The Woman in White (67 page)

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.

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 UNDER the surface, it always
takes the fact in preference to the explanation. For example,
Lady Glyde (I call the lady you represent by that name for
argument's sake) declares she has slept at a certain house, and it
is proved that she has not slept at that house. You explain this
circumstance by entering into the state of her mind, and deducing
from it a metaphysical conclusion. I don't say the conclusion is
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."