself to them.

There was no multitude of resources to perplex me—there 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 terms—in 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 second course. The letters must be tried first, and I wrote them.

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 arrangement—I assured him that I wrote with Laura’s authority—and 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 herself at no very distant time.

When I had done, and had sealed and directed the two envelopes, I went back with the letters to Laura’s room, to show her that they were written.

“Has anybody disturbed you?” I asked, when she opened the door to me.

“Nobody has knocked,” she replied. “But I heard some one in the outer room.”

“Was it a man or a woman?”

“A woman. I heard the rustling of her gown.”

“A rustling like silk?”

“Yes, like silk.”

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 be overlooked.

“What became of the rustling of the gown when you no longer heard it in the ante-room?” I inquired. “Did you hear it go past your wall, along the passage?”

“Yes. I kept still and listened, and just heard it.”

“Which way did it go?”

“Towards your room.”

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 post-bag 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 letters into Fanny’s hands.”

“You have really written them, then? Oh, Marian, run no risks—pray, pray run no risks!”

“No, no—no fear. Let me see—what o’clock is it now?”

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 made, call through the door, and say that I am gone out for a walk.”

“When shall you be back?”

“Before dinner, without fail. Courage, my love. By this time to-morrow you will have a clear-headed, 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 walking-dress until I had first discovered what was going on in the lower part of the house. I had not ascertained yet whether Sir Percival was indoors or out.

The singing of the canaries in the library, and the smell of tobacco-smoke 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 them—for 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 every one of them. What could be his purpose here?

It was no time then to inquire into his motives. I looked about for Madame Fosco next, and found her following her favourite circle round and round the fish-pond.

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 that he had gone out.

“Which of the horses has he taken?” I asked carelessly.

“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 tracing her. Do you happen to know if she is dangerously mad, Miss Halcombe?”

“I do not, Countess.”

“Are you going in?”

“Yes, I think so. I suppose it will soon be time to dress for dinner.”

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 before dinner.

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 the house with the two letters safe in my pocket.

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 fervently that she might still escape him.

I walked on as briskly as the heat would let me till I reached the cross-road which led to the village, looking back from time to time to make sure that I was not followed by any one.

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 cross-road 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 was quite clear.

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 anybody—not even by her master, who had sent her away.

“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 to-morrow. 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 of the last importance to your mistress’s interests.”

Fanny put the letters into the bosom of her dress. “There they shall stop, miss,” she said, “till I have done what you tell me.”

“Mind you are at the station in good time to-morrow 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 seven o’clock train.”

“Thank you, miss—thank 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 dinner to-day? It really breaks my heart, miss, to think of it.”

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 say two words to Laura before I went downstairs.

“The letters are in Fanny’s hands,” I whispered to her at the door. “Do you mean to join us at dinner?”

“Oh, no, no—not for the world.”

“Has anything happened? Has any one disturbed you?”

“Yes—just now—Sir Percival——”

“Did he come in?”

“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 obstinacy—mind that!—I’ll wring it out of you!’ He went away with those words—went away, Marian, hardly five minutes ago.”

He had not found Anne! We were safe for that night—he had not found her yet.

“You are going downstairs, Marian? Come up again in the evening.”

“Yes, yes. Don’t be uneasy if I am a little late—I must be careful not to give offence by leaving them too soon.”

The dinner-bell rang and I hastened away.

Sir Percival took Madame Fosco into the dining-room, 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 self-possessed 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 the deed was produced in the library, and I feel certain of it now.

When Madame Fosco and I rose to leave the table, the Count rose also to accompany us back to the drawing-room.

“What are you going away for?” asked Sir Percival—”I mean 您, Fosco.”

“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 them.”

“Nonsense! Another glass of claret won’t hurt you. Sit down again like an Englishman. I want half an hour’s quiet talk with you over our wine.”

“A quiet talk, Percival, with all my heart, but not now, and not over the wine. Later in the evening, if you please—later in the evening.”

“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 dinner-time, 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 dinner-table. Whatever the coming subject of discussion between them might be, it was clearly an important subject in Sir Percival’s estimation—and perhaps (judging from his evident reluctance to approach it) a dangerous subject as well, in the estimation of the Count.

These considerations occurred to me while we were passing from the dining-room to the drawing-room. 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 tea-table—waited a minute or two in the room—went out into the hall—and returned with the post-bag in his hands. It was then eight o’clock—the hour at which the letters were always despatched from Blackwater Park.

“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 answer.

“No, Count, thank you. No letters to-day.”

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 myself—finished her own cup in two minutes, and quietly glided out of the room.

I rose to follow her example—partly 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 again—this 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 concerned.

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 concert-room? 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 enthusiasm—only 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 horrible—something fierce and devilish—in 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 dining-room 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 Recitativo of Moses, sotto voce, in the garden.

I heard Sir Percival call after him from the dining-room window. But he took no notice—he seemed determined not to hear. That long-deferred quiet talk between them was still to be put off, was still to wait for the Count’s absolute will and pleasure.

He had detained me in the drawing-room nearly half an hour from the time when his wife left us. Where had she been, and what had she been doing in that interval?

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 ante-room or in the passage.

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 good-night. 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 drawing-room after leaving Laura for the last time that weary day, I resolved merely to show myself there, to make my excuses, and then to retire an hour earlier than usual for the night.

Sir Percival, and the Count and his wife, were sitting together. Sir Percival was yawning in an easy-chair, the Count was reading, Madame Fosco was fanning herself. Strange to say, 这里 face was flushed now. She, who never suffered from the heat, was most undoubtedly suffering from it to-night.

“I am afraid, Countess, you are not quite so well as usual?” I said.

“The very remark I was about to make to 您,” 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 too on her face when she said the words.

“I am suffering from one of my bad headaches,” I answered coldly.

“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 were safe now in Fanny’s hands.

“Come and have a smoke, Fosco,” said Sir Percival, rising, with another uneasy look at his friend.

“With pleasure, Percival, when the ladies have gone to bed,” replied the Count.

“Excuse me, Countess, if I set you the example of retiring,” I said. “The only remedy for such a headache as mine is going to bed.”

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 quiet talk with Sir Percival—and the Countess was the impediment this time.

IX

June 19th.—Once safely shut into my own room, I opened these pages, and prepared to go on with that part of the day’s record which was still left to write.

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 sitting-room, 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 sitting-room window was wide open, and I leaned out listlessly to look at the night.

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 window-sill 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 closing door, in the lower part of the house.

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 tobacco-smoke 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 left the light burning on the dressing-table.

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 lawn—or I should certainly have heard Sir Percival’s heavy footfall, though the Count’s soft step might have escaped me, even on the gravel walk.

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?”

“I want to see the light out of that window,” replied the Count softly.

“What harm does the light do?”

“It shows she is not in bed yet. She is sharp enough to suspect something, and bold enough to come downstairs and listen, if she can get the chance. Patience, Percival—patience.”

“Humbug! You’re always talking of patience.”

“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!”

“魔鬼是什么意思？”

“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 talk—and 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 it—and that motive I had. Laura’s honour, Laura’s happiness—Laura’s life itself—might depend on my quick ears and my faithful memory to-night.

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 precautions—or, 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 rain-water 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 flower-pots was ranged, with wide intervals between each pot—the whole being protected from falling in high winds by an ornamental iron railing along the edge of the roof.

The plan which had now occurred to me was to get out at my sitting-room 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 flower-pots, with my ear against the outer railing. If Sir Percival and the Count sat and smoked to-night, 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 to-night to sit far back inside the room, then the chances were that I should hear little or nothing—and in that case, I must run the far more serious risk of trying to outwit them downstairs.

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 Sir Percival and the Count.

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 flower-pots 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 consequences might be?

I only waited to put the matches near the candle before I extinguished it, and groped my way back into the sitting-room, I locked that door, as I had locked my bedroom door—then quietly got out of the window, and cautiously set my feet on the leaden roof of the verandah.

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 dressing-room, of the bathroom, and of the second empty spare room.

No sound reached my ears—the 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 directed—there I saw a gleam of light! The Countess was not yet in bed.

It was too late to draw back—it 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 flower-pots within a few inches of me, on the other side.

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 to-night!”). 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 lighted window and the verandah roof.

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 blind—then 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 sweet-scented leaves of the flower on my left hand just brushed my cheek as I lightly rested my head against the railing.

The first sounds that reached me from below were caused by the opening or closing (most probably the latter) of three doors in succession—the 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, and then returning to the place from which it had set out.

“The devil take your restlessness! When do you mean to sit down?” growled Sir Percival’s voice beneath me.

“Ouf! how hot it is!” said the Count, sighing and puffing wearily.

His exclamation was followed by the scraping of the garden chairs on the tiled pavement under the verandah—the 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 white field of the blind.

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 we are to decide on the future at all, we must decide secretly to-night.”

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 conversation, and I followed it word for word.

“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 不能 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.”

“Stop till I get the brandy and water. Have some yourself.”

“Thank you, Percival. The cold water with pleasure, a spoon, and the basin of sugar. Eau sucree, my friend—nothing more.”

“Sugar-and-water 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 embarrassed—”

“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 of woman Miss Halcombe was?”

“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 down—a 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 他. If they can never succeed in disturbing it, he gets the better of 他们. 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 first time.”

“First time! Has she written again?”

“Yes, she has written again to-day.”

A chair fell on the pavement of the verandah—fell with a crash, as if it had been kicked down.

It was well for me that the Count’s revelation roused Sir Percival’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 post-bag. Even if it was so, how could he have examined the letters when they had gone straight from my hand to the bosom of the girl’s dress?

“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 to-day on Miss Halcombe, as you turned it in your mischievous folly on your wife. Where are your eyes? 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 experience—I, Fosco, cunning as the devil himself, as you have told me a hundred times—I walk, in your English phrase, upon egg-shells! And this grand creature—I drink her health in my sugar-and-water—this 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 yours—this 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 已可以选用 失败的。”

There was a pause. I write the villain’s words about myself because I mean to remember them—because 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 teeth.

Sir Percival was the first to break the silence again.

“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 yourself—if you knew as much as I do.”

“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 to-night—you leave it for the future in my hands only. I am talking to a Practical British man—ha? Well, Practical, will that do for you?”

“What do you propose if I leave it all to you?”

“Answer me first. Is it to be in my hands or not?”

“Say it is in your hands—what then?”

“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 to-day for the second time.”

“How did you find it out? What did she say?”

“If I told you, Percival, we should only come back at the end to where we are now. Enough that I have found it out—and the finding has caused that trouble and anxiety which made me so inaccessible to you all through to-day. Now, to refresh my memory about your affairs—it 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 months—raised at a cost that makes my poverty-stricken 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?”

“没有任何。”

“What! You have no money at the bankers?”

“A few hundreds, when I want as many thousands.”

“Have you no other security to borrow upon?”

“Not a shred.”

“What have you actually got with your wife at the present moment?”

“Nothing but the interest of her twenty thousand pounds—barely enough to pay our daily expenses.”

“What do you expect from your wife?”

“Three thousand a year when her uncle dies.”

“A fine fortune, Percival. What sort of a man is this uncle? Old?”

“No—neither old nor young.”

“A good-tempered, freely-living man? Married? No—I 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 state of his health.”

“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 your wife?”

“没有。”

“绝对没有？”

“Absolutely nothing—except in case of her death.”

“Aha! in the case of her death.”

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 民政事务总署 come. The state of my cloak showed that it had been falling thickly for some little time.

The Count went back under the verandah—I heard the chair creak beneath his weight as he sat down in it again.

“Well, Percival,” he said, “and in the case of Lady Glyde’s death, what do you get then?”

“If she leaves no children——”

“Which she is likely to do?”

“Which she is not in the least likely to do——”

“是？”

“Why, then I get her twenty thousand pounds.”

“Paid down?”

“Paid down.”

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 her say to herself. She dropped the blind, and I breathed again freely.

The talk went on below me, the Count resuming it this time.

“Percival! do you care about your wife?”

“Fosco! that’s rather a downright question.”

“I am a downright man, and I repeat it.”

“Why the devil do you look at me in that way?”

“You won’t answer me? Well, then, let us say your wife dies before the summer is out——”

“Drop it, Fosco!”

“Let us say your wife dies——”

“Drop it, I tell you!”

“In that case, you would gain twenty thousand pounds, and you would lose——”

“I should lose the chance of three thousand a year.”

“ 远程 chance, Percival—the remote chance only. And you want money, at once. In your position the gain is certain—the loss doubtful.”

“Speak for yourself as well as for me. Some of the money I want has been borrowed for 您. And if you come to gain, my wife’s death would be ten thousand pounds in 选择您 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? I speak of your wife’s death as I speak of a possibility. Why not? The respectable lawyers who scribble-scrabble 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 to-night 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 death.”

As he spoke the light in Madame Fosco’s room was extinguished, and the whole second floor of the house was now sunk in darkness.

“Talk! talk!” grumbled Sir Percival. “One would think, to hear you, that my wife’s signature to the deed was got already.”

“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 to-night, 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 friend—and pardon me if I shock your fiery national tastes by mixing myself a second glass of sugar-and-water.”

“It’s very well to say speak,” replied Sir Percival, in a far more quiet and more polite tone than he had yet adopted, “but it’s not so easy to know how to begin.”

“Shall I help you?” suggested the Count. “Shall I give this private difficulty of yours a name? What if I call it—Anne Catherick?”

“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, of course—haven’t we?”

“You have had a secret from me, Percival. There is a skeleton in your cupboard here at Blackwater Park that has peeped out in these last few days at other people besides yourself.”

“Well, suppose it has. If it doesn’t concern you, you needn’t be curious about it, need you?”

“Do I look curious about it?”

“Yes, you do.”

“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 curious—do you ask me, as your old friend, to respect your secret, and to leave it, once for all, in your own keeping?”

“Yes—that’s just what I do ask.”

“Then my curiosity is at an end. It dies in me from this moment.”

“你真的是这个意思吗？”

“What makes you doubt me?”

“I have had some experience, Fosco, of your roundabout ways, and I am not so sure that you won’t worm it out of me after all.”

The chair below suddenly creaked again—I felt the trellis-work 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 virtue—when 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 self-control. I could draw your secret out of you, if I liked, as I draw this finger out of the palm of my hand—you 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 them, Percival! Shake hands—I forgive you.”

His voice faltered over the last words—faltered, 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 words, do you want my help?”

“Yes, badly enough.”

“And you can ask for it without compromising yourself?”

“I can try, at any rate.”

“Try, then.”

“Well, this is how it stands:—I told you to-day that I had done my best to find Anne Catherick, and failed.”

“是的，你做到了。”

“Fosco! I’m a lost man if I 别 找她。”

“Ha! Is it so serious as that?”

A little stream of light travelled out under the verandah, and fell over the gravel-walk. 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. “您一站式解决方案 face speaks the truth this time. Serious, indeed—as serious as the money matters themselves.”

“More serious. As true as I sit here, more serious!”

The light disappeared again and the talk went on.

“I showed you the letter to my wife that Anne Catherick hid in the sand,” Sir Percival continued. “There’s no boasting in that letter, Fosco—she 不 know the Secret.”

“Say as little as possible, Percival, in my presence, of the Secret. Does she know it from you?”

“No, from her mother.”

“Two women in possession of your private mind—bad, 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 best-behaved patient they had—and, 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 large—if 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 danger of your position at the present moment?”

“Anne Catherick is in this neighbourhood, and in communication with Lady Glyde—there’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, deny it as she may?”

“One moment, Percival. If Lady Glyde does know the Secret, she must know also that it is a compromising secret for 您. As your wife, surely it is her interest to keep it?”

“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 with him now—an infernal vagabond of a drawing-master, named Hartright.”

“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 course—but I have not met with him.”

“Wait! I haven’t done yet. Who do you think helped Anne Catherick to get the start, when the people from the mad-house 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 his interest to turn their information against me.”

“Gently, Percival—gently! Are you insensible to the virtue of Lady Glyde?”

“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——”

“Yes, yes, I see. Where is Mr. 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 hurry.”

“Are you sure he is out of the country?”

“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 to-morrow——”

“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. Hartright—even if he does come back. I see! yes, yes, I see! The finding of Anne Catherick is the first necessity—make your mind easy about the rest. Your wife is here, under your thumb—Miss Halcombe is inseparable from her, and is, therefore, under your thumb also—and Mr. Hartright is out of the country. This invisible Anne of yours is all we have to think of for the present. You have made your inquiries?”

“Yes. I have been to her mother, I have ransacked the village—and all to no purpose.”

“Is her mother to be depended on?”

“是的。”

“She has told your secret once.”

“She won’t tell it again.”

“Why not? Are her own interests concerned in keeping it, as well as yours?”

“Yes—deeply concerned.”

“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 to-morrow to better purpose than you. One last question before we go to bed.”

“它是什么？”

“It is this. When I went to the boat-house 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 recognise our invisible Anne. What is she like?”

“Like? Come! I’ll tell you in two words. She’s a sickly likeness of my wife.”

The chair creaked, and the pillar shook once more. The Count was on his feet again—this time in astonishment.

“What!!!” he exclaimed eagerly.

“Fancy my wife, after a bad illness, with a touch of something wrong in her head—and there is Anne Catherick for you,” answered Sir Percival.

“Are they related to each other?”

“一点也不。”

“And yet so like?”

“Yes, so like. What are you laughing about?”

There was no answer, and no sound of any kind. The Count was laughing in his smooth silent internal way.

“What are you laughing about?” reiterated Sir Percival.

“Perhaps at my own fancies, my good friend. Allow me my Italian humour—do I not come of the illustrious nation which invented the exhibition of Punch? Well, well, well, I shall know Anne Catherick when I see her—and so enough for to-night. 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 Catherick—my 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 again—I shake hands again. Good-night!”

Not another word was spoken. I heard the Count close the library door. I heard Sir Percival barring up the window-shutters. 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 time, and succeeded in rising to my knees on the wet roof.

As I crept to the wall, and raised myself against it, I looked back, and saw the window of the Count’s dressing-room gleam into light. My sinking courage flickered up in me again, and kept my eyes fixed on his window, as I stole my way back, step by step, past the wall of the house.

The clock struck the quarter after one, when I laid my hands on the window-sill of my own room. I had seen nothing and heard nothing which could lead me to suppose that my retreat had been discovered.

X

June 20th.—Eight o’clock. The sun is shining in a clear sky. I have not been near my bed—I have not once closed my weary wakeful eyes. From the same window at which I looked out into the darkness of last night, I look out now at the bright stillness of the morning.

I count the hours that have passed since I escaped to the shelter of this room by my own sensations—and those hours seem like weeks.

How short a time, and yet how long to me—since I sank down in the darkness, here, on the floor—drenched to the skin, cramped in every limb, cold to the bones, a useless, helpless, panic-stricken 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 sunrise—the sitting down at the widely-opened window to get all the air I could to cool me—the ceaseless writing, faster and faster, hotter and hotter, driving on more and more wakefully, all through the dreadful interval before the house was astir again—how clearly I recall it, from the beginning by candle-light, 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 down and rest myself, and try to quench the fever that consumes me, in sleep?

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 know that I may have the sense and the strength to rise again?

Oh, the rain, the rain—the cruel rain that chilled me last night!

Nine o’clock. Was it nine struck, or eight? Nine, surely? I am shivering again—shivering, from head to foot, in the summer air. Have I been sitting here asleep? I don’t know what I have been doing.

Oh, my God! am I going to be ill?

Ill, at such a time as this!

My head—I am sadly afraid of my head. I can write, but the lines all run together. I see the words. Laura—I can write Laura, and see I write it. Eight or nine—which was it?

So cold, so cold—oh, that rain last night!—and the strokes of the clock, the strokes I can’t count, keep striking in my head——

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 resemblance to the first two letters (L and A) of the name of Lady Glyde.

On the next page of the Diary, another entry appears. It is in a man’s handwriting, large, bold, and firmly regular, and the date is “June the 21st.” It contains these lines—]

POSTSCRIPT BY A SINCERE FRIEND

The illness of our excellent Miss Halcombe has afforded me the opportunity of enjoying an unexpected intellectual pleasure.

I refer to the perusal (which I have just completed) of this interesting Diary.

There are many hundred pages here. I can lay my hand on my heart, and declare that every page has charmed, refreshed, delighted me.

To a man of my sentiments it is unspeakably gratifying to be able to say this.

Admirable woman!

I allude to Miss Halcombe.

Stupendous effort!

I refer to the Diary.

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 Halcombe—how worthy Miss Halcombe would have been of ME.

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 its beginning to its end.

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 assistance. Miserable man!

Finally, those sentiments dictate the lines—grateful, sympathetic, paternal lines—which 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 feet of Miss Halcombe.

I breathe my wishes for her recovery.

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 nature—nothing more.

To a person of similar sensibility this simple assertion will explain and excuse everything.

Miss Halcombe is a person of similar sensibility.

In that persuasion I sign myself,
Fosco.

I

I am asked to state plainly what I know of the progress of Miss Halcombe’s illness and of the circumstances under which Lady Glyde left Blackwater Park for London.

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, have hesitated to grant.

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 half-past 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 light-headed, 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 sitting-room, and having sent for my medicine-chest, 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, of Oak Lodge.

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 over-courteously, 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 boat-house 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 dinner-time. Perhaps he wished to set the example of keeping the house as quiet as possible. It was entirely in his character to do so. He was a most considerate nobleman.

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 lived—but she cried, and she was frightened, two weaknesses which made her entirely unfit to be present in a sick-room.

Sir Percival and the Count came in the morning to make their inquiries.

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 like to be alone. Good-morning, Mrs. Michelson.”

Sir Percival was not civil enough—perhaps I ought in justice to say, not composed enough—to 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 nobleman—he 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 particulars—they 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 opinions—I 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 constantly—in my own copy of the edition printed by subscription, in the first days of my widowhood—and 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 me to lose sight of her.”

Towards midday I went downstairs to attend to some of my regular duties. An hour afterwards, on my way back to the sick-room, 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 door, and addressed his noble friend, with extreme eagerness, in these words—

“你找到她了吗？”

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 most rudely angry manner possible.

“Come in here and tell me about it,” he said to the Count. “Whenever there are women in a house they’re always sure to be going up or down stairs.”

“My dear Percival,” observed his lordship kindly, “Mrs. Michelson has duties. Pray recognise her admirable performance of them as sincerely as I do! How is the sufferer, Mrs. Michelson?”

“No better, my lord, I regret to say.”

“Sad—most 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 to-morrow 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 the same. Pray present my best respects and sympathies to Lady Glyde.”

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 keep him waiting there any longer.

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 impropriety—I knew his moral character too well. The only question I asked myself was—Had 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 London—her noble husband, with his customary attention, accompanying her to the station.

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 another unpleasant meeting between the doctor and the Count.

His lordship, on returning from the station, stepped up into Miss Halcombe’s sitting-room 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 particulars, Mr. Dawson came out from the bedroom.

“Good-morning, sir,” said his lordship, stepping forward in the most urbane manner, and stopping the doctor, with a high-bred resolution impossible to resist, “I greatly fear you find no improvement in the symptoms to-day?”

“I find decided improvement,” answered Mr. Dawson.

“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 advice—I only presume to make an inquiry. You live at some distance, sir, from the gigantic centres of scientific activity—London 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 ears—Yes or No?”

“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 您设立的区域办事处外，我们在美国也开设了办事处，以便我们为当地客户提供更多的支持。“

Buffeted in this inexcusably uncivil way on one cheek, the Count, like a practical Christian, immediately turned the other, and said, in the sweetest manner, “Good-morning, Mr. Dawson.”

If my late beloved husband had been so fortunate as to know his lordship, how highly he and the Count would have esteemed each other!

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 when she spoke, informed me that she was a foreigner.

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 meal in my own room.

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 sick-room, with a patient whom it was highly desirable not to excite. But poor Lady Glyde knew nothing of nursing—nothing whatever, I am sorry to say.

The next morning Mrs. Rubelle was sent to the sitting-room, to be approved by the doctor on his way through to the bedroom.

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 that I more liberally set it down to extraordinary strength of mind.

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 window, and still silently enjoying the country air.

Mr. Dawson was waiting for me by himself in the breakfast-room.

“About this new nurse, Mrs. Michelson,” said the doctor.

“是的先生？”

“I find that she has been brought here from London by the wife of that fat old foreigner, who is always trying to interfere with me. Mrs. Michelson, the fat old foreigner is a quack.”

This was very rude. I was naturally shocked at it.

“Are you aware, sir,” I said, “that you are talking of a nobleman?”

“Pooh! He isn’t the first quack with a handle to his name. They’re all Counts—hang ’em!”

“He would not be a friend of Sir Percival Glyde’s, sir, if he was not a member of the highest aristocracy—excepting the English aristocracy, of course.”

“Very well, Mrs. Michelson, call him what you like, and let us get back to the nurse. I have been objecting to her already.”

“Without having seen her, sir?”

“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 sick-room.”

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 before, and not of brazen assurance, by any means.

We all went into the bedroom.

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 have done much better by the bedside myself.

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 sick-room—but with these drawbacks, she was a good nurse, and she never gave either Lady Glyde or Mr. Dawson the shadow of a reason for complaining of her.

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 subject of Miss Halcombe.

“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 bottom of my heart.”

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 您 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 advice.”

Lady Glyde turned away from me suddenly, with an appearance of despair, for which I was quite unable to account.

“他的 advice!” she said to herself. “God help us—他的 建议！”

The Count was away from Blackwater Park, as nearly as I remember, a week.

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 friend—some such friend as he might have found in my late excellent husband—had 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, having had experience to guide me in my happy married days.

Her ladyship the Countess, who was now the only company for Sir Percival downstairs, rather neglected him, as I considered—or, 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 luncheon-time, 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 time, and I wish to be understood as reprobating it once more on this occasion.

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 felt so much as the shadow of a doubt crossing his own mind.

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, completely overpowered by exhaustion, on the sofa in the sitting-room.

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 medicine-chest, 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 it has,” he answered; “we shall know better to-morrow morning.”

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 resist—there was a sad scene—but he had his medical authority to support him, and he carried his point.

The next morning one of the men-servants 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 after the messenger had gone the Count returned to Blackwater Park.

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 was too much alarmed to make any serious resistance on this occasion.

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 alarm—pale and perfectly speechless.

His lordship looked next at me.

“When did the change happen?” he asked.

I told him the time.

“Has Lady Glyde been in the room since?”

I replied that she had not. The doctor had absolutely forbidden her to come into the room on the evening before, and had repeated the order again in the morning.

“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 anything more.

“It is typhus fever,” he said.

In the minute that passed, while these questions and answers were going on, Mr. Dawson recovered himself, and addressed the Count with his customary firmness.

“它是 不能 typhus fever,” he remarked sharply. “I protest against this intrusion, sir. No one has a right to put questions here but me. I have done my duty to the best of my ability—”

The Count interrupted him—not 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 sitting-room, and we saw Lady Glyde on the threshold.

“ 必须 和 将 come in,” she said, with extraordinary firmness.

Instead of stopping her, the Count moved into the sitting-room, 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 of herself.

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 great relief, the physician came.

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 been sent for to set at rest.

“What is your opinion of the fever?” he inquired.

“Typhus,” replied the physician “Typhus fever beyond all doubt.”

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 the room and had heard the confirmation of his own opinion.

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 recovery—he said it was impossible at that stage of the illness to pronounce one way or the other.

The five days passed anxiously.

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 sick-room 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 him—I think he saw that it was hopeless to dispute with her. She came in every day, and she self-denyingly 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 before—except that the Count went to London again one morning and returned at night.

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 now—all 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 disagreement—and this time the dispute between them was of so serious a nature that Mr. Dawson left the house.

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 self-control 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 sent in his bill the next morning.

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 required—I should still, if my authority had been consulted, have obtained professional assistance from some other quarter, for form’s sake.

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 admit—for she was in no state to bear any fresh anxieties. But still it was a deception, and, as such, to a person of my principles, at best a doubtful proceeding.

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 astonishment, addressed me in these terms—

“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 place—leaving 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 clear of a pack of useless people by this time to-morrow.”

I listened to him, perfectly aghast with astonishment.

“Do you mean, Sir Percival, that I am to dismiss the indoor servants under my charge without the usual month’s warning?” I asked.

“Certainly I do. We may all be out of the house before another month, and I am not going to leave the servants here in idleness, with no master to wait on.”

“Who is to do the cooking, Sir Percival, while you are still staying here?”

“Margaret Porcher can roast and boil—keep her. What do I want with a cook if I don’t mean to give any dinner-parties?”

“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. Michelson—I send for you to carry out my plans of economy. Dismiss the whole lazy pack of indoor servants to-morrow, except Porcher. She is as strong as a horse—and we’ll make her work like a horse.”

“You will excuse me for reminding you, Sir Percival, that if the servants go to-morrow they must have a month’s wages in lieu of a month’s warning.”

“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 self-respect 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 gardener—this last living in his own cottage, and being wanted to take care of the one horse that remained in the stables.

With the house left in this strange and lonely condition—with the mistress of it ill in her room—with Miss Halcombe still as helpless as a child—and with the doctor’s attendance withdrawn from us in enmity—it 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 Park.

II

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.

My departure took place under the following circumstances—

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 accustomed to self-discipline, I accomplished the sacrifice.

I found Sir Percival and Count Fosco sitting together again. On this occasion his lordship remained present at the interview, and assisted in the development of Sir Percival’s views.

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 proceeding myself to Torquay in their interests.

It was impossible for a person in my situation to meet any proposal, made in these terms, with a positive objection.

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 were at the disposal of Miss Halcombe and Lady Glyde.

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 Percival.

My own idea on reading over these instructions was, that no such residence as I saw described could be found at any watering-place 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 servants’ offices but Margaret Porcher.

Every one must feel what I have felt myself since that time, that these circumstances were more than unusual—they were! almost suspicious. Let me, however, say again that it was impossible for me, in my dependent position, to act otherwise than I did.

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 departure—I 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 downstairs.

The answer really shocked me—there was such a glaring impropriety in permitting an under-housemaid 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 slouching, sulky way, which left me no wiser than I was before.

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 waiting there to see us.

“Where are you going?” he said to Lady Glyde.

“To Marian’s room,” she answered.

“It may spare you a disappointment,” remarked Sir Percival, “if I tell you at once that you will not find her there.”

“Not find her there!”

“No. She left the house yesterday morning with Fosco and his wife.”

Lady Glyde was not strong enough to bear the surprise of this extraordinary statement. She turned fearfully pale, and leaned back against the wall, looking at her husband in dead silence.

I was so astonished myself that I hardly knew what to say. I asked Sir Percival if he really meant that Miss Halcombe had left Blackwater Park.

“I certainly mean it,” he answered.

“In her state, Sir Percival! Without mentioning her intentions to Lady Glyde!”

Before he could reply her ladyship recovered herself a little and spoke.

“Impossible!” she cried out in a loud, frightened manner, taking a step or two forward from the wall. “Where was the doctor? where was Mr. Dawson when Marian went away?”

“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 for yourself. Open her room door, and all the other room doors if you like.”

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 insist—I 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.”

“去伦敦！”

“Yes—on her way to Limmeridge.”

Lady Glyde turned and appealed to me.

“You saw Miss Halcombe last,” she said. “Tell me plainly, Mrs. Michelson, did you think she looked fit to travel?”

“Not in my opinion, your ladyship.”

Sir Percival, on his side, instantly turned and appealed to me also.

“Before you went away,” he said, “did you, or did you not, tell the nurse that Miss Halcombe looked much stronger and better?”

“I certainly made the remark, Sir Percival.”

He addressed her ladyship again the moment I offered that reply.

“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 her—Fosco 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. To-day, Fosco and Mrs. Rubelle go on with her themselves to Cumberland.”

“Why does Marian go to Limmeridge and leave me here by myself?” said her ladyship, interrupting Sir Percival.

“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 to remember it.”

“我记得。”

“If you do, why should you be surprised at her leaving you? You want to be back at Limmeridge, and she has gone there to get your uncle’s leave for you on his own terms.”

Poor Lady Glyde’s eyes filled with tears.

“Marian never left me before,” she said, “without bidding me good-bye.”

“She would have bid you good-bye 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 dining-room. These worries upset me. I want a glass of wine.”

He left us suddenly.

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 his health had been so delicate, or his composure so easy to upset.

I tried to prevail on Lady Glyde to go back to her room, but it was useless. She stopped in the passage, with the look of a woman whose mind was panic-stricken.

“Something has happened to my sister!” she said.

“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 wrong—I do indeed.”

“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 dining-room 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 attempted to make some apology for my accidental presence in the room.

“Do you suppose there are any secrets going on here?” he broke out suddenly; “there are none—there 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 afternoon train.”

“You must wait till to-morrow,” 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 to-night’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 breeding in a gentleman of his rank impressed me, I own, very painfully.

“Why should you write to Count Fosco?” she asked, in extreme surprise.

“To tell him to expect you by the midday train,” said Sir Percival. “He will meet you at the station when you get to London, and take you on to sleep at your aunt’s in St. John’s Wood.”

Lady Glyde’s hand began to tremble violently round my arm—why 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 London—and I don’t choose you to go by yourself to an hotel. Fosco made the offer to your uncle to give you house-room 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 to you.”

Lady Glyde looked at the letter for a moment and then placed it in my hands.

“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 lines—so short and so careless that it quite struck me. If I remember correctly it contained no more than these words—

“Dearest Laura, Please come whenever you like. Break the journey by sleeping at your aunt’s house. Grieved to hear of dear Marian’s illness. Affectionately yours, Frederick Fairlie.”

“I would rather not go there—I 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 Fosco! Pray, pray don’t write to him!”

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, that the wine was getting into his head.

“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 you—at your aunt’s house? Ask Mrs. Michelson.”

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 narrow-minded 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, she still implored her husband not to write to the Count.

“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 for you. The arrangement is made and there is an end of it. You are only wanted to do what Miss Halcombe has done for you—-”

“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 to-morrow 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 comes back? I am very much afraid he is over-excited with wine.”

She consented to leave the room in a weary, absent manner.

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 disposition—but 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 opinion of his lordship, and I did so, with becoming forbearance and respect.

“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.”

“What misunderstanding?” inquired her ladyship, with a look of sudden interest.

I related the unhappy circumstances under which Mr. Dawson had withdrawn his attendance—mentioning them all the more readily because I disapproved of Sir Percival’s continuing to conceal what had happened (as he had done in my presence) from the knowledge of Lady Glyde.

Her ladyship started up, with every appearance of being additionally agitated and alarmed by what I had told her.

“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 journey—he purposely insulted the doctor to get him out of the house.”

“Oh, my lady! my lady!” I remonstrated.

“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. But my misery of suspense about Marian gives me the courage to follow her anywhere, to follow her even into Count Fosco’s house.”

I thought it right, at this point, to mention that Miss Halcombe had already gone on to Cumberland, according to Sir Percival’s account of the matter.

“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 there—I don’t know how I shall avoid the Count—but 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 to-night, as certainly as Sir Percival’s letter goes to Count Fosco. I have reasons for not trusting the post-bag downstairs. Will you keep my secret, and help me in this? it is the last favour, perhaps, that I shall ever ask of you.”

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 God—looking to what happened afterwards—I 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 post-box in the village that evening.

We saw nothing more of Sir Percival for the rest of the day.

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 bed—she 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 indeed heartily sorry for her all the same.

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 twelve—the 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 her in return.

She only spoke when he had done, and then she stopped him as he approached the door, by holding out her hand.

“I shall see you no more,” she said, in a very marked manner. “This is our parting—our parting, it may be for ever. Will you try to forgive me, Percival, as heartily as I forgive 您？“

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 him out of the room.

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 made me alter my mind and keep silence.

At the time named the chaise drew up at the gates. Her ladyship was right—Sir Percival never came back. I waited for him till the last moment, and waited in vain.

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 lodge-gates, “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. Michelson.”

“We all have our crosses to bear, my lady,” I said, seeing her silent and thoughtful, after she had promised to write.

She made no reply—she 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.

“Yes,” she said, “I was terribly disturbed by dreams.”

“Indeed, my lady?” I thought she was going to tell me her dreams, but no, when she spoke next it was only to ask a question.

“You posted the letter to Mrs. Vesey with your own hands?”

“好的，夫人。”

“Did Sir Percival say, yesterday, that Count Fosco was to meet me at the terminus in London?”

“He did, my lady.”

She sighed heavily when I answered that last question, and said no more.

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 overcome her at that moment.

“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 took my hand, in her simple hearty manner, before she got into the carriage.

“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. Good-bye—and God bless you!”

She spoke those words with a tone and a look which brought the tears into my eyes—she spoke them as if she was bidding me farewell for ever.

“Good-bye, my lady,” I said, putting her into the carriage, and trying to cheer her; “good-bye, for the present only; good-bye, with my best and kindest wishes for happier times.”

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 window. She waved her hand, and I saw her no more.

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 grounds.

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 woman—she was lounging along the path with her back to me, and was gathering the flowers.

As I approached she heard me, and turned round.

My blood curdled in my veins. The strange woman in the garden was Mrs. Rubelle!

I could neither move nor speak. She came up to me, as composedly as ever, with her flowers in her hand.

“What is the matter, ma’am?” she said quietly.

“完全 here!” I gasped out. “Not gone to London! Not gone to Cumberland!”

Mrs. Rubelle smelt at her flowers with a smile of malicious pity.

“Certainly not,” she said. “I have never left Blackwater Park.”

I summoned breath enough and courage enough for another question.

“Where is Miss Halcombe?”

Mrs. Rubelle fairly laughed at me this time, and replied in these words—

“Miss Halcombe, ma’am, has not left Blackwater Park either.”

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 year’s hard savings to have known four hours earlier what I knew now.

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 worn-out 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 said, “Here is Sir Percival, ma’am, returned from his ride.”

I saw him as soon as she did. He came towards us, slashing viciously at the flowers with his riding-whip. 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.

“Well, Mrs. Michelson,” he said, “you have found it out at last, have you?”

I made no reply. He turned to Mrs. Rubelle.

“When did you show yourself in the garden?”

“I showed myself about half an hour ago, sir. You said I might take my liberty again as soon as Lady Glyde had gone away to London.”

“Quite right. I don’t blame you—I 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 yourself.”

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 falsehoods.

“I must beg permission, Sir Percival, to speak a few words to you in private,” I said. “Having done so, I shall be ready to proceed with this person to Miss Halcombe’s room.”

Mrs. Rubelle, whom I had indicated by a slight turn of my head, insolently sniffed at her nosegay and walked away, with great deliberation, towards the house door.

“Well,” said Sir Percival sharply, “what is it now?”

“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 expressed my intention to leave his service.

He eyed me with one of his blackest looks, and thrust his hands savagely into the pockets of his riding-coat.

“Why?” he said, “why, I should like to know?”

“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 remain any longer in your service.”

“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 interests—and I don’t care who knows it. Go, if you like—there are plenty of housekeepers as good as you to be had for the asking. Go when you please—but 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 yourself—see 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 in the air with his whip.

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 when it was my turn to reply.

“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 matters which don’t concern me—”

“When do you want to go?” he asked, interrupting me without ceremony. “Don’t suppose I am anxious to keep you—don’t suppose I care about your leaving the house. I am perfectly fair and open in this matter, from first to last. When do you want to go?”

“I should wish to leave at your earliest convenience, Sir Percival.”

“My convenience has nothing to do with it. I shall be out of the house for good and all to-morrow morning, and I can settle your accounts to-night. If you want to study anybody’s convenience, it had better be Miss Halcombe’s. Mrs. Rubelle’s time is up to-day, and she has reasons for wishing to be in London to-night. If you go at once, Miss Halcombe won’t have a soul left here to look after her.”

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 door-step all this time, waiting till I could follow her to Miss Halcombe’s room.

I had hardly walked half-way towards the house when Sir Percival, who had withdrawn in the opposite direction, suddenly stopped and called me back.

“Why are you leaving my service?” he asked.

The question was so extraordinary, after what had just passed between us, that I hardly knew what to say in answer to it.

“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?”

“There can be no positive objection, Sir Percival, to that reason——”

“Very well! That’s all I want to know. If people apply for your character, that’s your reason, stated by yourself. You go in consequence of the breaking up of the family.”

He turned away again before I could say another word, and walked out rapidly into the grounds. His manner was as strange as his language. I acknowledge he alarmed me.

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 rooms—a 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 the charge of the sick lady henceforth devolved entirely on myself.

“I am glad to hear it, ma’am,” said Mrs. Rubelle. “I want to go very much.”

“Do you leave to-day?” I asked, to make sure of her.

“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 good-day, 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. Rubelle.

When I went into the room Miss Halcombe was asleep. I looked at her anxiously, as she lay in the dismal, high, old-fashioned 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 court-yard 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 ill-usage 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 knew he would remain when he found Count Fosco had left the house.

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 that he would call, if possible, the next morning.

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 happened.

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 senses—not 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 lodge-keeper to get up and open the gate—had heard the wheels roll furiously on again in the still night, when the gate was unlocked—and knew no more.

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 train—for 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 own house, and it is my fervent hope and prayer that we may never meet again.

My own part of this sad family story is now drawing to an end.

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 which I can conscientiously charge Mrs. Rubelle.

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 she went on to Mr. Fairlie’s house in Cumberland.

I have only a few lines more to write before I close this painful statement. They are dictated by a sense of duty.

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 from the carriage window.

1. The Narrative of Hester Pinhorn, Cook in the Service of Count Fosco
[Taken down from her own statement]

I am sorry to say that I have never learnt to read or write. I have been a hard-working 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 over-clean or tidy, but there was no harm in her. I and she were the only servants in the house.

Our master and mistress came after we got in; and as soon as they did come we were told, downstairs, that company was expected from the country.

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 remember—but 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 such-like. Except Sundays, half my time I take no heed of them, being a hard-working 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 hurry-skurry upstairs, and the parlour bell ringing like mad, and my mistress’s voice calling out for help.

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. Mr. Goodricke was in, and he came back with me directly.

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 listened carefully.

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 heart-disease?” And he says, “Yes, heart-disease 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 neither his help nor any other doctor’s help was likely to be of much service.

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 play-actor 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 sick-room look pretty with them. As if 这 did any good. I think he must have been, at times, a little soft in his head. But he was not a bad master—he 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 night-time 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 nice-looking lady when well, with light hair, and blue eyes and all that. Her rest was troubled at night—at 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 regular mouthful of questions, and another of his trumpery nosegays.

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 say—very little strength.

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 curly-brimmed white hat on, to go out.

“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 please—much 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 think of that!

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 saying—she seemed too much worn down. Mr. Goodricke was not nearly in such good spirits about her as master. He said nothing when he came downstairs, except that he would call again at five o’clock.

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 promised visit.

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 tremble from head to foot.

“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 her—the 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 that—he didn’t seem to care about talking. He said, “Good-day,” and went out.

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 respectable-looking 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 her time.

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 money—the 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 walk, and his broad hatband—that he did!

In conclusion. I have to say, in answer to questions put to me—

(1) That neither I nor my fellow-servant 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 fellow-servant.

The above statement has been read over in my presence. I have nothing to add to it, or to take away from it. I say, on my oath as a Christian woman, this is the truth.

(Signed) HESTER PINHORN, Her + Mark.

2. The Narrative of the Doctor

To the Registrar of the Sub-District in which the undermentioned death took place.—I hereby certify that I attended Lady Glyde, 老年 二十一 last Birthday; that I last saw her on 25月XNUMX日，星期四 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 Aneurism. Duration of disease not known.

(Signed) ALFRED GOODRICKE.

Prof. Title. M.R.C.S. Eng., L.S.A.
地址， 12 Croydon Gardens
圣约翰伍德.

3. The Narrative of Jane Gould

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.

(Signed) JANE GOULD.

4. The Narrative of the Tombstone

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 27th, 1829; married December 22nd, 1849; died July 25th, 1850.

5. The Narrative of Walter Hartright

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 Mexico—I 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 drowning—all 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 night.

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 self-imposed exile I came back, as I had hoped, prayed, believed I should come back—a 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 future. I came back to face it, as a man should.

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 life—I 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 the friendly shore in view.

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 hard to think of her, it is hard to speak of her, by her husband’s name.

There are no more words of explanation to add on my appearance for the second time in these pages. This narrative, if I have the strength and the courage to write it, may now go on.

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 Hampstead Cottage, and followed it myself in an hour’s time.

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 love—there was sorrow in the anxious eyes that looked on me so tenderly—there 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 wrecked—she 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 that guarded form. I could only say, doubtingly and restrainedly—

“You have something to tell me.”

My sister, who had been sitting opposite to us, rose suddenly without a word of explanation—rose and left the room.

My mother moved closer to me on the sofa and put her arms round my neck. Those fond arms trembled—the tears flowed fast over the faithful loving face.

“Walter!” she whispered, “my own darling! my heart is heavy for you. Oh, my son! my son! try to remember that I am still left!”

My head sank on her bosom. She had said all in saying those words.

It was the morning of the third day since my return—the morning of the sixteenth of October.

I had remained with them at the cottage—I had tried hard not to embitter the happiness of my return to 他们 as it was embittered to me. I had done all man could to rise after the shock, and accept my life resignedly—to 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 love.

On that third morning I opened my heart to them. At last the words passed my lips which I had longed to speak on the day when my mother told me of her death.

“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 her—when I have knelt and prayed by the grave where they have laid her to rest.”

I departed on my journey—my journey to the grave of Laura Fairlie.

It was a quiet autumn afternoon when I stopped at the solitary station, and set forth alone on foot by the well-remembered road. The waning sun was shining faintly through thin white clouds—the air was warm and still—the peacefulness of the lonely country was overshadowed and saddened by the influence of the falling year.

I reached the moor—I stood again on the brow of the hill—I looked on along the path—and 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 well-filled sketch-book ready in her hand.

Oh death, thou hast thy sting! oh, grave, thou hast thy victory!

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 burial-ground, the brook bubbling cold over its stony bed. There was the marble cross, fair and white, at the head of the tomb—the tomb that now rose over mother and daughter alike.

I approached the grave. I crossed once more the low stone stile, and bared my head as I touched the sacred ground. Sacred to gentleness and goodness, sacred to reverence and grief.

I stopped before the pedestal from which the cross rose. On one side of it, on the side nearest to me, the newly-cut inscription met my eyes—the 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 tears—the fair head drooping wearily—the innocent parting words which implored me to leave her—oh, for a happier last memory of her than this; the memory I took away with me, the memory I bring back with me to her grave!

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 marble—there 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 force its way between her spirit and mine.

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 现在! It is yesterday again since we parted—yesterday, since your dear hand lay in mine—yesterday, since my eyes looked their last on you. My love! my love!

Time had flowed on, and silence had fallen like thick night over its course.

The first sound that came after the heavenly peace rustled faintly like a passing breath of air over the grass of the burial-ground. I heard it nearing me slowly, until it came changed to my ear—came like footsteps moving onward—then stopped.

我抬头。

The sunset was near at hand. The clouds had parted—the slanting light fell mellow over the hills. The last of the day was cold and clear and still in the quiet valley of the dead.

Beyond me, in the burial-ground, standing together in the cold clearness of the lower light, I saw two women. They were looking towards the tomb, looking towards me.

二。

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 moved—she 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 over me from head to foot.

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 remembered—the voice not changed, like the frightened eyes and the wasted face.

“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 moment.

The voice that was praying for me faltered and sank low—then rose on a sudden, and called affrightedly, called despairingly to me to come away.

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 gown touched the black letters.

The voice came nearer, and rose and rose more passionately still. “Hide your face! don’t look at her! Oh, for God’s sake, spare him——”

The woman lifted her veil.

“Sacred to the Memory of Laura, Lady Glyde——”

Laura, Lady Glyde, was standing by the inscription, and was looking at me over the grave.

I

I open a new page. I advance my narrative by one week.

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 to end untangled in my hands.

A life suddenly changed—its 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 direction—this 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 church—I 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 kind.

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 needle-work. 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 house-forest 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, for many and many a page to come.

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, legally—dead.

And yet alive! Alive in poverty and in hiding. Alive, with the poor drawing-master to fight her battle, and to win the way back for her to her place in the world of living beings.

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 veil by the side of the inscription which recorded her death.

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 us—repeated 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 您“—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 away—through 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 changed—her beauty faded, her mind clouded—robbed of her station in the world, of her place among living creatures—the 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 sacrifices—through 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 of my life.

II

My position is defined—my motives are acknowledged. The story of Marian and the story of Laura must come next.

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 most intelligibly unrolled.

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 lady’s health should be more firmly established.

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 there—Mrs. Michelson previously informing Miss Halcombe of her address, in case they might wish to communicate at a future period.

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 dangerous nature of the investigation proposed to him would permit.

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 truth. Thus the investigation by Mr. Gilmore’s partner began and ended.

Meanwhile, Miss Halcombe had returned to Limmeridge House, and had there collected all the additional information which she was able to obtain.

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 Anne Catherick.

The substance of the paragraph in question was as follows—

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 custody she had once escaped.

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 newly-acquired 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 Mr. Fairlie was warned beforehand how to receive them.

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 Fosco.

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 privately watched.

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 boarding-house 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 friends.

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 interested—first, 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 address—furnished herself with the Count’s letter to Mr. Fairlie as a species of credential which might be useful to her, and started by herself for the Asylum on the eleventh of October.

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 boarding-house 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 side of the metropolis.

She was immediately admitted to see the proprietor.

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 letter—on her reminding him that she was the “Miss Halcombe” there referred to—that she was a near relative of the deceased Lady Glyde—and 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 sister—the 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 investigation by respectable strangers.

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 accomplice, certainly appeared to furnish another.

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 twenty-seventh of July—the 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 another—the 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 face—the 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 was added to it now.

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 engaging to join his visitor in the grounds.

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 half-way 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 those words the nurse left her to return to the duties of the house.

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 Halcombe recognised her sister—recognised the dead-alive.

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 sister’s sake.

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 questions—there 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 where she could speak to her alone.

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 possible—that is to say, as soon as she could summon courage to force herself from the presence of her unfortunate sister.

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 privately, by means of the nurse.

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-notes, to her appointment outside the Asylum wall.

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 required in two years’ time.

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 bank-notes of a hundred pounds each from her pocket-book, 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 bank-notes into your hand before I claim her.”

“Will you give me a letter saying those words, which I can show to my sweetheart when he asks how I got the money?” inquired the woman.

“I will bring the letter with me, ready written and signed,” answered Miss Halcombe.

“Then I’ll risk it,” said the nurse.

“什么时候？”

“明天。”

It was hastily agreed between them that Miss Halcombe should return early the next morning and wait out of sight among the trees—always, 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 circumstances. On that understanding they separated.

Miss Halcombe was at her place, with the promised letter and the promised bank-notes, 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 bank-notes and the letter into her hand, and the sisters were united again.

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 direction.

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 of hers, or of Mrs. Michelson’s, must be given up for lost.

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 vehicle which she did not particularly notice at the time.

Her first question, on leaving the terminus, referred to Miss Halcombe. The Count informed her that Miss Halcombe had not yet gone to Cumberland, after-consideration having caused him to doubt the prudence of her taking so long a journey without some days’ previous rest.

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 square—a 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 Wood.

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 quiet—no footsteps went up or down the stairs—she 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 his.

After this singular introduction—in the course of which no names, to the best of Lady Glyde’s recollection, had been mentioned—she 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 stranger—also an Englishman—came 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 questions—never, 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 house—the servant who answered the door.

Just as she had risen from her chair, the Count came back into the room.

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 smelling-salts. Both were brought in by the foreign-looking 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 her nostrils again.

From this point her recollections were found to be confused, fragmentary, and difficult to reconcile with any reasonable probability.

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 communicate—no idea whether one day, or more than one day, had passed—until she came to herself suddenly in a strange place, surrounded by women who were all unknown to her.

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 House.

These were the only recollections—all of them uncertain, and some of them contradictory—which 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 Asylum—her 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 mad-house, that she was received there on the twenty-seventh 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 and come out of it unchanged.

Arriving at Limmeridge late on the evening of the fifteenth, Miss Halcombe wisely resolved not to attempt the assertion of Lady Glyde’s identity until the next day.

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 room—waited till the first heat of her indignation had passed away—decided on reflection that Mr. Fairlie should see his niece in the interests of common humanity before he closed his doors on her as a stranger—and 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 described—Miss 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 room—that 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 from the house.

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 the house where she was born, and among the people with whom she had lived.

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 her—the neighbourhood of her own home.

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 make—no 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 Limmeridge House.

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 them—her 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 burial-ground, and by that act sealed the future of our three lives.

III

This was the story of the past—the story so far as we knew it then.

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 Glyde—it 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 mad-house 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 pounds—twenty 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 world—Marian Halcombe and myself.

The sense of this serious peril—a peril which every day and every hour might bring nearer and nearer to us—was 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 neighbourhood—because 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 wrong—which, from first to last, I now kept steadily in view.

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 days—a wood engraver in large practice—to seek for employment, telling him, at the same time, that I had reasons for wishing to remain unknown.

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 purchase-money obtained by the sale of my drawing-master’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 Laura’s interests and for Laura’s sake.

The house-work, 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 ，那恭喜你， 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 house-work shall conquer it if I can’t.” And she kept her word—the 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!”

I did remember it when the time came.

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 fellow-creatures 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 Count.

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 hesitated on first seeing her.

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 other—as 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, 民政事务总署 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 us—the 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 her—every 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 summer-house 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 sketch-book like the old sketch-book which I had seen in her hands on the morning that we first met. Once again—oh 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 assured—till 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 happiness of past days.

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 her—we spared a few pounds from the fund at the banker’s to get her wine, and the delicate strengthening food that she required—we 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 me—by 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 repose—to confront her with strangers, or with acquaintances who were little better than strangers—to rouse the painful impressions of her past life which we had so carefully hushed to rest—this, 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 help.

This resolution settled, it was next necessary to decide how the first risk should be ventured, and what the first proceedings should be.

After consulting with Marian, I resolved to begin by gathering together as many facts as could be collected—then 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 position by obtaining reliable assistance of any kind.

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, and were enough to put me in possession of all that Marian could tell.

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 speak of Laura as “the late Lady Glyde.”

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 friend—but she had never been near the house.

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 way—but it was likely to lead to serious results. It was a stumble on the threshold at starting—it 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 to-morrow night, and ask for a bed. I can’t tell you what is the matter in this letter—I 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 everything. Your affectionate Laura.” What help was there in those lines? None.

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, exactly as they are presented in these pages.

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 specify the day and hour at which I requested to see him on private business.

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 better—I 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 so slow in learning to draw?”

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 mind, “try to get well again, for Marian’s sake and for mine.”

“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 here to help me.”

“I shall soon be back, my darling—soon be back to see how you are getting on.”

My voice faltered a little in spite of me. I forced myself from the room. It was no time, then, for parting with the self-control which might yet serve me in my need before the day was out.

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 inside the doors in my absence. But if anything happens——”

“What can happen?” she interposed quickly. “Tell me plainly, Walter, if there is any danger, and I shall know how to meet it.”

“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 by sight, although I don’t know him?”

She laid her hand on my shoulder and looked at me in anxious silence. I saw she understood the serious risk that threatened us.

“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 delayed—and fear nothing.”

“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 care!”

I left her, and set forth to pave the way for discovery—the dark and doubtful way, which began at the lawyer’s door.

IV

No circumstance of the slightest importance happened on my way to the offices of Messrs. Gilmore & Kyrle, in Chancery Lane.

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 judgment—too 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, self-possessed man, with a very attentive eye, a very low voice, and a very undemonstrative manner—not (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 that moment.

“Before I enter on the business which brings me here,” I said, “I ought to warn you, Mr. Kyrle, that the shortest statement I can make of it may occupy some little time.”

“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 an active part in business.”

“May I inquire whether Mr. Gilmore is in England?”

“He is not, he is living with his relatives in Germany. His health has improved, but the period of his return is still uncertain.”

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 waited to hear what I had to say.

Without wasting a moment in prefatory words of any sort, I entered on my narrative, and put him in full possession of the events which have already been related in these pages.

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 question—

“What is your opinion, Mr. Kyrle?”

He was too cautious to commit himself to an answer without taking time to recover his self-possession first.

“Before I give my opinion,” he said, “I must beg permission to clear the ground by a few questions.”

He put the questions—sharp, 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 cunningly-designed 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 you, Mr. Hartright, that you have not the shadow of a case.”

“You put it strongly, Mr. Kyrle.”

“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 after-events 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 relative—you 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 law—to go before a jury, bound to take facts as they reasonably appear—where are your proofs?”

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 下 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 wrong—I only say that the jury will take the fact of her contradicting herself in preference to any reason for the contradiction that you can offer.”

“But is it not possible,” I urged, “by dint of patience and exertion, to discover additional evidence? Miss Halcombe and I have a few hundred pounds——”

He looked at me with a half-suppressed pity, and shook his head.

“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 raised—every point in the case would be systematically contested—and 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 settle—the 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—there is really no case.”

I was determined to believe that there 是 a case, and in that determination shifted my ground, and appealed to him once more.

“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 aspect, and I should be the first to say, Let us go on.”

“That date may yet be recovered, Mr. Kyrle.”

“On the day when it is recovered, Mr. Hartright, you will have a case. If you have any prospect, at this moment, of getting at it—tell me, and we shall see if I can advise you.”

I considered. The housekeeper could not help us—Laura could not help us—Marian 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 are sure to know it, but Count Fosco and Sir Percival Glyde.”

Mr. Kyrle’s calmly attentive face relaxed, for the first time, into a smile.

“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 it, at any rate.”

“They may be forced to confess it, Mr. Kyrle.”

“通过谁？”

“由我。”

We both rose. He looked me attentively in the face with more appearance of interest than he had shown yet. I could see that I had perplexed him a little.

“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 may possess from himself to his creditors. You are of course aware——”

I stopped him at that point.

“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 now—except 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 they are at the present moment——”

He tried to interpose and explain. I was a little heated, I suppose, by feeling that he had doubted me, and I went on bluntly, without waiting to hear him.

“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 tomb—and 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 grave—that 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 accomplish it.”

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 table by itself at the beginning of our interview.

“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 will not be more welcome, I am afraid, to her than to you.”

I looked at the letter while he was speaking. It was addressed to “Miss Halcombe. Care of Messrs. Gilmore & Kyrle, Chancery Lane.” The handwriting was quite unknown to me.

On leaving the room I asked one last question.

“Do you happen to know,” I said, “if Sir Percival Glyde is still in Paris?”

“He has returned to London,” replied Mr. Kyrle. “At least I heard so from his solicitor, whom I met yesterday.”

After that answer I went out.

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 cab-stand, until a fast two-wheel 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 turned my steps homewards, it was not till many hours later—not till after dark.

I found Marian waiting for me alone in the little sitting-room. 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 sketch—so trifling in itself, so touching in its associations—was 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 if we had spoken aloud.

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 the discovery of Sir Percival’s return.

“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.

She looked at the address and recognised the handwriting instantly.

“You know your correspondent?” I said.

“Too well,” she answered. “My correspondent is Count Fosco.”

With that reply she opened the note. Her face flushed deeply while she read it—her eyes brightened with anger as she handed it to me to read in my turn.

The note contained these lines—

“Impelled by honourable admiration—honourable to myself, honourable to you—I write, magnificent Marian, in the interests of your tranquillity, to say two consoling words—

“Fear nothing!

“Exercise your fine natural sense and remain in retirement. Dear and admirable woman, invite no dangerous publicity. Resignation is sublime—adopt it. The modest repose of home is eternally fresh—enjoy it. The storms of life pass harmless over the valley of Seclusion—dwell, dear lady, in the valley.

“Do this and I authorise you to fear nothing. No new calamity shall lacerate your sensibilities—sensibilities 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 you—I close these fervent lines.

“Advance no farther than you have gone already, compromise no serious interests, threaten nobody. Do not, I implore you, force me into action—ME, the Man of Action—when 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 that path, he is a lost man.”

The only signature to these lines was the initial letter F, surrounded by a circle of intricate flourishes. I threw the letter on the table with all the contempt that I felt for it.

“He is trying to frighten you—a 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 self-control. 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, don’t let it be the Count.”

“I will keep this letter, Marian, to help my memory when the time comes.”

She looked at me attentively as I put the letter away in my pocket-book.

“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 to-day?”

“I don’t count the time from to-day, Marian. All I have done to-day is to ask another man to act for me. I count from to-morrow——”

“Why from to-morrow?”

“Because to-morrow I mean to act for myself.”

“怎么样？”

“I shall go to Blackwater by the first train, and return, I hope, at night.”

“To Blackwater!”

“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 death on the doctor’s certificate?”

“当然。”

“What makes you think it might have been after? Laura can tell us nothing of the time she was in London.”

“But the owner of the Asylum told you that she was received there on the twenty-seventh 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 twenty-sixth, 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 case against Sir Percival and the Count.”

“Yes, yes—I see! But how is the proof to be obtained?”

“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 to-morrow I am determined it shall be made.”

“And suppose it fails—I look at the worst now, Walter; but I will look at the best if disappointments come to try us—suppose no one can help you at Blackwater?”

“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 date—but 他们 are guilty, and 他们 know it. If I fail everywhere else, I mean to force a confession out of one or both of them on my own terms.”

All the woman flushed up in Marian’s face as I spoke.

“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.

The colour faded from her face again, and she shook her head sadly.

“Yes,” she said, “you are right—it 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 将 get the better of me when I think of the Count!”

“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 self-possession, and then spoke the decisive words—

“Marian! There is a weak place we both know of in Sir Percival’s life——”

“You mean the Secret!”

“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 secret of Anne Catherick was known?”

“Yes! yes! I did.”

“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 appointed—the End is drawing us on—and Anne Catherick, dead in her grave, points the way to it still!”

V

The story of my first inquiries in Hampshire is soon told.

My early departure from London enabled me to reach Mr. Dawson’s house in the forenoon. Our interview, so far as the object of my visit was concerned, led to no satisfactory result.

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 happened—but 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 deliver Mrs. Michelson’s message.

Hopeless of obtaining assistance from Mr. Dawson, I resolved to try next if I could establish the date of Sir Percival’s arrival at Knowlesbury.

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 Knowlesbury.

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 might return to town.

I dismissed the fly a mile distant from the park, and getting my directions from the driver, proceeded by myself to the house.

As I turned into the lane from the high-road, I saw a man, with a carpet-bag, 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 visible—he had evidently gone on to the house.

There were two women in the lodge. One of them was old, the other I knew at once, by Marian’s description of her, to be Margaret Porcher.

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 swearing—but the date at which the occurrence happened was, as she honestly acknowledged, “quite beyond her.”

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 us—it 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 stand at some little distance observing us.

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 words.

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, and a means of separating me from Marian and Laura for some days at least.

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 America—and now I was practising it again, with the same purpose and with even greater caution, in the heart of civilised London!

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 investigations thus far.

The truth was, that the ill-success 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 my hold firmly on the villain who had married her.

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 again—there, till she could look at me as she had once looked, and speak to me as she had once spoken—the future of my happiest thoughts and my dearest wishes ended.

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 of me should be fairly balanced before that time.

On the morning after my return from Hampshire I took Marian upstairs into my working-room, and there laid before her the plan that I had matured thus far, for mastering the one assailable point in the life of Sir Percival Glyde.

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 communication with the faithful friend and protectress of Anne Catherick.

The first difficulty then was to find Mrs. Clements.

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 attached—the 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 she was reasonably certain of the truth of what little she had to tell.

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 parish.

The rector was the worst of all innocent mischief-makers—an 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 ill-directed 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 Germany—always 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 future period.

Mrs. Todd’s reply (addressed, by our own wish, to a post-office 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 of the desperate attempt to which I now stood committed begins here.

VI

The address communicated by Mrs. Todd took me to a lodging-house situated in a respectable street near the Gray’s Inn Road.

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 after-reproach of my own conscience, that I entertained not the least hope of being able to trace her—that I believed we should never see her alive again—and 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 subject of my inquiries as she happened to possess.

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 to put her in the right way, and to say where I wished her to begin.

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 Anne’s disappearance.

The substance of the information which I thus obtained was as follows:—

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 out-of-the-way places in England—to 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 that medium.

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 Lady Glyde.

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 fellow-passengers 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 miles—and that distance, and back again, Anne had walked on each occasion when she had appeared in the neighbourhood of the lake.

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 widow-woman 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 obstinate in the determination to go on her errand alone.

Mrs. Clements, nevertheless, followed her privately on each occasion when she went to the lake, without, however, venturing near enough to the boat-house 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 boat-house), 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 hand—in other words, Count Fosco.

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 whom he was desired to communicate.

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 speak to her.

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 went back together to the cottage.

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 awakened—he 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 Anne was worse, and would proceed at once to the cottage.

As events turned out, no such emergency as this occurred.

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 Lady Glyde of the address.

A little more than a fortnight passed, and no answer came.

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 for so short a time as half an hour only.

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 story.

七

Thus far the information which I had received from Mrs. Clements—though it established facts of which I had not previously been aware—was of a preliminary character only.

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 indirectly in view.

“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 kindness—you could have made no readier sacrifices for her sake.”

“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 hand—and 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 me—far off, as yet—in the good woman’s recollections of Anne’s early life?

“Did you know Mrs. Catherick before Anne was born?” I asked.

“Not very long, sir—not above four months. We saw a great deal of each other in that time, but we were never very friendly together.”

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 dimly-seen troubles of the past, after dwelling so long on the vivid sorrows of the present.

“Were you and Mrs. Catherick neighbours?” I inquired, leading her memory on as encouragingly as I could.

“Yes, sir—neighbours at Old Welmingham.”

“老 Welmingham? There are two places of that name, then, in Hampshire?”

“Well, sir, there used to be in those days—better than three-and-twenty years ago. They built a new town about two miles off, convenient to the river—and 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 now—but 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. I’ve lived to see sad changes. It was a pleasant, pretty place in my time.”

“Did you live there before your marriage, Mrs. Clements?”

“No, sir—I’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 together—happier than our neighbour, Mr. Catherick, lived along with his wife when they came to Old Welmingham a year or two afterwards.”

“Was your husband acquainted with them before that?”

“With Catherick, sir—not 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 newly-married wife along with him, and we heard in course of time she had been lady’s-maid 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 民政事务总署 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 sort—he 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 own—fond 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 break-up in their household. Both of them were in fault—I am afraid both of them were equally in fault.”

“You mean both husband and wife?”

“Oh, no, sir! I don’t mean Catherick—he was only to be pitied. I meant his wife and the person—”

“And the person who caused the scandal?”

“Yes, sir. A gentleman born and brought up, who ought to have set a better example. You know him, sir—and my poor dear Anne knew him only too well.”

“Sir Percival Glyde?”

“Yes, Sir Percival Glyde.”

My heart beat fast—I thought I had my hand on the clue. How little I knew then of the windings of the labyrinths which were still to mislead me!

“Did Sir Percival live in your neighbourhood at that time?” I asked.

“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 came—it was a common thing enough for gentlemen to travel from all parts of England to fish in our river.”

“Did he make his appearance in the village before Anne was born?”

“Yes, sir. Anne was born in the June month of eighteen hundred and twenty-seven—and I think he came at the end of April or the beginning of May.”

“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 one—I 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 drawer—things that nobody but a born lady ought ever to have—and 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, Lizzie—there’s her own initials engraved inside the watch—and 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 it—I’ve quieted Catherick for to-night. 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 the lifelong terror of Sir Percival Glyde?

“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 said—too much feeling, as I think, sir—to 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 country—his wicked wife least of all—are ever likely to set eyes on him again.”

“What became of Sir Percival?” I inquired. “Did he stay in the neighbourhood?”

“Not he, sir. The place was too hot to hold him. He was heard at high words with Mrs. Catherick the same night when the scandal broke out, and the next morning he took himself off.”

“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 scandal-mongers 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 best of them, to her dying day.”

“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 London.”

“Did she accept the allowance?”

“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 他 for an answer, if he ever writes again.'”

“Do you suppose that she had money of her own?”

“Very little, if any, sir. It was said, and said truly, I am afraid, that her means of living came privately from Sir Percival Glyde.”

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 disheartening failure.

But there was one point in the narrative which made me doubt the propriety of accepting it unreservedly, and which suggested the idea of something hidden below the surface.

I could not account to myself for the circumstance of the clerk’s guilty wife voluntarily living out all her after-existence 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 woman—from what source should she derive help but from the source at which report pointed—Sir Percival Glyde?

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 it—not 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. Catherick, which had been kept hidden from that time to this?

And yet, in those stolen meetings, in those familiar whisperings between the clerk’s wife and “the gentleman in mourning,” the clue to discovery existed beyond a doubt.

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? Here—if I could find it—here was the approach to the Secret, hidden deep under the surface of the apparently unpromising story which I had just heard.

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 daughter who bore her husband’s name was not her husband’s child.

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 this instance by any better test than the test of personal resemblance.

“I suppose you often saw Sir Percival when he was in your village?” I said.

“Yes, sir, very often,” replied Mrs. Clements.

“Did you ever observe that Anne was like him?”

“She was not at all like him, sir.”

“Was she like her mother, then?”

“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 questions I put them with this view.

“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 Scotland—but nobody knew.”

“Was Mrs. Catherick living in service at Varneck Hall immediately before her marriage?”

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“And had she been long in her place?”

“Three or four years, sir; I am not quite certain which.”

“Did you ever hear the name of the gentleman to whom Varneck Hall belonged at that time?”

“Yes, sir. His name was Major Donthorne.”

“Did Mr. Catherick, or did any one else you knew, ever hear that Sir Percival was a friend of Major Donthorne’s, or ever see Sir Percival in the neighbourhood of Varneck Hall?”

“Catherick never did, sir, that I can remember—nor 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 impression—I could only encourage Mrs. Clements to speak next of Anne’s early days, and watch for any chance-suggestion 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. Clements, to your care.”

“There was nobody else, sir, to take the little helpless creature in hand,” replied Mrs. Clements. “The wicked mother seemed to hate it—as 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.”

“Did Anne remain entirely under your care from that time?”

“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 back—though 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 children—but 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 London—the truth being, sir, that I could not find it in my heart to stop at Old Welmingham after my husband’s death, the place was so changed and so dismal to me.”

“And did Mrs. Catherick consent to your proposal?”

“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 money—the 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 mad-house.”

“You know, Mrs. Clements, why Sir Percival Glyde shut her up?”

“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 Hampshire—and 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 likely fancied she did, poor soul.”

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 boat-house. 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 shown in affording me information.

“I am afraid you must have thought me very inquisitive,” I said. “I have troubled you with more questions than many people would have cared to answer.”

“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 truth—that it has pleased God to take her?”

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 troubles in this world are over.”

The poor woman dropped into her chair and hid her face from me. “Oh, sir,” she said, “how do you know it? Who can have told you?”

“No one has told me, Mrs. Clements. But I have reasons for feeling sure of it—reasons which I promise you shall know as soon as I can safely explain them. I am certain she was not neglected in her last moments—I 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, soon—you shall know, before long, that she is buried in a quiet country churchyard—in 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 me—and 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 had really been my own child?”

I assured her that it was. She seemed to take an inexplicable pride in my answer—to 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 buried—but 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 when you are a little more composed—perhaps in a day or two.”

“Don’t keep it waiting, sir, on my account,” said Mrs. Clements. “Never mind my crying if I can be of use. If you have anything on your mind to say to me, sir, please to say it now.”

“I only wish to ask you one last question,” I said. “I only want to know Mrs. Catherick’s address at Welmingham.”

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.

“For the Lord’s sake, sir!” she said, “what do you want with Mrs. Catherick!”

“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. “She’s an awful woman—you don’t know her as I do. Think twice about it.”

“I am sure your warning is kindly meant, Mrs. Clements. But I am determined to see the woman, whatever comes of it.”

Mrs. Clements looked me anxiously in the face.

“I see your mind is made up, sir,” she said. “I will give you the address.”

I wrote it down in my pocket-book and then took her hand to say farewell.

“You shall hear from me soon,” I said; “you shall know all that I have promised to tell you.”

Mrs. Clements sighed and shook her head doubtfully.

“An old woman’s advice is sometimes worth taking, sir,” she said. “Think twice before you go to Welmingham.”

第八

When I reached home again after my interview with Mrs. Clements, I was struck by the appearance of a change in Laura.

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 您 can rouse her,” and left the room.

I sat down in the vacant chair—gently unclasped the poor, worn, restless fingers, and took both her hands in mine.

“What are you thinking of, Laura? Tell me, my darling—try 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 helplessness that struck me to the heart.

“Try to tell me,” I repeated gently; “try to tell me why you are not happy.”

“I am so useless—I 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 me—you 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 her—my poor, faded flower! my lost, afflicted sister! “You shall help us, Laura,” I said, “you shall begin, my darling, to-day.”

She looked at me with a feverish eagerness, with a breathless interest, that made me tremble for the new life of hope which I had called into being by those few words.

I rose, and set her drawing materials in order, and placed them near her again.

“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 be as happy, Laura, as the day is long.”

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 still—they are my treasures beyond price—the dear remembrances that I love to keep alive—the friends in past adversity that my heart will never part from, my tenderness never forget.

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 again—back 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 rested too.

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 it—I mean Mrs. Rubelle. Would it not be far easier, and far less dangerous, to insist on a confession from her, than to force it from Sir Percival?”

“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 all-important 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 by the impenetrable wickedness of the Count.”

“What has led you to that conclusion?” I replied, in some surprise.

“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 single-handed—just 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 purpose in his own defence.”

“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 on the third day I go to Hampshire.”

When the third day came I was ready for my journey.

As it was possible that I might be absent for some little time, I arranged with Marian that we were to correspond every day—of 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 journey—if you and Sir Percival meet——”

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

“I don’t know—I have fears and fancies that I cannot account for. Laugh at them, Walter, if you like—but, for God’s sake, keep your temper if you come in contact with that man!”

“Never fear, Marian! I answer for my self-control.”

With those words we parted.

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 idea—something so meanly like the common herd of spies and informers in the mere act of adopting a disguise—that 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 far—and in my own character I was resolved to continue to the end.

The train left me at Welmingham early in the afternoon.

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 shops—the trees that drooped helpless in their arid exile of unfinished crescents and squares—the dead house-carcasses that waited in vain for the vivifying human element to animate them with the breath of life—every creature that I saw, every object that I passed, seemed to answer with one accord: The deserts of Arabia are innocent of our civilised desolation—the ruins of Palestine are incapable of our modern gloom!

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 foot-passengers 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 Thirteen—the number of Mrs. Catherick’s house—and 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 approaching the object of my visit.

The door was opened by a melancholy middle-aged 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 requesting me to mention what my business was.

“Say, if you please, that my business relates to Mrs. Catherick’s daughter,” I replied. This was the best pretext I could think of, on the spur of the moment, to account for my visit.

The servant again retired to the parlour, again returned, and this time begged me, with a look of gloomy amazement, to walk in.

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 knitting-basket on her lap, and a wheezing, blear-eyed old spaniel crouched at her feet, there sat an elderly woman, wearing a black net cap and a black silk gown, and having slate-coloured mittens on her hands. Her iron-grey hair hung in heavy bands on either side of her face—her 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 self-possessed. This was Mrs. Catherick.

“You have come to speak to me about my daughter,” she said, before I could utter a word on my side. “Be so good as to mention what you have to say.”

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 own ground.

“You are aware,” I said, “that your daughter has been lost?”

“I am perfectly aware of it.”

“Have you felt any apprehension that the misfortune of her loss might be followed by the misfortune of her death?”

“Yes. Have you come here to tell me she is dead?”

“我有。”

“为什么？”

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 outside.

“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 of safety.”

“You did very wrong.”

“I am sorry to hear her mother say so.”

“Her mother does say so. How do you know she is dead?”

“I am not at liberty to say how I know it—but I do 知道。”

“Are you at liberty to say how you found out my address?”

“Certainly. I got your address from Mrs. Clements.”

“Mrs. Clements is a foolish woman. Did she tell you to come here?”

“她没有。”

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

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 whether she was alive or dead.”

“Just so,” said Mrs. Catherick, with additional self-possession. “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 slate-coloured 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 dress, as you see. When I have changed my mittens, I shall be all in black.”

She searched in the pocket of her gown, drew out a pair of black lace mittens, put them on with the stoniest and steadiest composure, and then quietly crossed her hands in her lap.

“I wish you good morning,” she said.

The cool contempt of her manner irritated me into directly avowing that the purpose of my visit had not been answered yet.

“ 已可以选用 another motive in coming here,” I said.

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

“Your daughter’s death——”

“她死于什么？”

“Of disease of the heart.”

“是的。 继续。”

“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 Percival Glyde.”

“确实！”

I looked attentively to see if she flinched at the sudden mention of that name. Not a muscle of her stirred—the 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 inflicting injury on another person.”

“No,” said Mrs. Catherick; “I don’t wonder at all. This appears to be your affair. You are interested in my affairs. I am not interested in yours.”

“You may ask, then,” I persisted, “why I mention the matter in your presence.”

“是的，我 do ask that.”

“I mention it because I am determined to bring Sir Percival Glyde to account for the wickedness he has committed.”

“What have I to do with your determination?”

“You shall hear. There are certain events in Sir Percival’s past life which it is necessary for my purpose to be fully acquainted with. 完全 know them—and for that reason I come to 您设立的区域办事处外，我们在美国也开设了办事处，以便我们为当地客户提供更多的支持。“

“What events do you mean?”

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

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 eyes—as plainly as I saw her hands grow restless, then unclasp themselves, and begin mechanically smoothing her dress over her knees.

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

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

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 no—she mastered the rising irritation, leaned back in her chair, crossed her arms on her broad bosom, and with a smile of grim sarcasm on her thick lips, looked at me as steadily as ever.

“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’s-people. I see through you and your precious speculation—I do! and it amuses me. Ha! ha!”

She stopped for a moment, her arms tightened over her bosom, and she laughed to herself—a hard, harsh, angry laugh.

“You don’t know how I have lived in this place, and what I have done in this place, Mr. What’s-your-name,” she went on. “I’ll tell you, before I ring the bell and have you shown out. I came here a wronged woman—I came here robbed of my character and determined to claim it back. I’ve been years and years about it—and I 已可以选用 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 secret—they 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 me—you 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 town-hall. There’s a petition lying there—a petition of the respectable inhabitants against allowing a circus to come and perform here and corrupt our morals—yes! 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 subscription—I’m down on the list. The doctor’s wife only put a shilling in the plate at our last charity sermon—I put half-a-crown. 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 trades-people 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’s-your-name—look, 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 to her chair, and looked at me with a grimmer sarcasm than ever.

“There!” she said. “What do you think of that for a woman with a lost character? How does your speculation look now?”

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 put the clue in my hands.

“How does your speculation look now?” she repeated.

“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 will—but, of all the women in England, you, if you have any sense of injury, are the woman who ought to help me to crush that man.”

“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 instantly resumed her former position in the chair.

“You won’t trust me?” I said.

“没有。”

“你感到害怕？”

“Do I look as if I was?”

“You are afraid of Sir Percival Glyde?”

“我吗？”

Her colour was rising, and her hands were at work again smoothing her gown. I pressed the point farther and farther home, I went on without allowing her a moment of delay.

“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——”

She amazed me beyond expression by suddenly bursting out laughing.

“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 well worth thinking over the moment I left the house.

“I am not here to dispute with you about family questions,” I said. “I know nothing of Sir Percival’s mother——”

“And you know as little of Sir Percival himself,” she interposed sharply.

“I advise you not to be too sure of that,” I rejoined. “I know some things about him, and I suspect many more.”

“你怀疑什么？”

“I’ll tell you what I 别 suspect. I 别 suspect him of being Anne’s father.”

She started to her feet, and came close up to me with a look of fury.

“How dare you talk to me about Anne’s father! How dare you say who was her father, or who wasn’t!” she broke out, her face quivering, her voice trembling with passion.

“The secret between you and Sir Percival is not 这 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.”

She drew back a step. “Go!” she said, and pointed sternly to the door.

“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 her—I 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 vestry of the church.”

For a minute or more we stood looking at each other in silence. I spoke first.

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

She could not call the colour that had left it back to her face, but she had steadied her voice, she had recovered the defiant self-possession of her manner when she answered me.

“I do refuse,” she said.

“Do you still tell me to go?”

“Yes. Go—and never come back.”

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 back.”

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

She stopped, her pale face darkened, and she stole back with a quiet, stealthy, cat-like 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 cruel lips, and the furtive light of hatred lurking deep in her steady eyes.

As I opened the door of the room to go out, she looked round at me quickly. The cruel smile slowly widened her lips—she eyed me, with a strange stealthy interest, from head to foot—an 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 self-control, 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. Without a word more, on my side or on hers, I left the room.

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 door-step to let him go by, and looked round, as I did so, at the parlour window.

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 pride—I saw the head with the grim black cap bend ceremoniously in return. The clergyman had bowed to her, and in my presence, twice in one day!

IX

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 door behind me.

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 abode—next 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 through the streets to the railway station.

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 came away.

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 meet.

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 London—the responsibility of so guiding my slightest actions as to prevent them from leading accidentally to the discovery of Laura’s place of refuge—was 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 Post-Office, 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 coffee-room 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 starting-point 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 speculation—it 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 it—she was also the accomplice, beyond a doubt.

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.

The next consideration to be disposed of led me a step farther from this point.

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 side.” What did this mean?

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 of Old Welmingham church.

These were the results of my interview with Mrs. Catherick—these 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, and, after inquiring the way, set forth on foot for Old Welmingham church.

It was a walk of rather more than two miles, the ground rising slowly all the way.

On the highest point stood the church—an ancient, weather-beaten 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 on—here the trees, leafless as they were, still varied the monotony of the prospect, and helped the mind to look forward to summer-time and shade.

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 two—a stout muscular man in the dress of a gamekeeper—was 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 supposed—Sir 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 look-out 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 direction at last, the plan now adopted for watching me would have supplied it.

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, loudly-talkative 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 of the great personal distinction of having once been in London.

“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 deal of work left in him. Don’t you think so yourself, sir?”

He took his keys down while he was talking from a hook behind the fireplace, and locked his cottage door behind us.

“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 one—every 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 five-and-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 creditably conquering it.

“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 prison-door—it’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 least—he’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 London—is it, sir? Bless you, we are all asleep here! We don’t march with the times.”

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, worm-eaten 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 irreverent-looking 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 vestry side.

“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 packing-cases. There they’ve been, for a year or more, ready to go down to London—there 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 here. Bless you, we don’t march with the times!”

“What is there in the packing-cases?” I asked.

“Bits of old wood carvings from the pulpit, and panels from the chancel, and images from the organ-loft,” said the clerk. “Portraits of the twelve apostles in wood, and not a whole nose among ’em. All broken, and worm-eaten, and crumbling to dust at the edges. As brittle as crockery, sir, and as old as the church, if not older.”

“And why were they going to London? To be repaired?”

“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 packing-cases. The money dribbled in a little at first—but what 能够 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 them—nobody in the new town cares about accommodating us—we’re in a lost corner—and this is an untidy vestry—and who’s to help it?—that’s what I want to know.”

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 we should proceed to our business without more delay.

“Ay, ay, the marriage-register, to be sure,” said the clerk, taking a little bunch of keys from his pocket. “How far do you want to look back, sir?”

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 forty-five 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 register from that date.

“I want to begin with the year eighteen hundred and four,” I said.

“Which way after that, sir?” asked the clerk. “Forwards to our time or backwards away from us?”

“Backwards from eighteen hundred and four.”

He opened the door of one of the presses—the press from the side of which the surplices were hanging—and 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 walking-stick 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 vestry-clerk 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 那里. Which year did you say, sir? Eighteen hundred and what?”

“Eighteen hundred and four,” I replied, mentally resolving to give the old man no more opportunities of talking, until my examination of the register was over.

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. “There’s the year you want.”

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 register-book was of the old-fashioned 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 the close of each entry.

I reached the beginning of the year eighteen hundred and four without encountering the marriage, and then travelled back through December eighteen hundred and three—through November and October—through——

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 register of the marriage of Sir Felix Glyde was in no respect remarkable except for the narrowness of 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 Park-View Cottages, Knowlesbury, only daughter of the late Patrick Elster, Esq., formerly of Bath.”

I noted down these particulars in my pocket-book, 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 farther from my reach than ever.

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. Catherick’s contempt for Sir Percival’s mother.

“Have you found what you wanted, sir?” said the clerk, as I closed the register-book.

“Yes,” I replied, “but I have some inquiries still to make. I suppose the clergyman who officiated here in the year eighteen hundred and three is no longer alive?”

“No, no, sir, he was dead three or four years before I came here, and that was as long ago as the year twenty-seven. 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 wife—and she’s living still down in the new town there. I don’t know the rights of the story myself—all I know is I got the place. Mr. Wansborough got it for me—the son of my old master that I was tell you of. He’s a free, pleasant gentleman as ever lived—rides to the hounds, keeps his pointers and all that. He’s vestry-clerk 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 register-book.

“Yes, to be sure, sir,” replied the clerk. “Old Mr. Wansborough lived at Knowlesbury, and young Mr. Wansborough lives there too.”

“You said just now he was vestry-clerk, like his father before him. I am not quite sure that I know what a vestry-clerk is.”

“Don’t you indeed, sir?—and you come from London too! Every parish church, you know, has a vestry-clerk and a parish-clerk. The parish-clerk is a man like me (except that I’ve got a deal more learning than most of them—though I don’t boast of it). The vestry-clerk 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 vestry-clerk—and you may take my word for it he’s sure to be a lawyer.”

“Then young Mr. Wansborough is a lawyer, I suppose?”

“Of course he is, sir! A lawyer in High Street, Knowlesbury—the 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 popular character!—he’d have done in London!”

“How far is it to Knowlesbury from this place?”

“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 tell you!”

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 once to Knowlesbury on foot, I led the way out of the vestry.

“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 way—it’s pleasant to meet with gentlemen from London in a lost corner like this. One hears the news. Wish you good-morning, sir, and thank you kindly once more.”

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 railway the evening before.

The three stood talking together for a little while, then separated. The man in black went away by himself towards Welmingham—the other two remained together, evidently waiting to follow me as soon as I walked on.

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 moment—on 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. Catherick—otherwise 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 them—there was something in the register-book, for aught I knew, that I had not discovered yet.

X

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 way. These doubts were realised.

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 men close behind me.

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 scoundrels held me pinioned between them in the middle of the road.

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 single-handed. I repressed the first natural movement by which I had attempted to shake them off, and looked about to see if there was any person near to whom I could appeal.

A labourer was at work in an adjoining field who must have witnessed all that had passed. I called to him to follow us to the town. He shook his head with stolid obstinacy, and walked away in the direction of a cottage 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 my arms free.

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 town-hall, and recommended that we should appear before him immediately.

We went on to the town-hall. 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 ill-tempered 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 stranger it was necessary that I should find responsible bail.

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 proceedings—perhaps to screen himself from detection altogether—without 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 perfectly useless.

My indignation, I may almost say, my despair, at this mischievous check to all further progress—so base and trifling in itself, and yet so disheartening and so serious in its probable results—quite 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 away—not till, I am ashamed to say, I had almost allowed the vexation of my helpless position to conquer me—that 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 half-past one when the messenger departed. Before half-past 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 doctor—a free man again—in the streets of Knowlesbury.

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 my steps at once to Mr. Wansborough’s office in the High Street.

Time was now of the last importance.

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 him—all 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 duplicate register of Old Welmingham Church.

Mr. Wansborough was in his office when I inquired for him.

He was a jovial, red-faced, easy-looking man—more like a country squire than a lawyer—and 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 register. I described myself, therefore, as pursuing a family inquiry, to the object of which every possible 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 document.

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 trembling—my head was burning hot—I 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 contained these words—

“Copy of the Marriage Register of Welmingham Parish Church. Executed under my orders, and afterwards compared, entry by entry, with the original, by myself. (Signed) Robert Wansborough, vestry-clerk.” Below this note there was a line added, in another handwriting, as follows: “Extending from the first of January, 1800, to the thirtieth of June, 1815.”

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. And between these entries, at the bottom of the page?

Nothing! Not a vestige of the entry which recorded the marriage of Sir Felix Glyde and Cecilia Jane Elster in the register of the church!

My heart gave a great bound, and throbbed as if it would stifle me. I looked again—I 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 exactly 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 space—a 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 twenty-seven, 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 giddy—I held by the desk to keep myself from falling. Of all the suspicions which had struck me in relation to that desperate man, not one had been near the truth.

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 father—at another time I had thought he might have been Anne Catherick’s husband—the offence of which he was really guilty had been, from first to last, beyond the widest reach of my imagination.

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 brute-restlessness of the wretch’s life—at his desperate alternations between abject duplicity and reckless violence—at 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 ever—a word from me, and he was driven out into the world, a nameless, penniless, friendless outcast! The man’s whole future hung on my lips—and he knew it by this time as certainly as I did!

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 crime—he would literally hesitate at nothing to save himself.

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 legally-certified 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 at fever heat.

It was just getting dark. The idea occurred to me that I might be followed again and attacked on the high-road.

My walking-stick 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 school-days I had been a noted runner, and I had not wanted for practice since in the later time of my experience in Central America.

I started from the town at a brisk pace, and kept the middle of the road.

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 right, and three men sprang out into the road.

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 top of my speed.

The two unhurt men pursued me. They were both good runners—the 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 changing—it 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 recover my breath.

It was impossible to venture back to the road, but I was determined nevertheless to get to Old Welmingham that evening.

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 altogether in the wrong direction.

Proceeding on this plan, I crossed the country—meeting 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 hill-side, 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 gate was open to the lane, and I went in at once to inquire my way.

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, the parish clerk.

His manner appeared to have altered strangely in the interval since I had last seen him. He looked suspicious and confused—his ruddy cheeks were deeply flushed—and his first words, when he spoke, were quite unintelligible to me.

“Where are the keys?” he asked. “Have you taken them?”

“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 the old man, shaking the lantern at me in his agitation, “the keys are gone!”

“How? When? Who can have taken them?”

“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 morning—I locked the door and shut the window down—it’s open now, the window’s open. Look! somebody has got in there and taken the keys.”

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 the lantern again. I walked out, down the garden path, into the lane.

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 me.

“I beg your pardon, Sir Percival——” he began.

I stopped him before he could say more.

“The darkness misleads you,” I said. “I am not Sir Percival.”

The man drew back directly.

“I thought it was my master,” he muttered, in a confused, doubtful way.

“You expected to meet your master here?”

“I was told to wait in the lane.”

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 servant out of livery.

“Who’s that?” whispered the clerk. “Does he know anything about the keys?”

“We won’t wait to ask him,” I replied. “We will go on to the vestry first.”

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 children—a boy—came close up to us, attracted by the light we carried, and recognised the clerk.

“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 hisself—I heerd un strike a loight wi’ a match.”

The clerk trembled and leaned against me heavily.

“Come! come!” I said encouragingly. “We are not too late. We will catch the man, whoever he is. Keep the lantern, and follow me as fast as you can.”

I mounted the hill rapidly. The dark mass of the church-tower 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 went on.

The instant I turned the corner and came in view of the vestry, I saw the lantern-skylight on the roof brilliantly lit up from within. It shone out with dazzling brightness against the murky, starless sky.

I hurried through the churchyard to the door.

As I got near there was a strange smell stealing out on the damp night air. I heard a snapping noise inside—I saw the light above grow brighter and brighter—a pane of the glass cracked—I ran to the door and put my hand on it. The vestry was on fire!

Before I could move, before I could draw my breath after that discovery, I was horror-struck by a heavy thump against the door from the inside. I heard the key worked violently in the lock—I heard a man’s voice behind the door, raised to a dreadful shrillness, screaming for help.

The servant who had followed me staggered back shuddering, and dropped to his knees. “Oh, my God!” he said, “it’s Sir Percival!”

As the words passed his lips the clerk joined us, and at the same moment there was another and a last grating turn of the key in the lock.

“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 inflicted—of 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 deserved—passed from my memory like a dream. I remembered nothing but the horror of his situation. I felt nothing but the natural human impulse to save him from a frightful death.

“Try the other door!” I shouted. “Try the door into the church! The lock’s hampered. You’re a dead man if you waste another moment on it.”

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 the sharp snap of the glass in the skylight above.

I looked round at my two companions. The servant had risen to his feet—he 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 show me that they were both helpless.

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 to the roof—I am going to break the skylight, and give him some air!”

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 wall—the clerk risen to his feet on the tombstone, wringing his hands in despair—and the scanty population of the village, haggard men and terrified women, clustered beyond in the churchyard—all 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 all, so utterly beyond our reach!

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 way—we may save him yet if we can burst open the inner door.”

“No, no, no!” cried the old man. “No hope! the church key and the vestry key are on the same ring—both inside there! Oh, sir, he’s past saving—he’s dust and ashes by this time!”

“They’ll see the fire from the town,” said a voice from among the men behind me. “There’s a ingine in the town. They’ll save the church.”

I called to that man—he had his wits about him—I 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 lock—I knew the thickness of the nailed oak—I 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 battering-ram against the door?

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 fire-engine 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 poverty—the hunger for money—roused 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 cheered—with 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 clerk—the poor old clerk standing on the flat tombstone sobbing and wailing over the church. The servant was still at my heels—his white, helpless, panic-stricken face was close over my shoulder as we pushed into the cottage. There were rafters from the torn-down floor above, lying loose on the ground—but they were too light. A beam ran across over our heads, but not out of reach of our arms and our pickaxes—a 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 held—how the brick and mortar of the wall resisted us! We struck, and tugged, and tore. The beam gave at one end—it came down with a lump of brickwork after it. There was a scream from the women all huddled in the doorway to look at us—a shout from the men—two of them down but not hurt. Another tug all together—and 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 path—steady with the beam for a rush at the door. One, two, three—and 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, three—and 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 nothing—above, below, all through the room, we see nothing but a sheet of living fire.

“Where is he?” whispered the servant, staring vacantly at the flames.

“He’s dust and ashes,” said the clerk. “And the books are dust and ashes—and oh, sirs! the church will be dust and ashes soon.”

Those were the only two who spoke. When they were silent again, nothing stirred in the stillness but the bubble and the crackle of the flames.

听！

A harsh rattling sound in the distance—then the hollow beat of horses’ hoofs at full gallop—then the low roar, the all-predominant tumult of hundreds of human voices clamouring and shouting together. The engine at last.

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!” he cried out faintly, as if the firemen could hear him already.

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 once more, “Where is he?”

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 gone—my strength was exhausted—the turmoil of my thoughts was fearfully and suddenly stilled, now I knew that he was dead.

I stood useless and helpless—looking, looking, looking into the burning room.

I saw the fire slowly conquered. The brightness of the glare faded—the steam rose in white clouds, and the smouldering heaps of embers showed red and black through it on the floor. There was a pause—then an advance all together of the firemen and the police which blocked up the doorway—then a consultation in low voices—and then two men were detached from the rest, and sent out of the churchyard through the crowd. The crowd drew back on either side in dead silence to let them pass.

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 these last.

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 in low, eager tones all round me.

“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 it—he was down on his face.”—”Is his face burnt?” “No.” “Yes, it is.” “No, scorched, not burnt—he lay on his face, I tell you.”—”Who was he? A lord, they say.” “No, not a lord. 先生 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 stupid-like, and the police don’t believe him.”—”Don’t anybody else know who it is?” “Hush——!”

The loud, clear voice of a man in authority silenced the low hum of talking all round me in an instant.

“Where is the gentleman who tried to save him?” said the voice.

“Here, sir—here he is!” Dozens of eager faces pressed about me—dozens of eager arms parted the crowd. The man in authority came up to me with a lantern in his hand.

“This way, sir, if you please,” he said quietly.

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 lifetime—that there was no hope of identifying him by means of a stranger like me. But the words failed on my lips. I was faint, and silent, and helpless.

“Do you know him, sir?”

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 was at my feet—I knew why they were holding the lanterns so low to the ground.

“Can you identify him, sir?”

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 black, in the yellow light—there was his dead face.

So, for the first and last time, I saw him. So the Visitation of God ruled it that he and I should meet.

XI

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 objects of the investigation.

My first proceeding in the morning was to go to the post-office, 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 day began.

To my relief, the letter from Marian was at the office waiting for me.

Nothing had happened—they 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 pages—presenting 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 next inquiries related to the fire.

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 it—he 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 deceased—I had never seen him—I was not aware of his presence at Old Welmingham—and 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 way—that I had heard from him of the loss of the keys—that I had accompanied him to the church to render what help I could—that I had seen the fire—that I had heard some person unknown, inside the vestry, trying vainly to unlock the door—and 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 Glyde, could not be in a position to offer any evidence on these two points.

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 opinion—my unsupported opinion—without disclosing the whole story of the conspiracy, and producing beyond a doubt the same unsatisfactory effect an the minds of the coroner and the jury, which I had already produced on the mind of Mr. Kyrle.

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 fire, and for the death of the man.

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 neighbourhood at the time.

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 vestry—the straw, the papers, the packing-cases, the dry wood, the old worm-eaten presses—all the probabilities, in my estimation, point to the fire as the result of an accident with his matches or his light.

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 church—the 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 with might and main to tear down the beam.

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 body was found.

The inquest was adjourned over one day—no explanation that the eye of the law could recognise having been discovered thus far to account for the mysterious circumstances of the case.

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 coffee-room. I withdrew from my scanty dinner to my cheap garret-chamber 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 future—more 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 carriages of the second class.

The next day—the day immediately following the inquest—was left at my own disposal. I began the morning by again applying at the post-office 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.

What changes met me when I got there!

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 burial-ground 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 peep-hole to see through. On the spot where I had heard the cry for help from the burning room, on the spot where the panic-stricken 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 now—the 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 washing-tub. 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 gone—and with him the chance was gone which had been the one object of all my labours and all my hopes.

Could I look at my failure from no truer point of view than this?

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 他的 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 usurped—I must have renounced the victory at the moment when it was mine by placing my discovery unreservedly in that stranger’s hands—and I must have faced afresh all the difficulties which stood between me and the one object of my life, exactly as I was resolved in my heart of hearts to face them now!

I returned to Welmingham with my mind composed, feeling more sure of myself and my resolution than I had felt yet.

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 morning—there 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 expect—except 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 me—I turned away from the square, and went straight back to the hotel.

Some hours later, while I was resting in the coffee-room, 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 there was time to speak to her, or even to notice who she was.

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 was—Mrs. Catherick.

The letter ran as follows—I copy it exactly, word for word:—