XV

von Wilkie Collins

As we walked around to the front of the house, a carriage from the railway approached us along the drive. Miss Halcombe waited on the steps until the carriage came to a stop, then stepped forward to greet an elderly gentleman who got out quickly as soon as the steps were lowered. Mr. Gilmore had arrived.

When we were introduced, I couldn’t help but feel a mix of interest and curiosity about him. This old man was going to stay at Limmeridge House after I left. He would hear Sir Percival Glyde’s explanation and offer Miss Halcombe his experienced perspective to help her make a judgment. He would wait until the question of the marriage was settled, and if it was approved, he would draft the settlement that would bind Miss Fairlie irrevocably to her engagement. Even then, with my limited understanding compared to what I know now, I looked at the family lawyer with a fascination I had never felt before for a complete stranger.

Mr. Gilmore was nothing like the typical image of an old lawyer. His complexion was rosy, his white hair was slightly long and neatly brushed, and his black coat, waistcoat, and trousers fit him perfectly. His white cravat was tied with care, and his lavender kid gloves could have belonged to a fashionable clergyman without raising any eyebrows. His manners were marked by the formal grace and refinement of old-school politeness, combined with the sharpness and readiness of someone whose profession requires him to keep his wits about him. He seemed to have a cheerful disposition, a long career of respectable success, and a well-earned, respected old age. These were the impressions I gathered from my introduction to Mr. Gilmore, and it’s only fair to say that what I later learned only confirmed those initial thoughts.

I left the old gentleman and Miss Halcombe to enter the house together, allowing them to discuss family matters without the awkwardness of a stranger’s presence. They crossed the hall on their way to the drawing-room, and I descended the steps again to wander through the garden alone.

My time at Limmeridge House was limited—my departure the next morning was already decided. My role in the investigation prompted by the anonymous letter was over. I realized that no one would be harmed but myself if I allowed my heart to feel freely again, even for the short time I had left, breaking free from the cold restraint that necessity had forced upon me. I wanted to take my farewell of the places that held the memories of my brief moments of happiness and love.

I instinctively turned toward the path beneath my study window, the same one where I had seen her the evening before with her little dog. I followed the trail her dear feet had walked so many times until I reached the gate that led into her rose garden. Now, in winter's grip, the garden looked bleak and bare. The flowers she had taught me to recognize by name, the ones I had shown her how to paint, were gone. The narrow white paths between the beds were already damp and green.

I continued on to the avenue of trees, where we had shared the warm scent of August evenings, marveling together at the intricate patterns of shade and sunlight dancing on the ground. Leaves fell around me from the heavy branches, and the damp, earthy smell in the air chilled me to the bone. A little further, I left the grounds and followed the winding lane that climbed gently toward the hills. The old, fallen tree by the roadside, where we had once rested, was soaked with rain, and the patch of ferns and grasses I had sketched for her, nestled against the rough stone wall, had turned into a stagnant pool surrounded by a mess of weeds.

When I reached the top of the hill, I looked out at the view we had admired so many times during happier days. It felt cold and barren now; it was no longer the view I remembered. The warmth of her presence was gone, and the sound of her voice no longer lingered in my ears. She had once shared with me, from this very spot, stories about her father, her last surviving parent. She spoke of their deep bond and how she still missed him in certain rooms of the house or when she picked up forgotten hobbies they had shared. Was the view I had seen while listening to her words the same one I saw now, standing alone on the hilltop? I turned away and retraced my steps over the moor, around the sand dunes, and down to the beach.

There was the furious white surf and the dazzling display of the waves, but where was the spot where she had once drawn playful figures in the sand with her parasol? The place where we had sat together, where she had asked me about myself, my home, and innocently wondered if I would ever leave my solitary life to have a wife and a house of my own? The wind and waves had long since erased any trace of her marks in the sand. I gazed out at the endless expanse of the sea, and the place where we had spent those sunny hours felt as lost to me as if I had never known it, as unfamiliar as if I stood on a foreign shore.

The empty silence of the beach chilled my heart. I returned to the house and garden, where reminders of her lingered at every turn.

On the west terrace, I encountered Mr. Gilmore. He seemed to be looking for me, quickening his pace when our eyes met. My mood was hardly suited for a conversation with a stranger, but our meeting was unavoidable, and I resigned myself to make the best of it.

“You're just the person I wanted to see,” the old gentleman said. “I have a couple of things to discuss with you, and if you don’t mind, I’d like to take this opportunity. To be straightforward, Miss Halcombe and I have been discussing family matters—matters that brought me here—and during our conversation, she naturally mentioned the unpleasant situation regarding the anonymous letter and the role you’ve commendably played in the proceedings so far. I understand that your involvement gives you a vested interest in knowing that the future management of this investigation will be in capable hands. Rest assured, it will be in MY hands.”

“Mr. Gilmore, you are far more qualified to advise and act on this matter than I am. If it’s not too forward of me to ask, have you decided on a course of action yet?”

"As far as I can decide, Mr. Hartright, I've made my choice. I plan to send a copy of the letter, along with a statement of the circumstances, to Sir Percival Glyde’s solicitor in London, someone I know fairly well. I’ll keep the original letter here to show Sir Percival as soon as he arrives. I’ve already arranged for the tracing of the two women by sending one of Mr. Fairlie’s trusted servants to the station to make inquiries. He has his instructions and his payment, and he’ll follow any leads he finds. That’s all we can do until Sir Percival arrives on Monday. I have no doubt that he will provide every explanation one could expect from a gentleman of his standing. Sir Percival is highly regarded—he has an excellent reputation, one that’s above suspicion. I feel quite at ease about the outcome—truly, I’m relieved to say so. Cases like this happen all the time in my experience. Anonymous letters, unfortunate women—it's a sad reflection of society. I won’t deny there are some unique complications here, but the situation itself is, unfortunately, quite common."

"I’m afraid, Mr. Gilmore, I have to disagree with your perspective on this case."

"Of course, my dear sir—of course. I’m an old man, and I take a practical view. You’re younger, and you see things more romantically. Let’s not argue about our viewpoints. I work in an environment filled with disputes, Mr. Hartright, and I’m more than happy to escape it, as I am now. We’ll wait for events to unfold—yes, yes, yes—we’ll wait. This is a lovely place. Good for shooting? Probably not; I don’t think any of Mr. Fairlie’s land is preserved for that. It’s a charming spot, though, with delightful people. I hear you draw and paint, Mr. Hartright? What an enviable skill. What style do you work in?"

We drifted into general conversation, or rather, Mr. Gilmore talked while I listened. My mind was far from him and the topics he discussed so easily. The solitary walk I had taken over the last two hours had stirred something in me—it made me want to leave Limmeridge House sooner rather than later. Why should I prolong the painful goodbye by even a minute? What further service was required of me? There was no purpose in my staying in Cumberland—my employer had given me permission to leave without any time constraints. So why not just end it now?

I made up my mind to do just that. There were still a few hours of daylight left, and there was no reason I couldn’t start my journey back to London that very afternoon. I quickly came up with a polite excuse to leave Mr. Gilmore and headed back to the house.

On my way upstairs, I ran into Miss Halcombe on the stairs. She noticed my hurried movements and the change in my demeanor, and she asked what was going on.

I explained my reasons for wanting to leave earlier, just as I have shared them here.

"No, no," she said earnestly and kindly, "leave us as a friend—share one last meal with us. Stay and help us make our final evening together as joyful as our first ones were. This is my invitation—Mrs. Vesey’s invitation—" she hesitated for a moment, then added, "Laura’s invitation too."

I promised to stay. I truly didn’t want to leave even a hint of sadness behind for any of them.

My room was the best place for me until the dinner bell rang. I waited there until it was time to go downstairs.

I hadn’t spoken to Miss Fairlie or even seen her all day. Our first encounter in the drawing room was a challenge for both her self-control and mine. She had done her best to make our last evening feel like the golden days we once shared—the days that could never return. She wore the dress I had always admired most—a dark blue silk trimmed with charming, old-fashioned lace. She stepped forward to greet me with the same eagerness as before, offering her hand with the innocent goodwill of happier times.

But her cold fingers trembled in mine, her pale cheeks were marked by a bright red spot, and the faint smile that tried to linger on her lips faded away as I looked at her. It was clear she was maintaining her composure at a great personal cost. My heart ached to draw her closer, and in that moment, I realized I could have loved her more deeply than I ever had before.

Mr. Gilmore was a tremendous help to us. He was in high spirits and kept the conversation lively. Miss Halcombe supported him with determination, and I did my best to follow her lead. When we first sat down at the table, I caught a glimpse of her kind blue eyes, which seemed to silently plead with me: Help my sister—if you help her, you’ll help me too.

Dinner went by, at least on the surface, quite pleasantly. Once the ladies had left the table and Mr. Gilmore and I were alone in the dining room, a new focus emerged that allowed me a moment of much-needed silence. The servant who had been sent to find Anne Catherick and Mrs. Clements returned with his report and was ushered into the dining room immediately.

“Well,” Mr. Gilmore said, “what did you find out?”

“I discovered, sir,” the man replied, “that both women bought tickets here for Carlisle.”

“You went to Carlisle, of course, after hearing that?”

“I did, sir, but I’m sorry to say I couldn’t find any further trace of them.”

“You checked at the railway station?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And at the various inns?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you left the statement I wrote for you at the police station?”

“I did, sir.”

“Well, my friend, you’ve done all you could, and I’ve done all I could. Now, we must wait for further news. We’ve played our best cards, Mr. Hartright,” the old gentleman continued after the servant left. “For now, at least, the women have outsmarted us, and our only option is to wait until Sir Percival Glyde arrives on Monday. Would you like to refill your glass? This is a good bottle of port—solid, old wine. I have better in my own cellar, though.”

We returned to the drawing room—the place where I had spent some of the happiest evenings of my life—the room I would never see again after this night. It looked different now that the days had grown shorter and the weather colder. The glass doors leading to the terrace were closed and covered with thick curtains. Instead of the soft twilight we used to enjoy, the bright glow of the lamps now dazzled my eyes. Everything had changed—inside and out, everything was different.

Miss Halcombe and Mr. Gilmore settled down at the card table, while Mrs. Vesey took her usual chair. They had the freedom to enjoy their evening, which made my own sense of restraint feel even more acute. I noticed Miss Fairlie lingering near the music stand. There had been a time when I would have joined her there. I hesitated, unsure of where to go or what to do next. She glanced at me quickly, then suddenly picked a piece of music from the stand and approached me.

“Shall I play some of those little Mozart melodies you used to like so much?” she asked, opening the music nervously and looking down at it as she spoke.

Before I could respond, she hurried to the piano. The chair I usually occupied sat empty. She struck a few chords, then looked back at me, then returned her gaze to the music.

“Won’t you take your old place?” she asked abruptly, her voice barely above a whisper.

“I can take it on the last night,” I replied.

She didn’t respond; her focus remained on the music—pieces she knew by heart, which she had played countless times before without needing the sheet. I could only tell she was aware of my presence by the way the flush on her cheek faded, leaving her face pale.

“I’m really sorry you’re leaving,” she said, her voice dropping even lower, her eyes fixed intently on the music, her fingers moving over the keys with a strange, feverish energy I had never seen in her before.

“I’ll remember those kind words, Miss Fairlie, long after tomorrow has come and gone.”

Her face grew even paler, and she turned it further away from me.

“Don’t talk about tomorrow,” she said. “Let the music speak to us of tonight, in a happier language than ours.”

Her lips trembled, and a faint sigh escaped, which she tried unsuccessfully to suppress. Her fingers faltered on the piano; she struck a wrong note, got flustered trying to correct it, and angrily dropped her hands into her lap. Miss Halcombe and Mr. Gilmore looked up in surprise from their card game. Even Mrs. Vesey, dozing in her chair, woke at the sudden silence and asked what had happened.

“Do you play whist, Mr. Hartright?” Miss Halcombe asked, her eyes pointedly directed at my seat.

I understood what she meant—I knew she was right. Without hesitation, I stood up and made my way to the card table. As I walked away from the piano, Miss Fairlie turned a page of music and began to play again, her fingers moving with newfound confidence.

“I WILL play it,” she declared, striking the keys with a passion that was almost fierce. “I WILL play it on the last night.”

“Come on, Mrs. Vesey,” Miss Halcombe said, “Mr. Gilmore and I are tired of ecarte. Join us as Mr. Hartright’s partner for whist.”

The old lawyer smiled wryly. He had just won the hand and turned up a king. It was clear he thought Miss Halcombe’s sudden shift in the card game was due to a woman’s inability to handle a losing game.

The rest of the evening passed in silence between us. She remained at the piano while I stayed at the card table. She played continuously, as if the music was her only escape from herself. Sometimes her fingers lingered on the keys, producing a soft, mournful tenderness that was hauntingly beautiful. Other times, her playing faltered or rushed, as if the task had become a burden. Yet, despite the fluctuations in her expression, her determination to play never wavered. She only left the piano when we all stood to say goodnight.

Mrs. Vesey was closest to the door and the first to shake my hand.

“I won’t see you again, Mr. Hartright,” the old lady said. “I’m truly sorry you’re leaving. You’ve been very kind and attentive, and an old woman like me appreciates that. I wish you happiness—I wish you a kind goodbye.”

Mr. Gilmore followed next.

“I hope we’ll have a chance to get to know each other better, Mr. Hartright. You understand that little matter of business is safe in my hands? Yes, yes, of course. Goodness, it’s cold! Don’t let me keep you at the door. Bon voyage, my dear sir—bon voyage, as the French say.”

Miss Halcombe came next.

“Half-past seven tomorrow morning,” she said, then leaned in closer to whisper, “I’ve seen and heard more than you realize. Your behavior tonight has made me your friend for life.”

Miss Fairlie was the last to come forward. I couldn’t bring myself to look at her as I took her hand, especially when I thought about the next morning.

“I must leave very early,” I said. “I’ll be gone, Miss Fairlie, before you—”

“No, no,” she interrupted quickly, “not before I’m out of my room. I’ll come down for breakfast with Marian. I’m not so ungrateful, not so forgetful of the past three months—”

Her voice trailed off, her hand gently closed around mine before she suddenly let it go. Before I could say “Goodnight,” she was gone.

The end was rushing toward me—inevitable, just like the light of the last morning at Limmeridge House.

It was barely half-past seven when I went downstairs, but I found both of them already at the breakfast table, waiting for me. In the chilly air, under the dim light, in the heavy silence of the house, the three of us sat together, trying to eat, trying to talk. The effort to maintain appearances felt hopeless, so I decided to end it.

As I reached out my hand, Miss Halcombe, who was closest, took it. Suddenly, Miss Fairlie turned away and hurried out of the room.

“Better this way,” Miss Halcombe said once the door closed. “Better for both of you.”

I hesitated, struggling to find my voice—it was hard to let her go without a parting word or glance. I composed myself, attempting to say goodbye to Miss Halcombe properly, but all the words I wanted to express shrank down to one question.

“Do I deserve for you to write to me?” was all I could manage.

“You have nobly earned everything I can do for you, as long as we both live. Whatever the outcome, you will know it.”

“And if I can ever be of help again, long after the memory of my mistakes is forgotten…”

I couldn’t finish. My voice trembled, and my eyes threatened to betray me.

She took both my hands in hers, gripping them firmly, her dark eyes shining, her complexion flushed. The strength and energy in her face radiated with the pure light of her generosity and compassion.

“I will trust you—if the time comes, I will trust you as my friend and HER friend, as my brother and HER brother.” She paused, drew me closer—the brave, noble woman—touched my forehead gently with her lips, and called me by my first name. “God bless you, Walter!” she said. “Stay here and collect yourself. It’s better for both of us if I don’t stay—I should see you leave from the balcony upstairs.”

She exited the room. I turned to the window, facing the lonely autumn landscape, needing a moment to gather myself before I too left the room for good.

A minute passed—maybe even less—when I heard the door open quietly again, and the soft sound of a woman’s dress brushing against the carpet as she walked toward me. My heart raced as I turned around. Miss Fairlie was coming toward me from the far end of the room.

She paused, hesitating when our eyes met, and realized we were alone. Then, with that courage women often lose in small moments but rarely in the big ones, she stepped closer to me, looking strangely pale and quiet. One hand trailed along the table beside her, while the other held something at her side, hidden by the folds of her dress.

“I just went into the drawing room,” she said, “to look for this. It might remind you of your time here and the friends you’re leaving behind. You told me I had improved a lot when I did it, and I thought you might like—”

She turned her head away and offered me a small sketch, drawn entirely by her own hand, of the summer house where we had first met. The paper trembled in her hand as she held it out to me—and trembled in mine as I took it from her.

I was too afraid to express what I felt. Instead, I simply replied, “It will never leave me. For my entire life, it will be the treasure I cherish most. I’m very grateful for it—very grateful to you for not letting me leave without saying goodbye.”

“Oh!” she said, her voice innocent, “how could I let you go after we’ve shared so many happy days together?”

“Those days may never come back, Miss Fairlie—our lives are very different paths. But if a time comes when my whole heart and soul can bring you a moment of happiness or spare you a moment of sorrow, will you remember the poor drawing master who taught you? Miss Halcombe has promised to trust me—will you promise too?”

The sadness in her kind blue eyes shimmered through her tears.

“I promise,” she said, her voice breaking. “Oh, don’t look at me like that! I promise with all my heart.”

I stepped a little closer and held out my hand.

“You have many friends who love you, Miss Fairlie. Your bright future is the cherished hope of many. May I say, as we part, that it is also the hope of MY heart?”

Tears streamed down her cheeks. She steadied herself with one trembling hand on the table while giving me the other. I took it in mine and held it tightly. My head bowed over it, my tears fell onto it, and my lips pressed against it—not in love; oh, not in love at that moment, but in the agony and surrender of despair.

“For God’s sake, leave me!” she said faintly.

Her heart’s secret spilled out in those pleading words. I had no right to hear them, no right to respond—they were the words that banished me, in the name of her sacred vulnerability, from the room. It was all over. I released her hand and said nothing more. The blinding tears obscured her from my sight, and I wiped them away to look at her one last time. Just one look as she sank into a chair, her arms falling onto the table, her fair head resting wearily upon them. One final look, and then the door closed behind her—the vast chasm of separation opened between us—the image of Laura Fairlie became a memory of the past.

The End of Hartright’s Narrative.

THE STORY CONTINUED BY VINCENT GILMORE

(of Chancery Lane, Solicitor)