Войти в систему
Войти с помощью соц. сетей:
I have been a hard-working woman all my life. All that I know I will tell.
In this last summer I was looking for a job, and I heard of a situation as plain cook, at Number Five, Forest Road, St. John’s Wood. My master’s name was Fosco. My mistress was an English lady. He was Count and she was Countess. A couple of days after I started working for Count Fosco, he told me that a visitor would be arriving the next day. This visitor’s name was Lady Glyde. She would be staying with us for a few days before travelling on to her uncle’s house in Cumberland, in the north of England. She 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 was in poor health.
All I know is Lady Glyde came. The master brought her to the house in the afternoon. Suddenly my mistress’s voice called 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. The poor unfortunate lady was helpless. We got her to bed. My master sent immediately for the doctor. The doctor came and examined Lady Glyde carefully.
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. And he ended by saying,
“I’m afraid there isn’t much I or any other doctor can do for this poor lady now”.
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. He seemed terribly cut up by what had happened.
“Ah! Poor Lady Glyde! Poor dear Lady Glyde!” he said, shaking his head.
Towards night-time the lady roused up a little. But she was very weak. She kept sitting up and trying to say something, but I couldn’t understand her. I think her mind was very confused and that probably she didn’t even know where she was.
In the morning the doctor went up to the bed, and stooped down over the sick lady. He looked very serious, and put his hand on her heart.
My mistress stared hard in Mr. Goodricke’s face. “Not dead!” says she, whispering.
“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!”
My master, the Count, seemed terribly upset by what had happened. He sat quietly in a corner with his head in his hands, saying nothing.
But there were arrangements to make concerning the funeral and where Lady Glyde was to be buried. First of all, the death had to be recorded and, seeing that Count Fosco was so upset, the doctor offered to do this himself on his way home. The date was 25 July.
Later, my master got in touch with the lady’s uncle, a Mr. Fairlie who lived in a place called Limmeridge House in Cumberland, and told him the sad news of his niece’s death. It is arranged that Lady Glyde’s body be sent to Limmeridge and buried in the churchyard there, in the same grave as her mother. It seemed that the lady’s husband was travelling abroad and could not be contacted in time for the funeral. So my master himself went, and very impressive he looked too, all in black, with his huge face, his tall hat and his slow walk.
I have nothing to add to it, or to take away from it. I say, this is the truth.
Sacred to the Memory of Laura, Lady Glyde, wife of Sir Percival Glyde, Bart., of Blackwater Park, Hampshire, and daughter of the late Philip Fairlie, Esq., of Limmeridge House, in this parish. Born March 27th, 1829; married December 22nd, 1849; died July 25th, 1850.
Early in the summer of 1850 I and my surviving companions left the 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.
These pages are not the record of my wanderings and my dangers away from home. I had gone to Central America in order to forget the past. I came back a changed man – the dangers I had experienced had made me stronger and more independent. My feelings towards Laura hadn’t changed – she was still in all my thoughts. I hadn’t forgotten her. I came back to face my own future, as a man should.
My mother told me about Laura’s death. The pain was terrible and I could find no relief. Laura Fairlie was in all my thoughts. 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.
This narrative, if I have the strength and the courage to write it, may now go on.
I decided to go to Limmeridge to visit the grave of Laura Fairlie. It was a quiet autumn afternoon when I stopped at the station. As I walked along the path which led to the small churchyard, the air was warm and still and the countryside lonely but peaceful.
It seemed like only yesterday since I had been here. I kept half expecting that Laura would come down the path to meet me, her summer hat shading her face, her dress blowing in the wind and her sketch-book in her hand.
Soon I arrived at the churchyard. 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 remembered that I had once met the woman in white here. What had happened to her?
I approached the grave, and I stopped before the place 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 – “
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 knelt down by the tomb. I laid my hands, I laid my head on the broad white stone, and closed my weary eyes on the earth around, on the light above. I let her come back to me. Oh, my love! My love! My heart may speak to you now! 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 passed. I didn’t know how long I’d been kneeling there, but suddenly, I heard a noise, as of someone moving softly over the grass. I looked up. The sunset was near at hand. 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.
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.
The eyes large and wild, and looking at me with a strange terror in them. 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 woman with the veiled face moved away from her companion, and came towards me slowly. 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.
The woman came on, slowly and silently came on. I looked at her – at her, and at none other, from that moment.
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.
[The Second Epoch of the Story closes here.]
I open a new page. A life suddenly changed – its hopes and fears, its struggles, its interests, and its sacrifices all turned at once and for ever into a new direction. My whole life had been changed and turned in a new direction, and could begin again.
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 poor neighbourhood. The ground floor of one of the houses in it is occupied by a small shop. On the upper floor I live, with a room to work in, a room to sleep in. On the lower floor, two women live, who are described as my sisters. I get my bread by drawing for cheap newspapers and magazines. I am an obscure, unnoticed man, without any friend to help me. Marian Halcombe is my eldest sister.
That is our situation. In the eye of reason and of law, “Laura, Lady Glyde,” lay buried with her mother in Limmeridge churchyard. 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; socially, legally – dead. And yet alive! Alive in poverty and in hiding. It was of the greatest importance for us to remain in hiding, and for this purpose we pretended that we were a brother and two sisters. We took different names from our own, and lived as quietly as we could.
The story of Marian and the story of Laura must come next. The story of Marian begins where the narrative of the housekeeper at Blackwater Park left off.
Mrs. Michelson told Marian that her sister, Lady Glyde, had gone to London to stay in Count Fosco’s house, and that Sir Percival had also left Blackwater Park, and nobody knew if he would return. Then a letter arrived from Madame Fosco announcing Lady Glyde’s sudden death in Count Fosco’s house. It seemed very strange. Marian 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 who had become a good friend. They parted there.
Marian went straight away to see the family lawyer, Mr Gilmore. She told him that she was very suspicious of the circumstances in which Laura had died, and she wanted him to find out more about her death and what exactly she had died of. So Mr. Gilmore went to Count Fosco’s home, where he found the Count very friendly and helpful. He questioned the Count, the cook and the doctor who had seen Laura. Finally he came back to tell Marian that Laura had died from natural causes – a heart problem. He could find nothing suspicious about her death.
Miss Halcombe had returned to Limmeridge House to see her uncle, and had there collected all the additional information which she was able to obtain. The Count had suggested that Laura’s body be brought back to the churchyard in Limmeridge and placed in her mother’s grave, and Mr. Fairlie had agreed to this. Count Fosco himself had attended the funeral at Limmeridge, which took place on the 30th of July. Sir Percival Glyde was still travelling abroad.
Marian learnt that Anne Catherick had been traced and recovered in the neighbourhood of Blackwater Park. She had been taken back to the Asylum in north London from which she escaped. Miss Halcombe decided to visit the Asylum.
The next day she proceeded to the Asylum, which was situated not far from London on the northern side of the town.
The proprietor of the Asylum had no objections to her seeing Anne Catherick. 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 proprietor told Marian that Anne was at that moment out walking with a nurse in the garden.
In the garden two women were slowly walking. The proprietor pointed to them and said, “There is Anne Catherick.” With those words he left Marian to return to the duties of the house.
When Anne Catherick got nearer, she looked up at Marian. Then she rushed towards Marian and threw herself into her arms. In that moment Miss Halcombe recognised her sister – recognised the dead-alive.
When Marian had recovered a little from the shock, she began to think quickly. She knew she had to get Laura out of the Asylum as quickly as possible. There was no time for questions – there was only time to act. If she tried to do it by legal means, by explaining to the proprietor that a mistake had been made, it would take too long. Miss Halcombe turned 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.
When Miss Halcombe had got back to London, she had determined to effect Lady Glyde’s escape privately, by means of the nurse.
She had seven hundred pounds in a bank. That was the price of her sister’s liberty.
Then she returned to the Asylum. She showed the nurse the money and told her she would give it to her if she helped Laura escape. At last the nurse agreed. Miss Halcombe 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 into her hand, and the sisters were united again.
They caught the afternoon train, and arrived at Limmeridge, without accident or difficulty of any kind, that night.
During their journey they were alone in the carriage, and Miss Halcombe tried to ask her what had happened, but Laura’s memory was confused and very weak, and she could remember very little.
On the arrival of the train at the platform Lady Glyde found Count Fosco waiting for her. Her first question referred to Miss Halcombe. The Count informed her that Miss Halcombe had not yet gone to Cumberland.
Lady Glyde next inquired whether her sister was then staying in the Count’s house. The Count declared he was then taking her to see Miss Halcombe. Laura doesn’t know London very well, and it was quite impossible for her to recognise any of the streets which we drove through. At last they stopped in a small street behind a square.
They entered the house, and went upstairs to a back room, either on the first or second floor. The luggage was carefully brought in. The Count assured her that Miss Halcombe was in the house. He then went away and left her by herself in the room. Then the Count returned to explain that Miss Halcombe was then taking rest, and could not be disturbed for a little while.
She asked anxiously how long the meeting between her sister and herself was to be still delayed. 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. The water 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. At this point in her sad story there was a total blank. She was unable to say how, or when, or in what company she left the house to which Count Fosco had brought her.
She woke up in the Asylum. Here she first heard herself called by Anne Catherick’s name, her own eyes informed her that she had Anne Catherick’s clothes on. The nurse had said, “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!”
What happened? After Sir Percival and Count Fosco had found Anne Catherick again, Count Fosco must have brought her to London and kept her in his house. She was very ill and he knew she would die. After her death, he must have brought her clothes with him when he met Laura, and when Laura fell asleep, put them on her. Meanwhile, he took Laura’s clothes and dressed Anne Catherick’s body in them.
Arriving at Limmeridge late on the evening of the fifteenth, Miss Halcombe brought Laura Mr. Fairlie. But Laura’s uncle refused to recognise her. He kept insisting that Laura was really Anne Catherick pretending to be Laura. He angrily reminded Marian how much Laura and Anne Catherick looked like each other. He insisted that he didn’t recognise her, and said that Laura lay buried in the churchyard at Limmeridge. Finally he said that if we didn’t go away at once, he would call the police, as all he wanted was to be left alone in peace and quiet. None of servants recognised Laura for sure. The sad truth was that her looks had changed so much because of her terrible experiences that she didn’t look at all like the happy girl whom they had known before. She looked pale and thin, and just a shadow of her old self. Marian remembered how Sir Percival had told Count Fosco that Anne Catherick looked exactly like Laura after a long illness.
So it was dangerous to stay longer at Limmeridge House, if nobody was going to give us any help or support. So Marian decided to leave Limmeridge at once, and the safest place for them was London. They had passed the hill above the churchyard, when Lady Glyde insisted on turning back to look her last at her mother’s grave. She did not move.I believe in my soul that the hand of God was pointing their way back to them!
This was the story of the past – the story so far as we knew it then.
Anne Catherick had lived in Count Fosco’s house as Lady Glyde – and Lady Glyde had taken the dead woman’s place in the Asylum. It had all been managed very cleverly, so that nobody – Count Fosco’s cook, the doctor who saw Anne, the owner of the Asylum or the nurses there – had been in any way suspicious. We three had to hide from Count Fosco and Sir Percival Glyde. The crime had brought them thirty thousand pounds – twenty thousand to one, ten thousand to the other through his wife. Now that Laura had escaped from the Asylum, they would do everything in their power to pursue her, and if they found her, they would take her away from us. We were all in great danger from them, but especially Laura.
We lived as quietly as we could, therefore, in this poor crowded part of London, taking no notice of anybody and hoping that we too were unnoticed. Every day I went out to work while Marian and Laura stayed at home, and never opened the door to anyone. 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.
Marian Halcombe and I put together what we possessed. Together we made up between us more than four hundred pounds. I deposited this little fortune in a bank. The house-work was doing by Marian Halcombe. “Don’t doubt my courage, Walter,” she pleaded, “It’s my weakness that cries, not me.” Marian looked after the house and did all the work herself, so no strangers had to come there.
Laura was ill and did not remember many things. We helped her mind slowly, we took her out between us to walk on fine days, in a quiet old City square, where there was nothing to confuse or alarm her, we amused her in the evenings with children’s games at cards, with read her books full of prints.
“You are not tired of me yet?” Laura 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? I’m so unhappy!”
“What are you thinking of, Laura? Tell me, my darling – try and tell me what it is. 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 hopeless sigh. “You work and get money, Walter, and Marian helps you. Why is there nothing I can do?”
She spoke like a child, she showed me her thoughts. I told her that she was dearer to me now than she had ever been in the past times.
“Try to get well again,” I said, “try to get well again, for Marian’s sake and for mine.”
“I shall soon be back, my darling – soon be back to see how you are getting on.”
As I opened the door, I met Marian.
“I shall be back in a few hours,” I said, “ But if anything happens – ”
“What can happen?” she interposed quickly. “Tell me, 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 know about Laura’s escape.”
She laid her hand on my shoulder and looked at me in anxious silence. I saw she understood the serious risk that threatened us. More than anything else, I wanted to punish Sir Percival Glyde for what he had done to Laura, the woman I loved. I wanted to punish Count Fosco too, but it was Sir Percival whom I hated the most.
I was deciding on a plan of action. Anne Catherick had told me that she knew a deep dark secret about Sir Percival which would destroy him if anyone found it out. We knew that this secret existed, but we had failed to learn the details of it from Anne. However, Anne had told Laura there was one other person who knew it – her mother, Mrs. Catherick. I therefore made up my mind to go and visit Mrs. Catherick.
The housekeeper at Blackwater Park had told Marian that she lived in the village of Welmingham, about twenty miles away from Sir Percival’s house, so I took the train there.
Marian followed me downstairs to the street door.
“If strange things happen to you on this journey,” she whispered, as we stood together in the passage. “If you and Sir Percival meet – ”
“What makes you think we shall meet?” I asked.
“I don’t know – I have fears and fancies. 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!”
With those words we parted. I walked briskly to the station. The train left me at Welmingham early in the afternoon. 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. I walked at once to the door of Number Thirteen – the number of Mrs. Catherick’s house – and knocked.
The door was opened by a melancholy middle-aged woman servant. I gave her my card, and asked if I could see Mrs. Catherick.
“Say, if you please, that my business relates to Mrs. Catherick’s daughter,” I said.
The servant begged me, with a look of gloomy amazement, to walk in.
I entered a little room. On the largest table, in the middle of the room, stood a smart Bible, placed exactly in the centre on a red and yellow mat, and there sat an elderly woman, wearing a black dress. She had square cheeks, a long, firm chin, and thick, sensual, colourless lips. 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. “What do you want to say?”
The tone of her voice was very hard. I noticed the expression on her face. It was very hard and cold. She pointed to a chair, and looked me all over attentively, from head to foot, as I sat down in it.
“My name is Walter Hartright,” I replied, “You are aware, that your daughter has been lost?”
“I am perfectly aware of it.”
“Have you heard about her death?”
“Have you come here to tell me she is dead?”
“I have.”
“Why?”
“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 know anything about my daughter?”
“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 can’t say how I know it – but I do know it.”
“Then, I ask you again, why did you come?”
“I came,” I said, “because I thought Anne Catherick’s mother might have some interest in knowing whether she was alive or dead.”
“Just so,” said Mrs. Catherick. “Had you no other motive?”
I hesitated.
“If you have no other motive,” she went on, “I have only to thank you for your visit, and to say that I will not detain you here any longer. I wish you good morning”.
“I have another motive in coming here,” I said.
“Ah! I thought so,” remarked Mrs. Catherick.
“Your daughter’s death – ”
“What did she die of?”
“Of disease of the heart.”
“Yes, her heart was very weak.. Go on.”
“Two men have played a part in your daughter’s death,” I said, “and have used it to bring harm to another person, a lady whom I love dearly. The name of one of them is Sir Percival Glyde.”
“Indeed!”
I looked attentively to see if she flinched at the sudden mention of that name. Not a muscle of her face stirred, her face remained as cold and expressionless as a stone.
“Mrs. Catherick,” I said, “I am determined to bring Sir Percival Glyde to account for the wickedness he has committed. There are certain events in Sir Percival’s past life which it is necessary for my purpose. You know them – and for that reason I come to you.”
“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.”
“Ah! I begin to understand it all now,” she said. “You have something against Sir Percival Glyde, and I must help you. I must tell you this, that, and the other about Sir Percival and myself, must I? Yes, indeed? I’ll tell you nothing. Ha! Ha! It’s none of your business.”
She stopped for a moment, and she laughed to herself – a hard, harsh, angry laugh.
“Crush him for yourself,” she said; “then come back here, and see what I say to you.”
She spoke those words quickly.
“You won’t trust me?” I said.
“No.”
“You are afraid?”
“Do I look as if I was?”
“You are afraid of Sir Percival Glyde?”
“Am I?”
“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 surprised me by beginning to laugh.
“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.”
“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.
“But I know some things about him,” I rejoined. “and I suspect many more.”
“What do you suspect?”
“I’ll tell you what I don’t suspect. I don’t suspect him of being Anne’s father.”
She started to her feet.
“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 voice trembling with passion.
“The secret between you and Sir Percival is not that secret,” I persisted. “The mystery which darkens Sir Percival’s life was not born with your daughter’s birth, and has not died with your daughter’s death.”
“Go!” she said, and pointed sternly to the door.
“Do you still refuse to trust me?” I asked.
“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.
“Except the news of his death,” she said, sitting down again.
As I opened the door of the room to go out, she looked round at me quickly. The cruel smile slowly widened her lips. I left the house, feeling that Mrs. Catherick had helped me, in spite of herself. “A great family – especially by the mother’s side.” What do these words mean? I decided to go to the church near Blackwater Park and look at the book that contains the records of all the marriages that have taken place in the district. I had a new clue and a new direction to follow. I wanted to look at the entry that records the marriage of Sir Percival Glyde’s parents.
The morning was cloudy and lowering, but no rain fell. I took the train to Blackwater Park and walked to the vestry of Old Welmingham church.
When I left the station the winter evening was beginning to close in.
It was a walk of rather more than two miles. On the highest point stood the church – an ancient building with a clumsy square tower in front.
I walked on away from the church till I reached one of the houses. The clerk’s abode was a cottage at some little distance off. The clerk was indoors, and was just putting on his coat.
“It’s well you came so early, sir,” said the old man, when I had mentioned the object of my visit. 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, “My wife’s in the churchyard there, and my children are all married. You’re from London, I suppose, sir? I’ve been in London twenty-five years ago. What’s the news there now, if you please?”
Chattering on in this way, he led me back to the vestry. “I’m obliged to bring you this way, sir,” he said, “This is a very bad lock. Ah, it’s a sort of lost corner, this place. Not like London – is it, sir?”
After some twisting and turning of the key, the heavy lock yielded, and he opened the door. The vestry was a dim, melancholy old room, with a low ceiling. The atmosphere of the place was heavy. But my anxiety to examine the register was very strong.
“Ay, ay, the marriage-register, to be sure,” said the clerk, taking a little bunch of keys from his pocket. “Which year, sir?”
I knew Sir Percival’s age – about forty-five – so I could work out the approximate date when his parents got married.
“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.”
The clerk brought me the book. I started with the year 1803. There, in September of that year, I found the entry which recorded his parents’ marriage. It was at the bottom of a page. I looked carefully at the entry. It showed the marriage of Sir Felix Glyde to a lady called Cecilia Jane Elster. 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.”
All the other entries on the page had been written very clearly, in large handwriting. But this one was different. The entry appeared in tiny handwriting, in a tiny space right at the bottom of the page. It was almost as if someone had added it to the book later.
What was I to do next? I might inquire about “Miss Elster of Knowlesbury”.
“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 worked 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,” said my old friend.
“Where did your former master live?” I asked.
“At Knowlesbury, sir.
Our vestry-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?! Every parish church, you know, has a vestry-clerk and a parish-clerk. The parish-clerk is a man like me. The vestry-clerk is a sort of a lawyer. For example, he copies all the documents.”
My heart gave a great leap.
“Then young Mr. Wansborough is a lawyer, I suppose?”
“Of course he is, sir! A lawyer in High Street, Knowlesbury.”
“How far is it to Knowlesbury from this place?”
“Quite far, sir,” said the clerk, “About five miles, I can tell you!”
It was still early. There was plenty of time for a walk to Knowlesbury and back again to Welmingham.
“Thank you kindly, sir,” said the clerk, as I slipped some coins into his hand. “Are you really going to walk all the way to Knowlesbury and back? Well! you’re strong on your legs! There’s the road, you can’t miss it. Wish you good-morning, sir, and thank you kindly once more.”
We parted.
Mr. Wansborough was in his office when I inquired for him. He was a jovial, red-faced, easy-looking man. He had heard of his father’s copy of the register, but had not even seen it himself. A clerk was sent to bring the volume. It was of exactly the same size as the volume in the vestry. I took it, my hands were trembling.
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! Nothing about the marriage of Sir Felix Glyde and Cecilia Jane Elster in the register of the church! 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. That space told the whole story!
I learnt Sir Percival’s secret. If he was the child of a couple who never married, then Sir Percival Glyde wasn’t Sir Percival Glyde at all. He wasn’t a baronet and had no legal rights to Blackwater Park. It could all be taken from him. Moreover, this forgery was a serious crime and I knew that the punishment was very severe. He could be sent to prison for a very long time. No wonder he didn’t want to be found out!
I handed the book back to the clerk, and thanked him. I considered for a minute. I resolved to return to the church, to apply again to the clerk, and to take the necessary extract from the register. My one anxiety was the anxiety to get back to Old Welmingham.
It was just getting dark, when I got back to the church. A small misty rain was falling. I came to the path which ran by the clerk’s cottage and saw a light in his window. I went up the path to the front door, intending to ask the clerk for the key to the vestry.
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. He looked suspicious and confused – and his first words, when he spoke, were quite strange.
“Where are the keys?” he asked. “Have you taken them?”
“What keys?” I repeated. “I have just come from Knowlesbury. What keys do you mean?”
“The keys of the vestry. Oh! What shall I do? The keys are gone! Do you hear?” cried the old man, “The keys are gone!”
“How? When? Who can have taken them?”
“I don’t know,” said the clerk. “I’ve only just got back. 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.”
“Get another light,” I said, “and let us both go to the vestry together. Quick! Quick!”
I hurried him. I walked out, down the garden path, into the lane. Before I had advanced ten paces a man approached me. I could not see his face.
“I beg your pardon, Sir Percival – ” he began.
I stopped him before he could say more.
“I am not Sir Percival,” I said.
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.”
I looked back at the cottage and saw the clerk coming out, with the lantern lighted once more. The church was not visible, even by daytime, until the end of the lane was reached. Suddenly a boy came to us.
“I say, mister,” said the boy, pulling at the clerk’s coat, “There is somebody in the church. I heard him lock the door, and strike a light with a match.”
The clerk trembled and leaned against me heavily.
“Come! come!” I said. “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 knew why Sir Percival was in the church – he wanted to steal or destroy the book which contained his forgery, so that I could not use it as proof of his crime.
We turned the corner at the top of the path and saw the church before us. But then we had a terrible shock. There was a very bright light shining from inside the vestry. It shone out with dazzling brightness against the murky, starless sky. I hurried through the churchyard to the door.
As we got near, we could smell a strange smell on the night air – it was smoke! The light inside the vestry was getting brighter and brighter, and at the same time we heard a crackling noise. The vestry was on fire!
I heard the key worked violently in the lock – I heard a man’s voice behind the door, screaming for help.
The servant who had followed me dropped to his knees. “Oh, my God!” he said, “It’s Sir Percival!”
“He is dead!” said the old man. “He has broken the lock.”
I rushed to the door. I completely forgot that Sir Percival was my enemy and all the wicked things he had done. I remembered nothing but the horror of his situation.
“Try the other door!” I shouted. “Try the door into the church! The lock’s broken. You’re a dead man if you waste another moment on it.”
We could hear no sound from within.
Hardly knowing what I did, I seized the servant and pushed him against the vestry wall. “Stop!” 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. I got on his back, seized the parapet with both hands, and was instantly on the roof. I broke the window. I couldn’t see Sir Percival. The fire leaped out like a wild beast from its lair. I crouched on the roof and climbed down.
At last the door fell in with a crash, but we were prevented from going inside by a sheet of living flames.
“Where is he?” whispered the servant, staring 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 crackle of the flames.
At that moment the fire engine arrived at last. The firemen ran to the vestry and directed water inside. I stood useless and helpless – looking, looking, looking into the burning room. I saw the fire slowly conquered.
A man’s body, blackened and burned, was found lying face down on the floor of the vestry.
“Where is the gentleman who tried to save him?” said the fireman.
I was unable to speak to him. I was faint, and silent, and helpless.
“Do you know him, sir? Can you identify him, sir?”
My eyes dropped slowly. So, for the first and last time, I saw him.
“No, I have never seen the man before,” I said.
But a voice behind me spoke. It was Sir Percival’s servant.
“That’s my master,” he said. “That’s Sir Percival Glyde.”
The next day there was an official enquiry into what had taken place in the vestry of the church – what Sir Percival was doing there and how he had met his death.
The clerk told the court how his keys had disappeared from his house. The enquiry came to the conclusion that Sir Percival had locked himself in the vestry, not knowing that the lock was broken and it would be very difficult to get out again. The fire in the vestry had started by accident. Maybe he knocked his lantern over, which contained a lot of oil and so would quickly start a fire. Moreover, there were many dry materials in the vestry – papers and old boxes – which would burn quickly and cause a fire to spread easily.
But the enquiry couldn’t find a reason for Sir Percival being in the vestry or why he had locked himself in there. Everything in the vestry had been burned with him, including the book of marriage records and other important documents.
I knew very well what Sir Percival had been doing in the vestry, but I wasn’t going to say anything. He was looking for the book of marriage records, intending either to steal it or to tear out the page with the false marriage entry. While he was looking for it, he locked the door so that nobody would disturb him. He was probably in a great hurry and knocked over his lantern in the darkness by accident.
The enquiry reached the conclusion that the cause of Sir Percival Glyde’s death was death by sudden accident.
I returned to the hotel at Welmingham, weakened and depressed by all that I had gone through. On my way to the hotel I passed the end of the square in which Mrs. Catherick lived. I did not visit her. No. I did not want to see her at all.
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. He said that a woman had given it to him. She had said nothing, and she had gone away very quickly.
I opened the letter. It was neither dated nor signed. But 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: —
Войти с помощью соц. сетей: