XII It was between nine and ten o'clock before I reached Fulham, and found my way to Gower's Walk.
Both Laura and Marian came to the door to let me in. I think we had hardly known how close the tie was which bound us three together, until the evening came which united us again. We met as if we had been parted for months instead of for a few days only. Marian's face was sadly worn and anxious. I saw who had known all the danger and borne all the trouble in my absence the moment I looked at her. Laura's brighter looks and better spirits told me how carefully she had been spared all knowledge of the dreadful death at Welmingham, and of the true reason of our change of abode.
The stir of the removal seemed to have cheered and interested her. She only spoke of it as a happy thought of Marian's to surprise me on my return with the change from the close, noisy street to the pleasant neighbourhood of trees and fields and the river. She was full of projects for the future -- of the drawings she was to finish -- of the purchasers I had found in the country who were to buy them -- of the shillings and sixpences she had saved, till her purse was so heavy that she proudly asked me to weigh it in my own hand. The change for the better which had been wrought in her during the few days of my absence was a surprise to me for which I was quite unprepared -- and for all the unspeakable happiness of seeing it, I was indebted to Marian's courage and to Marian's love.
When Laura had left us, and when we could speak to one another without restraint, I tried to give some expression to the gratitude and the admiration which filled my heart. But the generous creature would not wait to hear me. That sublime self-forgetfulness of women, which yields so much and asks so little, turned all her thoughts from herself to me.
‘I had only a moment left before post-time,' she said, ‘or I should have written less abruptly. You look worn and weary, Walter. I am afraid my letter must have seriously alarmed you?'
‘Only at first,' I replied. ‘My mind was quieted, Marian, by my trust in you. Was I right in attributing this sudden change of place to some threatened annoyance on the part of Count Fosco?'
‘Perfectly right,' she said. ‘I saw him yesterday, and worse than that, Walter -- I spoke to him.'
‘Spoke to him? Did he know where we lived? Did he come to the house?'
‘He did. To the house -- but not upstairs. Laura never saw him -- Laura suspects nothing. I will tell you how it happened: the danger, I believe and hope, is over now. Yesterday, I was in the sitting-room, at our old lodgings. Laura was drawing at the table, and I was walking about and setting things to rights. I passed the window, and as I passed it, looked out into the street. There, on the opposite side of the way, I saw the Count, with a man talking to him --'
‘Did he notice you at the window?'
‘No -- at least, I thought not. I was too violently startled to be quite sure.'
‘Who was the other man? A stranger?'
‘Not a stranger, Walter. As soon as I could draw my breath again, I recognised him. He was the owner of the Lunatic Asylum.'
‘Was the Count pointing out the house to him?'
‘No, they were talking together as if they had accidentally met in the street. I remained at the window looking at them from behind the curtain.
If I had turned round, and if Laura had seen my face at that moment --
Thank God, she was absorbed over her drawing! They soon parted. The man from the Asylum went one way, and the Count the other. I began to hope they were in the street by chance, till I saw the Count come back, stop opposite to us again, take out his card-case and pencil, write something, and then cross the road to the shop below us. I ran past Laura before she could see me, and said I had forgotten something upstairs. As soon as I was out of the room I went down to the first landing and waited -- I was determined to stop him if he tried to come upstairs. He made no such attempt.
The girl from the shop came through the door into the passage, with his card in her hand -- a large gilt card with his name, and a coronet above it, and these lines underneath in pencil: ‘‘Dear lady'' (yes! the villain could address me in that way still) -- ‘‘dear lady, one word, I implore you, on a matter serious to us both.'' If one can think at all, in serious difficulties, one thinks quickly. I felt directly that it might be a fatal mistake to leave myself and to leave you in the dark, where such a man as the Count was concerned. I felt that the doubt of what he might do, in your absence, would be ten times more trying to me if I declined to see him than if I consented. ‘‘Ask the gentleman to wait in the shop,''
I said. ‘‘I will be with him in a moment.'' I ran upstairs for my bonnet, being determined not to let him speak to me indoors. I knew his deep ringing voice, and I was afraid Laura might hear it, even in the shop. In less than a minute I was down again in the passage, and had opened the door into the street. He came round to meet me from the shop. There he was in deep mourning, with his smooth bow and his deadly smile, and some idle boys and women near him, staring at his great size, his fine black clothes, and his large cane with the gold knob to it. All the horrible time at Blackwater came back to me the moment I set eyes on him. All the old loathing crept and crawled through me, when he took off his hat with a flourish and spoke to me, as if we had parted on the friendliest terms hardly a day since.'
‘You remember what he said?'