THE STORY CONTINUED BY WALTER HARTRIGHT
I
My first impulse, after reading Mrs. Catherick's extraordinary
narrative, was to destroy it. The hardened shameless depravity of
the whole composition, from beginning to end--the atrocious
perversity of mind which persistently associated me with a
calamity for which I was in no sense answerable, and with a death
which I had risked my life in trying to avert--so disgusted me,
that I was on the point of tearing the letter, when a
consideration suggested itself which warned me to wait a little
before I destroyed it.
This consideration was entirely unconnected with Sir Percival.
The information communicated to me, so far as it concerned him,
did little more than confirm the conclusions at which I had
already arrived.
He had committed his offence, as I had supposed him to have
committed it, and the absence of all reference, on Mrs.
Catherick's part, to the duplicate register at Knowlesbury,
strengthened my previous conviction that the existence of the
book, and the risk of detection which it implied, must have been
necessarily unknown to Sir Percival. My interest in the question
of the forgery was now at an end, and my only object in keeping
the letter was to make it of some future service in clearing up
the last mystery that still remained to baffle me--the parentage
of Anne Catherick on the father's side. There were one or two
sentences dropped in her mother's narrative, which it might be
useful to refer to again, when matters of more immediate
importance allowed me leisure to search for the missing evidence.
I did not despair of still finding that evidence, and I had lost
none of my anxiety to discover it, for I had lost none of my
interest in tracing the father of the poor creature who now lay at
rest in Mrs. Fairlie's grave.
Accordingly, I sealed up the letter and put it away carefully in
my pocket-book, to be referred to again when the time came.
The next day was my last in Hampshire. When I had appeared again
before the magistrate at Knowlesbury, and when I had attended at
the adjourned inquest, I should be free to return to London by the
afternoon or the evening train.
My first errand in the morning was, as usual, to the post-office.
The letter from Marian was there, but I thought when it was handed
to me that it felt unusually light. I anxiously opened the
envelope. There was nothing inside but a small strip of paper
folded in two. The few blotted hurriedly-written lines which were
traced on it contained these words:
"Come back as soon as you can. I have been obliged to move. Come
to Gower's Walk, Fulham (number five). I will be on the look-out
for you. Don't be alarmed about us, we are both safe and well.
But come back.--Marian."
The news which those lines contained--news which I instantly
associated with some attempted treachery on the part of Count
Fosco--fairly overwhelmed me. I stood breathless with the paper
crumpled up in my hand. What had happened? What subtle wickedness
had the Count planned and executed in my absence? A night had
passed since Marian's note was written--hours must elapse still
before I could get back to them--some new disaster might have
happened already of which I was ignorant. And here, miles and
miles away from them, here I must remain--held, doubly held, at
the disposal of the law!
I hardly know to what forgetfulness of my obligations anxiety and
alarm might not have tempted me, but for the quieting influence of
my faith in Marian. My absolute reliance on her was the one
earthly consideration which helped me to restrain myself, and gave
me courage to wait. The inquest was the first of the impediments
in the way of my freedom of action. I attended it at the
appointed time, the legal formalities requiring my presence in the
room, but as it turned out, not calling on me to repeat my
evidence. This useless delay was a hard trial, although I did my
best to quiet my impatience by following the course of the
proceedings as closely as I could.
The London solicitor of the deceased (Mr. Merriman) was among the
persons present. But he was quite unable to assist the objects of
the inquiry. He could only say that he was inexpressibly shocked
and astonished, and that he could throw no light whatever on the
mysterious circumstances of the case. At intervals during the
adjourned investigation, he suggested questions which the Coroner
put, but which led to no results. After a patient inquiry, which
lasted nearly three hours, and which exhausted every available
source of information, the jury pronounced the customary verdict
in cases of sudden death by accident. They added to the formal
decision a statement, that there had been no evidence to show how
the keys had been abstracted, how the fire had been caused, or
what the purpose was for which the deceased had entered the
vestry. This act closed the proceedings. The legal
representative of the dead man was left to provide for the
necessities of the interment, and the witnesses were free to
retire.
Resolved not to lose a minute in getting to Knowlesbury, I paid my
bill at the hotel, and hired a fly to take me to the town. A
gentleman who heard me give the order, and who saw that I was
going alone, informed me that he lived in the neighbourhood of
Knowlesbury, and asked if I would have any objection to his
getting home by sharing the fly with me. I accepted his proposal
as a matter of course.
Our conversation during the drive was naturally occupied by the
one absorbing subject of local interest.
My new acquaintance had some knowledge of the late Sir Percival's
solicitor, and he and Mr. Merriman had been discussing the state
of the deceased gentleman's affairs and the succession to the
property. Sir Percival's embarrassments were so well known all
over the county that his solicitor could only make a virtue of
necessity and plainly acknowledge them. He had died without
leaving a will, and he had no personal property to bequeath, even
if he had made one, the whole fortune which he had derived from
his wife having been swallowed up by his creditors. The heir to
the estate (Sir Percival having left no issue) was a son of Sir
Felix Glyde's first cousin, an officer in command of an East
Indiaman. He would find his unexpected inheritance sadly
encumbered, but the property would recover with time, and, if "the
captain" was careful, he might be a rich man yet before he died.
Absorbed as I was in the one idea of getting to London, this
information (which events proved to be perfectly correct) had an
interest of its own to attract my attention. I thought it
justified me in keeping secret my discovery of Sir Percival's
fraud. The heir, whose rights he had usurped, was the heir who
would now have the estate. The income from it, for the last
three-and-twenty years, which should properly have been his, and
which the dead man had squandered to the last farthing, was gone
beyond recall. If I spoke, my speaking would confer advantage on
no one. If I kept the secret, my silence concealed the character
of the man who had cheated Laura into marrying him. For her sake,
I wished to conceal it--for her sake, still, I tell this story
under feigned names.
I parted with my chance companion at Knowlesbury, and went at once
to the town-hall. As I had anticipated, no one was present to
prosecute the case against me--the necessary formalities were
observed, and I was discharged. On leaving the court a letter
from Mr. Dawson was put into my hand. It informed me that he was
absent on professional duty, and it reiterated the offer I had
already received from him of any assistance which I might require
at his hands. I wrote back, warmly acknowledging my obligations
to his kindness, and apologising for not expressing my thanks
personally, in consequence of my immediate recall on pressing
business to town.
Half an hour later I was speeding back to London by the express
train.