I

von Wilkie Collins

I’m writing this at the request of my friend, Walter Hartright. I want to share some events that significantly impacted Miss Fairlie’s life, which occurred after Mr. Hartright left Limmeridge House.

I won’t weigh in on whether I think it’s right to reveal this remarkable family story, which is a crucial part of my narrative. Mr. Hartright has taken on that responsibility, and the circumstances I’m about to describe will show that he has more than earned the right to do so if he chooses. His approach to telling this story, in the most honest and vivid way possible, requires that it be recounted by those directly involved at each stage of the unfolding events. That’s why I’m here to narrate; I was present during Sir Percival Glyde’s time in Cumberland and played a significant role in one important outcome of his brief stay at Mr. Fairlie’s home. It’s my duty to add these new details to the ongoing story and to pick up where Mr. Hartright has temporarily left off.

I arrived at Limmeridge House on Friday, November 2nd.

My purpose was to stay with Mr. Fairlie until Sir Percival Glyde arrived. If that led to setting a date for Sir Percival’s marriage to Miss Fairlie, I was to take the necessary instructions back to London and work on drafting the marriage settlement.

On Friday, I didn’t get a chance to meet with Mr. Fairlie. He had been, or thought he had been, unwell for years, and he wasn’t well enough to see me. The first family member I encountered was Miss Halcombe. She greeted me at the door and introduced me to Mr. Hartright, who had been staying at Limmeridge for a while.

I didn’t meet Miss Fairlie until later that day, at dinner. She didn’t look well, and I felt a pang of concern. She’s a sweet, lovable girl, as kind and attentive to everyone around her as her wonderful mother used to be—though, in looks, she takes after her father. Mrs. Fairlie had dark eyes and hair, and her elder daughter, Miss Halcombe, strongly resembles her. That evening, Miss Fairlie played for us, but I thought she didn’t perform as well as usual. We played a game of whist, which felt like a mere shadow of the noble game it should have been. I had been favorably impressed by Mr. Hartright when we first met, but I soon realized he wasn’t free from the social shortcomings typical of his generation. There are three things that young men today struggle with: they can’t linger over wine, they can’t play whist, and they can’t pay a lady a compliment. Mr. Hartright was no exception. Still, even in those early days and with our brief acquaintance, he struck me as a modest and gentlemanly young man.

So, Friday passed. I won’t delve into the more serious matters that occupied my thoughts that day—the anonymous letter to Miss Fairlie, the steps I felt were necessary when it was brought to my attention, and my belief that Sir Percival Glyde would provide a full explanation of the circumstances, all of which I understand have been thoroughly covered in the preceding narrative.

On Saturday, Mr. Hartright had already left by the time I came down for breakfast. Miss Fairlie stayed in her room all day, and Miss Halcombe seemed to be in low spirits. The house felt different from what it used to be during the time of Mr. and Mrs. Philip Fairlie. I took a walk by myself in the morning, revisiting some of the places I had first seen when I stayed at Limmeridge to handle family matters over thirty years ago. They weren’t the same either.

At two o’clock, Mr. Fairlie sent word that he was well enough to see me. He hadn’t changed at all since the first time I met him. His conversation was just as self-centered as ever, filled with talk of his health issues, his impressive collection of coins, and his unmatched Rembrandt etchings. Whenever I tried to steer the conversation toward the reason I was there, he would close his eyes and say I was “upsetting” him. I kept pushing the topic, determined to get some clarity.

All I managed to gather was that he viewed his niece’s marriage as a done deal. Her father had approved it, and Mr. Fairlie himself was on board, considering it a good match. He said he would be personally relieved when all the fuss was over. As for the financial arrangements, he suggested I speak with his niece first, then dig into my own understanding of the family matters, prepare everything, and limit his involvement as guardian to simply saying yes at the right moment. He assured me he would be more than happy to accommodate my plans. Yet there he was, a helpless man confined to his room. Did he look like he wanted to be bothered? Not at all. So why should I tease him?

I might have been surprised by Mr. Fairlie’s complete lack of assertiveness as a guardian if I hadn’t known enough about the family to remember that he was a single man with only a life interest in the Limmeridge estate. Given that, I wasn’t shocked or disappointed by how our meeting went. Mr. Fairlie had simply confirmed my expectations, and that was that.

Sunday was a dreary day, both outside and in. I received a letter from Sir Percival Glyde’s lawyer, acknowledging the receipt of my copy of the anonymous letter along with my statement. In the afternoon, Miss Fairlie joined us, looking pale and withdrawn, completely unlike her usual self. I tried to engage her in conversation and made a subtle reference to Sir Percival. She listened but didn’t respond. She was willing to discuss other topics, but this one she let fall away. I started to wonder if she was having second thoughts about her engagement—something young women often do when it’s too late.

On Monday, Sir Percival Glyde arrived.

I found him to be quite charming, at least in terms of his manners and appearance. He looked a bit older than I had anticipated, with a bald patch on his forehead and a face that showed signs of wear, but his movements were lively, and his spirits were high, like a young man’s. His greeting with Miss Halcombe was warm and genuine, and when I was introduced, he was so easygoing and pleasant that we hit it off like old friends. Miss Fairlie wasn’t in the room when he arrived, but she came in about ten minutes later. Sir Percival stood and greeted her with perfect grace. His concern for the noticeable decline in her appearance was evident, expressed with a blend of tenderness and respect, and his tone and manner reflected both his good breeding and common sense.

I was surprised to see that Miss Fairlie remained tense and uneasy around him, taking the first chance to leave the room again. Sir Percival didn’t seem to notice her discomfort or her abrupt exit. He hadn’t forced his attention on her while she was there, and he didn’t mention her departure to Miss Halcombe or me. His tact and judgment were impeccable throughout my time at Limmeridge House.

Once Miss Fairlie had left, he eased the tension by bringing up the anonymous letter himself. He had stopped in London on his way from Hampshire, met with his solicitor, reviewed the documents I had sent, and traveled to Cumberland eager to provide us with a prompt and thorough explanation. When he expressed this, I offered him the original letter, which I had kept for him to see. He thanked me but declined to look at it, saying he had already seen the copy and was happy to leave the original with us.

The explanation he provided was straightforward and satisfying, just as I had expected it to be.

Mrs. Catherick had once done Sir Percival a great service, and he felt a deep sense of obligation toward her. She had faced her share of misfortunes: a husband who abandoned her and a daughter whose mental health had been fragile from a young age. Even though her marriage had taken her far from the Hampshire area where Sir Percival owned property, he had kept track of her. His admiration for her resilience in the face of such hardships only deepened his sense of loyalty to her.

As time passed, the symptoms of her daughter’s mental illness worsened, making it essential for her to receive proper medical care. Mrs. Catherick understood this necessity but was also burdened by the stigma attached to admitting her child as a pauper into a public asylum. Sir Percival respected her feelings and, out of gratitude for her past loyalty, decided to cover the costs of her daughter’s care in a reputable private asylum.

Unfortunately, the young woman learned about Sir Percival’s involvement in her situation and developed a deep-seated hatred and distrust towards him. This animosity, which manifested in various ways during her time in the asylum, was evident in the anonymous letter she sent after her escape. If Miss Halcombe or Mr. Gilmore needed further details about the asylum—such as its address or the names of the doctors who had admitted the patient—Sir Percival was more than willing to provide that information. He had already instructed his solicitor to spare no effort in finding the young woman and ensuring she received the medical attention she needed. Now, he was focused on fulfilling his obligations to Miss Fairlie and her family in a straightforward manner.

I was the first to respond to his appeal. I knew exactly what I needed to do. The beauty of the law lies in its ability to challenge any human statement, regardless of the circumstances. If I had felt it necessary to build a case against Sir Percival based on his explanation, I could have done so without question. But that wasn’t my role; I was there to assess the explanation we had just heard, to weigh the reputation of the man presenting it, and to determine whether the evidence leaned in his favor or against him. In my view, it clearly supported him, and I stated that his explanation was, without a doubt, satisfactory.

Miss Halcombe looked at me intently and echoed my thoughts, though there was a hint of hesitation in her voice that seemed unwarranted given the situation. I couldn’t say for certain if Sir Percival noticed her uncertainty, but I suspected he did, as he chose to continue the conversation rather than let it drop.

“If my straightforward account had been directed only to Mr. Gilmore,” he said, “I would consider any further discussion unnecessary. I trust that Mr. Gilmore, as a gentleman, will take me at my word, and once he does, our conversation on this matter should end. However, my relationship with a lady is different. I owe you—what I wouldn’t concede to any man—a PROOF of the truth of my statement. You cannot ask for that proof, Miss Halcombe, so it’s my duty to offer it to you and, even more so, to Miss Fairlie. I kindly ask that you write to Mrs. Catherick, the mother of this unfortunate woman, to request her testimony supporting my explanation.”

I noticed Miss Halcombe’s face change, a flicker of unease crossing her features. Sir Percival’s suggestion, though politely phrased, seemed to subtly address the hesitation she had shown moments before.

“I hope, Sir Percival, you don’t think for a moment that I distrust you,” she replied quickly.

“Absolutely not, Miss Halcombe. I’m making this proposal solely out of respect for you. Will you forgive my stubbornness if I insist on bringing it up again?”

As he spoke, he moved to the writing desk, pulled out a chair, and opened a paper case.

“Please, I ask you to write the note as a favor to me. It won’t take more than a few minutes. You just need to ask Mrs. Catherick two questions. First, did she place her daughter in the asylum with her knowledge and consent? Second, did my involvement in this situation warrant her gratitude towards me? Mr. Gilmore is at peace with this unpleasant matter, and you are at peace—please help me find peace as well by writing the note.”

“You’re forcing me to agree to your request, Sir Percival, when I would much prefer to refuse.”

With that, Miss Halcombe stood up and approached the writing desk. Sir Percival thanked her, handed her a pen, and then stepped away toward the fireplace. Miss Fairlie’s little Italian greyhound was curled up on the rug. He reached out his hand and called to the dog with a friendly tone.

“Come here, Nina,” he said, “we remember each other, don’t we?”

The little creature, timid and irritable as many pet dogs are, glanced at him sharply, flinched from his outstretched hand, whined, trembled, and scurried under the sofa. It seemed unlikely that he would be bothered by such a minor incident as a dog’s reaction, yet I noticed he turned abruptly toward the window. Perhaps his temper is easily ruffled at times. If that’s the case, I can relate. My temper can be quite short too.

Miss Halcombe didn’t take long to write the note. Once she finished, she rose from the desk and handed the open sheet of paper to Sir Percival. He bowed, took it from her, folded it immediately without glancing at the contents, sealed it, wrote the address, and silently returned it to her. I had never seen anything done with such grace and poise.

“Do you insist that I post this letter, Sir Percival?” Miss Halcombe asked.

“I would be grateful if you would,” he replied. “And now that it’s written and sealed, may I ask a couple more questions about the unfortunate woman it concerns? I’ve read the letter Mr. Gilmore kindly sent to my solicitor, explaining how the anonymous letter writer was identified. However, there are some details that weren’t covered. Did Anne Catherick see Miss Fairlie?”

“Absolutely not,” Miss Halcombe replied.

“Did she see you?”

“No.”

“So she didn’t see anyone from the house, except for a certain Mr. Hartright, who happened to encounter her in the churchyard?”

“No one else.”

“Mr. Hartright was employed at Limmeridge as a drawing master, correct? Is he a member of one of the Water-Colour Societies?”

“I believe he is,” Miss Halcombe answered.

He paused for a moment, as if considering her last response, then added, “Did you find out where Anne Catherick was living while she was in this area?”

“Yes. At a farm on the moor called Todd’s Corner.”

“It’s our duty to trace the poor woman,” Sir Percival continued. “She may have said something at Todd’s Corner that could help us find her. I’ll go there and make inquiries on the off chance. In the meantime, since I can’t bring myself to discuss this painful subject with Miss Fairlie, may I ask you, Miss Halcombe, to kindly explain it to her, deferring of course until you receive a reply to that note?”

Miss Halcombe agreed to his request. He thanked her, nodded pleasantly, and left us to settle into his own room. As he opened the door, the irritable greyhound poked her sharp nose out from under the sofa, barking and snapping at him.

“Well done, Miss Halcombe,” I said as soon as we were alone. “What a stressful day has already come to a close.”

“Yes,” she replied. “No doubt. I’m very glad your mind is at ease.”

“My mind! Surely, with that note in your hand, your mind is at ease too?”

“Oh yes—how could it be otherwise?” she continued, speaking more to herself than to me. “I know it’s impossible, but I almost wish Walter Hartright had stayed long enough to witness the explanation and to hear the proposal for me to write this note.”

I was a bit surprised—perhaps even a little annoyed—by her last words.

“It’s true that events connected Mr. Hartright quite remarkably to the letter,” I said. “And I readily admit that he handled himself with great delicacy and discretion. But I’m at a loss to understand how his presence could have influenced the impact of Sir Percival’s statement on your mind or mine.”

“It was just a passing thought,” she said absently. “There’s no need to discuss it, Mr. Gilmore. Your experience is the best guide I could ask for.”

I wasn’t entirely comfortable with her putting all the responsibility so clearly on my shoulders. If Mr. Fairlie had done it, I wouldn’t have been surprised. But resolute, clear-minded Miss Halcombe was the last person I expected to see shying away from expressing her own opinion.

“If you still have any doubts,” I said, “why not share them with me now? Be honest—do you have any reason to distrust Sir Percival Glyde?”

“None at all.”

“Do you find anything improbable or contradictory in his explanation?”

“How can I say that when he has provided proof of its truth? What better testimony could there be in his favor than the word of the woman’s mother?”

“None better. If the response to your inquiry is satisfactory, I honestly can’t see what more any friend of Sir Percival’s could expect from him.”

“Then let’s send the note,” she said, standing up to leave the room, “and we’ll put this topic aside until we get a response. Don’t read too much into my hesitation. I can’t explain it better than to say I’ve been overly worried about Laura lately—and anxiety, Mr. Gilmore, can unsettle even the strongest among us.”

She left abruptly, her usually steady voice wavering as she spoke those last words. A sensitive, passionate nature—a woman of a rare kind in these trivial, superficial times. I had known her since she was a child and had seen her tested through various family crises. My long experience made me attach a significance to her hesitation that I wouldn’t have felt with another woman. I couldn’t see any reason for her unease or doubt, yet she had managed to make me feel a little uneasy and a little doubtful myself. In my youth, I would have fretted over my own unreasonable feelings. Now, with age, I understood better and decided to take a walk to clear my mind.