III

von Wilkie Collins

A week went by after I returned to London, and I didn’t hear a word from Miss Halcombe.

On the eighth day, a letter in her handwriting appeared among the usual pile of correspondence on my desk.

In it, she informed me that Sir Percival Glyde had been officially accepted, and their wedding was set to take place, just as he had wished, before the year ended. Most likely, the ceremony would occur during the last two weeks of December. Miss Fairlie’s twenty-first birthday was in late March, so by this arrangement, she would become Sir Percival’s wife about three months before reaching adulthood.

I shouldn’t have been surprised or upset, yet I found myself both surprised and disheartened. A slight disappointment lingered due to the brevity of Miss Halcombe’s letter, adding to my unease for the day. In just six lines, she announced the upcoming marriage; in three more, she mentioned that Sir Percival had left Cumberland to return to his home in Hampshire. In the final two sentences, she told me that Laura was in desperate need of a change and some cheerful company, and that she had decided to take her sister away for a visit to some old friends in Yorkshire. The letter concluded without any explanation of what had led Miss Fairlie to accept Sir Percival Glyde just a week after I had last seen her.

Later, the reasons behind this sudden decision were fully explained to me. It’s not my place to recount it imperfectly based on hearsay. Miss Halcombe experienced the events firsthand, and when her account follows mine, she will detail everything exactly as it occurred. For now, my responsibility—before I set down my pen and step back from this narrative—is to recount the final event related to Miss Fairlie’s impending marriage in which I was involved: the drafting of the settlement.

To discuss this document clearly, I first need to touch on some details regarding the bride’s financial situation. I’ll aim to keep my explanation straightforward and free from legal jargon. This matter is of utmost importance. I urge anyone reading this to understand that Miss Fairlie’s inheritance is a critical part of her story, and Mr. Gilmore’s experiences in this regard will be essential for grasping the narratives that follow.

Miss Fairlie’s expectations were twofold: she anticipated inheriting real estate when her uncle passed away, and she was set to receive personal property, or money, when she turned twenty-one.

Let’s start with the land.

During the time of Miss Fairlie’s paternal grandfather—whom we’ll refer to as Mr. Fairlie, the elder—the succession to the Limmeridge estate was structured as follows:

Mr. Fairlie, the elder, passed away, leaving behind three sons: Philip, Frederick, and Arthur. As the eldest son, Philip inherited the estate. If he died without a son, the property would go to the second brother, Frederick; and if Frederick also died without a son, it would then pass to the third brother, Arthur.

As fate would have it, Mr. Philip Fairlie died, leaving behind only a daughter, the Laura of this tale. Consequently, the estate legally transferred to the second brother, Frederick, who was unmarried at the time. The third brother, Arthur, had passed away many years before Philip, leaving behind a son and a daughter. Tragically, the son drowned at Oxford when he was eighteen. His death meant that Laura, the daughter of Mr. Philip Fairlie, became the presumptive heiress to the estate, with a strong likelihood of inheriting it upon her uncle Frederick’s death, provided Frederick had no male heirs.

Unless Mr. Frederick Fairlie decided to marry and have children—two things he was extremely unlikely to do—his niece, Laura, would inherit his property upon his death. It’s important to note that she would only have a life interest in it. If she passed away unmarried or without children, the estate would go to her cousin Magdalen, the daughter of Mr. Arthur Fairlie. However, if Laura married with a proper settlement—specifically, the settlement I intended to arrange for her—she would have full control over the estate’s income, which amounted to a solid three thousand a year, for as long as she lived. Should she die before her husband, he would naturally expect to continue enjoying that income for the rest of his life. If Laura had a son, he would inherit the estate, leaving Magdalen out of the picture. Therefore, Sir Percival’s prospects in marrying Miss Fairlie promised him two significant advantages upon Mr. Frederick Fairlie’s death: first, access to three thousand a year (with his wife’s consent while she was alive, and in his own right if he outlived her); and second, the inheritance of Limmeridge for his son, should he have one.

That covered the property and how the income would be managed if Miss Fairlie married. Up to this point, there was little chance of disagreement between Sir Percival’s lawyer and me regarding her settlement.

Next, we needed to discuss the personal estate, or in simpler terms, the money that Miss Fairlie would be entitled to when she turned twenty-one.

This part of her inheritance was a nice little fortune, coming from her father’s will, totaling twenty thousand pounds. Additionally, she had a life interest in another ten thousand pounds, which would go to her aunt Eleanor, her father’s only sister, upon her death. To clarify the family situation for the reader, it’s worth pausing here to explain why the aunt had to wait for her legacy until after Laura’s passing.

Mr. Philip Fairlie had always maintained a good relationship with his sister Eleanor while she was single. However, when she married later in life to an Italian gentleman named Fosco—who held the title of Count—Mr. Fairlie disapproved so strongly that he cut off all communication with her and even removed her name from his will. The rest of the family found his reaction to her marriage to be somewhat unreasonable. Count Fosco, while not wealthy, was certainly not a penniless adventurer; he had a modest but adequate income and had lived in England for many years, holding a respectable position in society. Yet, none of this mattered to Mr. Fairlie. Stubbornly rooted in his old-school English views, he harbored a deep-seated dislike for foreigners, purely because they were foreign.

In later years, mainly due to Miss Fairlie’s pleas, he reluctantly restored his sister’s name to his will but decided to keep her waiting for her legacy. He arranged for the income from the money to go to his daughter for her lifetime, with the principal amount going to Magdalen if Eleanor passed away before Laura. Given the ages of the two women, the aunt’s chances of receiving the ten thousand pounds were slim at best. Madame Fosco resented her brother’s treatment as unjust, as is often the case, and refused to see her niece, convinced that Laura had never truly interceded on her behalf.

That was the backstory of the ten thousand pounds. Again, there would be no complications with Sir Percival’s lawyer; the income would be at the wife’s disposal, and the principal would go to her aunt or cousin upon her death.

Now that all preliminary explanations were out of the way, we could finally address the main issue—the twenty thousand pounds.

This amount would belong entirely to Miss Fairlie when she turned twenty-one, and how it would be handled depended primarily on the terms I could negotiate for her marriage settlement. The other clauses in that document were mostly formalities and didn’t need to be detailed here. However, the clause concerning the money was crucial and warranted attention. A few lines will suffice to summarize its importance.

My terms regarding the twenty thousand pounds were straightforward: the entire amount was to be arranged so that the income would support the lady for her lifetime. After her, it would go to Sir Percival for his lifetime, and finally, the principal would be passed on to the children of the marriage. If there were no children, the principal would be distributed according to the lady’s wishes in her will, which I ensured she had the right to create.

To summarize these conditions: if Lady Glyde passed away without children, her half-sister, Miss Halcombe, and any other relatives or friends she wanted to support would share whatever portion of her money she wished them to have after her husband’s death. However, if she did leave children, their claim would take precedence over all others. This clause, I believe, offered fair treatment to everyone involved.

Now, let’s see how Sir Percival responded to my proposal.

When Miss Halcombe’s letter arrived, I was busier than usual, but I made time to finalize the settlement. I drafted it and sent it to Sir Percival’s lawyer for approval within a week of Miss Halcombe informing me about the upcoming marriage.

Two days later, I received the document back, marked with notes and comments from the baronet’s lawyer. Most of his objections were minor and technical, but then he reached the clause about the twenty thousand pounds. He had drawn double lines in red ink beneath it and added a note:

“Not acceptable. The PRINCIPAL to go to Sir Percival Glyde, should he outlive Lady Glyde and there be no issue.”

In other words, not a single penny of the twenty thousand pounds would go to Miss Halcombe or any other relative or friend of Lady Glyde’s. If she had no children, the entire sum would go directly to her husband.

I responded to this outrageous proposal as succinctly as possible: “Dear Sir, regarding Miss Fairlie’s settlement, I stand by the clause you object to, exactly as it is. Yours truly.” A reply came back within fifteen minutes: “Dear Sir, regarding Miss Fairlie’s settlement, I stand by the red ink you object to, exactly as it is. Yours truly.” In the frustrating jargon of the day, we had reached a “deadlock,” and the only option left was to consult our clients.

As it stood, my client—Miss Fairlie, who had not yet turned twenty-one—was under the guardianship of Mr. Frederick Fairlie. I wrote to him that same day, laying out the situation clearly. I urged him to support the clause as I had drafted it, emphasizing the selfish motives behind the opposition to the twenty thousand pounds settlement. My understanding of Sir Percival’s financial situation, gained from reviewing the terms of his side of the deed, made it clear that his debts were staggering, and his income, though it appeared substantial, was practically negligible for someone in his position. Sir Percival’s desperate need for cash was evident, and the lawyer’s note on the settlement clause was simply a reflection of that greed.

Mr. Fairlie’s response arrived promptly, but it was meandering and completely off-topic. In plain English, it boiled down to this: “Would dear Gilmore please not trouble his friend and client over such a minor issue as a distant possibility? Was it likely that a twenty-one-year-old woman would die before a forty-five-year-old man, and without children? On the other hand, in such a miserable world, could one truly overestimate the value of peace and quiet? If those two heavenly blessings could be exchanged for the earthly trifle of a remote chance at twenty thousand pounds, wasn’t that a fair trade? Surely, yes. So why not go for it?”

I tossed the letter aside in frustration. Just as it fluttered to the floor, there was a knock at my door, and Sir Percival’s solicitor, Mr. Merriman, was ushered in. There are many types of cunning professionals in this world, but the hardest to deal with are those who mask their shrewdness with a facade of relentless good humor. A well-fed, smiling, friendly businessman is often the most difficult to negotiate with. Mr. Merriman belonged to this category.

“How’s Mr. Gilmore doing?” he started, radiating warmth from his own friendliness. “It’s great to see you looking so well. I happened to pass by your place and thought I’d drop in to see if you had anything to discuss. Let’s try to resolve this little disagreement of ours face-to-face, shall we? Have you heard from your client yet?”

“Yes. Have you heard from yours?”

“Oh, my dear sir! I wish I had heard something useful—I truly wish the responsibility wasn’t weighing on me anymore. But he’s stubborn—or perhaps I should say, determined—and he won’t let it go. ‘Merriman, I’ll leave the details to you. Do what you think is best for my interests, and consider me out of the business until it’s all settled.’ Those were Sir Percival’s words two weeks ago, and all I can get him to do now is repeat them. I’m not a hard man, Mr. Gilmore, as you know. Honestly, I’d love to wipe that note of mine clean right now. But if Sir Percival refuses to engage with the matter, if he insists on leaving all his interests in my hands, what choice do I have but to protect them? My hands are tied—don’t you see, my dear sir?—my hands are tied.”

“So you’re sticking to your note as it is?” I asked.

“Yes—damn it! I have no other option.” He walked over to the fireplace, warming himself while humming a few bars of a tune in a rich, jovial bass. “What’s your side saying?” he continued. “Please, tell me—what’s your side saying?”

I felt embarrassed to share. I tried to stall—no, I did worse. My legal instincts kicked in, and I even attempted to negotiate.

“Twenty thousand pounds is quite a hefty amount for the lady’s friends to part with on such short notice,” I said.

“Very true,” Mr. Merriman replied, glancing down thoughtfully at his shoes. “Well put, sir—most well put!”

“A compromise that acknowledges both the lady’s family and the husband’s interests might not scare my client quite so much,” I pressed on. “Come on! This situation boils down to a negotiation after all. What’s the least you would accept?”

“The least we will take,” Mr. Merriman said, “is nineteen thousand nine hundred ninety-nine pounds, nineteen shillings, and eleven pence three farthings. Ha! Ha! Ha! Forgive me, Mr. Gilmore. I couldn’t resist a little joke.”

“Little enough,” I replied. “The joke is worth just the odd farthing it was made for.”

Mr. Merriman was delighted. He laughed at my retort until the room echoed with his amusement. I wasn’t feeling nearly as cheerful; I returned to business and wrapped up our meeting.

“It’s Friday,” I said. “Let’s have until Tuesday for our final answer.”

“Of course,” Mr. Merriman replied. “Take longer if you need to, my dear sir.” He picked up his hat to leave but paused to address me again. “By the way,” he said, “your clients in Cumberland haven’t heard anything more about the woman who wrote that anonymous letter, have they?”

“Nothing new,” I answered. “Have you found any trace of her?”

“Not yet,” my legal friend said. “But we’re not giving up. Sir Percival suspects that someone is hiding her, and we’re keeping an eye on that someone.”

“You mean the old woman who was with her in Cumberland?” I asked.

“Quite a different person, sir,” Mr. Merriman replied. “We haven’t managed to track down the old woman yet. Our suspect is a man. We’ve got him closely monitored here in London, and we strongly suspect he helped her escape from the Asylum in the first place. Sir Percival wanted to question him immediately, but I said, ‘No. Questioning him will only alert him—let’s watch and wait.’ We’ll see what unfolds. A dangerous woman is on the loose, Mr. Gilmore; no one knows what she might do next. I wish you a good morning, sir. I look forward to hearing from you on Tuesday.” He smiled warmly and left.

I had been somewhat distracted during the latter part of my conversation with my legal friend. I was so preoccupied with the settlement that I couldn’t focus on anything else. Once I was alone again, I began to contemplate what my next steps should be.

If it had been any other client, I would have followed my instructions, no matter how distasteful they were to me, and I would have let go of the issue regarding the twenty thousand pounds immediately. But with Miss Fairlie, I couldn’t act with that kind of business-like indifference. I genuinely cared for her and admired her. I remembered with gratitude how her father had been the kindest patron and friend I had ever known. As I worked on the settlement, I felt a paternal affection for her, as if she were my own daughter. I was determined to make any personal sacrifice necessary to protect her interests.

Writing to Mr. Fairlie again was out of the question; it would only give him another chance to evade my grasp. Instead, I thought it might be more effective to confront him in person. The next day was Saturday, and I decided to buy a return ticket and make the long journey down to Cumberland, hoping to persuade him to take the just, independent, and honorable path. It was a slim chance, but I knew that if I tried, my conscience would be clear. I would have done everything I could to support my old friend’s only child.

Saturday dawned bright and beautiful, with a gentle west wind and sunshine. Recently, I had been feeling that familiar heaviness in my head that my doctor had warned me about over two years ago, so I decided to take advantage of the lovely weather and get some extra exercise. I sent my bag ahead and walked to the train station at Euston Square.

As I stepped out into Holborn, a man walking briskly by suddenly stopped and spoke to me. It was Mr. Walter Hartright.

If he hadn’t been the one to greet me, I might have walked right past him. He looked so different that I hardly recognized him. His face was pale and drawn, his manner was hurried and uncertain, and his clothes, which I remembered as neat and respectable from our last meeting at Limmeridge, now looked disheveled—so much so that I would have been embarrassed to see one of my clerks dressed that way.

“Have you been back from Cumberland long?” he asked. “I heard from Miss Halcombe recently. I understand that Sir Percival Glyde’s explanation has been deemed satisfactory. Will the marriage happen soon? Do you know anything about it, Mr. Gilmore?”

He spoke so quickly and jumbled his questions together in such a confusing way that I struggled to keep up. Despite his past closeness with the family at Limmeridge, I didn’t think he had any right to expect information about their private matters, so I decided to steer the conversation away from Miss Fairlie’s marriage.

“Time will tell, Mr. Hartright,” I replied. “I’m sure if we keep an eye on the papers, we won’t be far off. But I must say, I’m sorry to see you looking less well than when we last met.”

For a brief moment, a nervous twitch crossed his lips and eyes, making me feel a pang of guilt for my guarded response.

“I shouldn’t have asked about her marriage,” he said bitterly. “I’ll have to wait to read about it in the newspapers like everyone else. Yes,” he continued before I could apologize, “I haven’t been well lately. I’m going abroad to try a change of scenery and work. Miss Halcombe has kindly helped me with her influence, and my references have been found satisfactory. It’s a long way off, but I don’t care where I go, what the climate is like, or how long I’ll be away.” He glanced around at the crowd of strangers passing by, looking suspicious, as if he thought someone might be watching us.

“I wish you well and hope you return safely,” I said, trying to keep the conversation open about the Fairlies. “I’m heading to Limmeridge today on business. Miss Halcombe and Miss Fairlie are currently visiting friends in Yorkshire.”

His eyes lit up, and he seemed about to say something, but then that same nervous spasm crossed his face again. He took my hand, squeezed it tightly, and vanished into the crowd without another word. Though he was practically a stranger to me, I found myself watching him go with a sense of regret. I had enough experience with young men in my profession to recognize the signs that someone was starting to go off course, and as I resumed my walk to the train station, I couldn’t shake the feeling of doubt about Mr. Hartright’s future.