Before I was indoors again, I had made up my mind that we must go. The house (especially in your absence) was a place of danger instead of a place of safety, now that the Count had discovered it. If I could have felt certain of your return, I should have risked waiting till you came back. But l was certain of nothing, and I acted at once on my own impulse. You had spoken, before leaving us, of moving into a quieter neighbourhood and purer air, for the sake of Laura's health. I had only to remind her of that, and to suggest surprising you and saving you trouble by managing the move in your absence, to make her quite as anxious for the change as I was.
She helped me to pack up your things, and she has arranged them all for you in your new working-room here.'
‘What made you think of coming to this place?'
‘My ignorance of other localities in the neighbourhood of London. I felt the necessity of getting as far away as possible from our old lodgings, and I knew something of Fulham, because I had once been at school there.
I despatched a messenger with a note, on the chance that the school might still be in existence. It was in existence -- the daughters of my old mistress were carrying it on for her, and they engaged this place from the instructions I had sent. It was just post-time when the messenger returned to me with the address of the house. We moved after dark -- we came here quite unobserved.
Have I done right, Walter? Have I justified your trust in me?'
I answered her warmly and gratefully, as I really felt. But the anxious look remained on her face while I was speaking, and the first question she asked, when I had done, related to Count Fosco.
I saw that she was thinking of him now with a changed mind. No fresh outbreak of anger against him, no new appeal to me to hasten the day of reckoning escaped her. Her conviction that the man's hateful admiration of herself was really sincere, seemed to have increased a hundredfold her distrust of his unfathomable cunning, her inborn dread of the wicked energy and vigilance of all his faculties. Her voice fell low, her manner was hesitating, her eyes searched into mine with an eager fear when she asked me what I thought of his message, and what I meant to do next after hearing it.
‘Not many weeks have passed, Marian,' I answered, ‘since my interview with Mr Kyrle. When he and I parted, the last words I said to him about Laura were these: ‘‘Her uncle's house shall open to receive her, in the presence of every soul who followed the false funeral to the grave; the lie that records her death shall be publicly erased from the tombstone by the authority of the head of the family, and the two men who have wronged her shall answer for their crime to ME, though the justice that sits in tribunals is powerless to pursue them.'' One of those men is beyond mortal reach. The other remains, and my resolution remains.'
Her eyes lit up -- her colour rose. She said nothing, but I saw all her sympathies gathering to mine in her face.
‘I don't disguise from myself, or from you,' I went on, ‘that the prospect before us is more than doubtful. The risks we have run already are, it may be, trifles compared with the risks that threaten us in the future, but the venture shall be tried, Marian, for all that. I am not rash enough to measure myself against such a man as the Count before I am well prepared for him. I have learnt patience -- I can wait my time. Let him believe that his message has produced its effect -- let him know nothing of us, and hear nothing of us -- let us give him full time to feel secure -- his own boastful nature, unless I seriously mistake him, will hasten that result.
This is one reason for waiting, but there is another more important still.
My position, Marian, towards you and towards Laura ought to be a stronger one than it is now before I try our last chance.'
She leaned near to me, with a look of surprise.
‘How can it be stronger?' she asked.
‘I will tell you,' I replied, ‘when the time comes. It has not come yet -- it may never come at all. I may be silent about it to Laura for ever -- I must be silent now, even to you , till I see for myself that I can harmlessly and honourably speak. Let us leave that subject.
There is another which has more pressing claims on our attention. You have kept Laura, mercifully kept her, in ignorance of her husband's death --'
‘Oh, Walter, surely it must be long yet before we tell her of it?'
‘No, Marian. Better that you should reveal it to her now, than that accident, which no one can guard against, should reveal it to her at some future time. Spare her all the details -- break it to her very tenderly, but tell her that he is dead.'
‘You have a reason, Walter, for wishing her to know of her husband's death besides the reason you have just mentioned?'
‘I have.'
‘A reason connected with that subject which must not be mentioned between us yet? -- which may never be mentioned to Laura at all?'
She dwelt on the last words meaningly. When I answered her in the affirmative, I dwelt on them too.
Her face grew pale. For a while she looked at me with a sad, hesitating interest. An unaccustomed tenderness trembled in her dark eyes and softened her firm lips, as she glanced aside at the empty chair in which the dear companion of all our joys and sorrows had been sitting.
‘I think I understand,' she said. ‘I think I owe it to her and to you, Walter, to tell her of her husband's death.'
She sighed, and held my hand fast for a moment -- then dropped it abruptly, and left the room. On the next day Laura knew that his death had released her, and that the error and the calamity of her life lay buried in his tomb.
His name was mentioned among us no more. Thenceforward, we shrank from the slightest approach to the subject of his death, and in the same scrupulous manner, Marian and I avoided all further reference to that other subject, which, by her consent and mine, was not to be mentioned between us yet.