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, HAD set their profaning marks on the youth
and beauty of her face; and the fatal resemblance which I had once
seen and shuddered at seeing, in idea only, was now a real and living
resemblance which asserted itself before my own eyes. Strangers,
acquaintances, friends even who could not look at her as we looked, if
she had been shown to them in the first days of her rescue from the
Asylum, might have doubted if she were the Laura Fairlie they had once
seen, and doubted without blame.
The one remaining chance, which I had at first thought might be trusted
to serve 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.