IV (1/2)

von Wilkie Collins

I took an early train and arrived at Limmeridge just in time for dinner. The house felt oppressively empty and dull. I had hoped that Mrs. Vesey would keep me company in the absence of the young ladies, but she was stuck in her room with a cold. The servants were surprised to see me, bustling around in a flurry and making all sorts of annoying mistakes. Even the butler, who should have known better, brought me a bottle of chilled port.

As for Mr. Fairlie’s health, the reports were the same as always. When I sent a message to announce my arrival, I was informed that he would be delighted to see me the next morning, but the sudden news of my visit had left him with palpitations for the rest of the evening. The wind howled mournfully all night, and strange cracking and groaning noises echoed through the empty house. I slept poorly and woke up in a foul mood, ready to face breakfast alone the next morning.

At ten o’clock, I was shown to Mr. Fairlie’s rooms. He was in his usual chair, in his usual state of mind and body. His valet stood before him, holding up a hefty book of etchings that was as long and wide as my office desk. The poor man looked exhausted, grinning weakly, while Mr. Fairlie leisurely flipped through the etchings, using a magnifying glass to reveal their hidden details.

“My dear old friend,” Mr. Fairlie said, leaning back lazily before even looking at me, “are you quite well? How lovely of you to come and see me in my solitude. Dear Gilmore!”

I had expected the valet to be dismissed when I arrived, but that didn’t happen. He remained in front of Mr. Fairlie, trembling under the weight of the etchings, while Mr. Fairlie sat there, idly twirling the magnifying glass between his fingers.

“I need to discuss something very important with you,” I said, “so I hope you’ll excuse me if I suggest we be alone.”

The valet looked at me with gratitude. Mr. Fairlie echoed my last three words, “better be alone,” with an expression of exaggerated surprise.

I wasn’t in the mood for games, and I was determined to make him understand.

“Please allow that man to leave,” I said, pointing to the valet.

Mr. Fairlie raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips in mock surprise.

“Man?” he repeated. “You teasing old Gilmore, what do you mean by calling him a man? He’s nothing of the sort. He might have been a man half an hour ago, before I wanted my etchings, and he may be a man again half an hour from now, when I don’t want them anymore. Right now, he’s just a portfolio stand. Why object, Gilmore, to a portfolio stand?”

“I do object. For the third time, Mr. Fairlie, I insist that we be alone.”

My tone left him no choice but to comply. He glanced at the servant and pointed irritably to a chair beside him.

“Put down the etchings and go away,” he said. “Don’t upset me by losing my place. Have you lost my place? Are you sure you haven’t? And have you put my hand-bell within reach? Yes? Then why on earth don’t you go?”

The valet left. Mr. Fairlie twisted in his chair, polished the magnifying glass with his delicate handkerchief, and indulged in a sidelong look at the open volume of etchings. It was challenging to keep my temper, but I managed.

“I’ve come here at great personal inconvenience,” I said, “to serve the interests of your niece and your family, and I believe I’ve earned the right to your attention in return.”

“Don’t bully me!” Mr. Fairlie exclaimed, sinking back helplessly in his chair and closing his eyes. “Please don’t bully me. I’m not strong enough.”

I was determined not to let him provoke me, especially for Laura Fairlie’s sake.

“My purpose,” I continued, “is to urge you to reconsider your letter and not force me to abandon the rightful claims of your niece and her family. Let me lay out the case for you once more, and for the last time.”

Mr. Fairlie shook his head and sighed dramatically.

“This is cruel of you, Gilmore—very cruel,” he said. “Never mind, go on.”

I carefully laid out all the points, presenting the matter from every angle. He lounged back in his chair the entire time, eyes closed. When I finished, he opened them lazily, took his silver smelling bottle from the table, and sniffed it with a look of mild enjoyment.

“Good Gilmore!” he said between sniffs, “how very kind of you! How you make one feel better about human nature!”

“Just give me a straightforward answer to a simple question, Mr. Fairlie. I’ll say it again: Sir Percival Glyde has no real claim to expect anything more than the income from the money. If your niece has no children, the money itself should be under her control and return to her family. If you stand firm, Sir Percival will have to back down—he has no choice, or he risks being seen as marrying Miss Fairlie purely for her money.”

Mr. Fairlie shook his silver smelling bottle at me playfully.

“Oh, dear old Gilmore, you really do despise rank and family, don’t you? You can’t stand Glyde just because he’s a baronet. What a Radical you are—oh, how very Radical you are!”

A Radical? I could tolerate a lot of provocation, but after holding conservative views my entire life, I couldn’t stand being labeled a Radical. My blood boiled, and I shot up from my chair, speechless with indignation.

“Don’t shake the room!” Mr. Fairlie exclaimed. “For heaven’s sake, don’t shake the room! My dear Gilmore, I meant no offense. My own views are so liberal that I might as well be a Radical myself. Yes, we’re a pair of Radicals. Please don’t be angry. I can’t argue—I don’t have the energy for it. Shall we drop the subject? Yes? Come and look at these lovely etchings. Let me show you the beauty in these lines. Please, be a good Gilmore!”

While he rambled on, I was thankfully regaining my composure. When I spoke again, I was calm enough to treat his impertinence with the silent contempt it deserved.

“You’re completely mistaken, sir,” I said. “I’m not speaking out of any bias against Sir Percival Glyde. I may regret that he has so completely surrendered to his lawyer’s direction that any appeal to him is impossible, but I hold no prejudice against him. What I’ve said would apply equally to any other man in his position, regardless of status. The principle I’m defending is a well-established one. If you were to consult the nearest respectable solicitor, he would tell you the same thing I’m telling you as a friend. He would inform you that it’s against all rules to give the lady’s money entirely to the man she marries. He would refuse, on common legal grounds, to grant the husband any interest in his wife’s death, especially not twenty thousand pounds.”

“Would he really, Gilmore?” Mr. Fairlie asked. “If he said anything so dreadful, I assure you I’d ring for Louis and have him thrown out of the house immediately.”

“You will not provoke me, Mr. Fairlie—for your niece’s sake and her father’s sake, you will not provoke me. You will take full responsibility for this disgraceful settlement before I leave this room.”

“Please don’t!” Mr. Fairlie pleaded. “Think about how precious your time is, Gilmore, and don’t waste it. I would argue with you if I could, but I can’t—I just don’t have the energy. You want to upset me, upset yourself, upset Glyde, and upset Laura—all for the sake of something that’s unlikely to happen. No, dear friend—in the interest of peace and quiet, absolutely not!”

“So, I take it you’re sticking to the decision you expressed in your letter?”

“Yes, please. I’m glad we finally understand each other. Now, sit down again—do!”

I walked straight to the door, and Mr. Fairlie resignedly rang his handbell. Before I left the room, I turned to him one last time.

“Whatever happens in the future, sir,” I said, “remember that I’ve done my duty in warning you. As a loyal friend and servant of your family, I’m telling you, as I leave, that no daughter of mine would marry any man under such a settlement as you’re forcing me to create for Miss Fairlie.”

The door opened behind me, and the valet stood waiting at the threshold.

“Louis,” Mr. Fairlie said, “show Mr. Gilmore out, and then come back and hold up my etchings for me again. Make sure they give you a good lunch downstairs. Please, Gilmore, make my lazy servants give you a good lunch!”

I was too disgusted to respond. I turned on my heel and left him in silence. There was a train to London at two o’clock that afternoon, and I took it.

On Tuesday, I submitted the revised settlement, which effectively disinherited the very people Miss Fairlie had told me she wanted to benefit the most. I had no choice. Another lawyer would have drafted the deed if I had refused to take it on.

My task is complete. My involvement in this family saga ends here, at the point I’ve just reached. Others will take up the pen to recount the strange events that are about to unfold. With a heavy heart, I close this brief account. I reiterate the parting words I spoke at Limmeridge House: No daughter of mine should ever have been married to any man under the conditions I was forced to accept for Laura Fairlie.

**The End of Mr. Gilmore’s Narrative.**

**THE STORY CONTINUED BY MARIAN HALCOMBE**

*(Extracts from her Diary)*

**LIMMERIDGE HOUSE, Nov. 8.**

This morning, Mr. Gilmore left us.

His meeting with Laura clearly troubled and surprised him more than he was willing to admit. As we parted, I sensed a worry in his expression that made me fear she might have accidentally revealed the true reason behind her sadness and my concern. This worry grew after he left, so much so that I declined an invitation to ride with Sir Percival and instead went up to Laura’s room.

I’ve been deeply uncertain about myself in this painful situation ever since I realized how strong Laura’s attachment really was. I should have recognized that the delicacy, restraint, and sense of honor that drew me to poor Hartright were the very qualities that would resonate with Laura’s natural sensitivity and generous spirit. Yet, until she opened up to me, I had no idea how deeply this new feeling had taken root. I once thought time and care might help her move on, but now I fear it will linger and change her for life. This realization has made me second-guess everything else. I hesitate about Sir Percival, despite the clearest evidence. I even hesitate to speak to Laura. This very morning, I stood at her door, unsure whether to ask her the questions I had in mind.

When I entered her room, I found her pacing back and forth, clearly agitated. She looked flushed and energized, and as soon as she saw me, she stepped forward and spoke before I could say anything.

“I wanted to see you,” she said. “Come sit with me on the sofa. Marian! I can’t take this anymore—I have to end it.”

There was too much color in her cheeks, too much intensity in her demeanor, too much determination in her voice. The little book of Hartright’s drawings—the very book that would haunt her thoughts whenever she was alone—was clutched in one of her hands. I gently took it from her and set it aside on a table.

“Tell me calmly, my darling, what you want to do,” I said. “Has Mr. Gilmore been advising you?”

She shook her head. “No, not about what I’m thinking now. He was very kind to me, Marian, and I’m ashamed to admit I upset him by crying. I feel so helpless—I can’t control myself. For my sake and for all of us, I need the courage to end this.”

“Do you mean the courage to ask for your release?” I inquired.

“No,” she replied simply. “Courage, dear, to tell the truth.”

She wrapped her arms around my neck and rested her head on my chest. On the wall opposite us hung the miniature portrait of her father. I leaned down and saw that she was gazing at it while her head rested against me.

“I can never ask for my release from my engagement,” she continued. “No matter how it ends, it will be miserable for me. All I can do, Marian, is avoid adding the memory of having broken my promise and forgotten my father’s dying words to that misery.”

“What do you plan to do, then?” I asked.

“To tell Sir Percival Glyde the truth myself,” she answered, “and let him release me, if he chooses, not because I ask him to, but because he knows everything.”

“What do you mean by ‘everything’? Sir Percival will have enough information (he’s told me so himself) if he knows that the engagement goes against your wishes.”

“How can I tell him that, when the engagement was arranged by my father, with my own consent? I should have kept my promise, not happily, I’m afraid, but still contentedly—” she paused, turned to me, and pressed her cheek against mine—“I would have honored my engagement, Marian, if another love hadn’t taken root in my heart, a love that wasn’t there when I first promised to be Sir Percival’s wife.”

“Laura! You mustn’t lower yourself by confessing this to him.”

“I will lower myself indeed if I gain my release by hiding from him what he has a right to know.”

“Marian, you’re wrong! I can’t deceive anyone—especially not the man my father entrusted me to, and to whom I’ve given my heart.” She leaned in and kissed me softly. “My love,” she murmured, “you care for me so deeply and hold me in such high regard that you forget what you would expect from yourself. It’s better for Sir Percival to doubt my intentions and misinterpret my actions than for me to betray him in thought and then be petty enough to protect my own interests by hiding the truth.”

I pulled her away, stunned. For the first time, we had switched roles—she was resolute, while I hesitated. I gazed into her pale, calm face and the loving eyes that reflected a pure, innocent heart. The doubts and objections that had been forming in my mind shrank and vanished, leaving me silent. In her position, the small, shameful pride that drives so many women to deceit would have been mine, and I would have been deceitful too.

“Please don’t be upset with me, Marian,” she said, misreading my silence.

I responded by pulling her close again, afraid that speaking would lead to tears. My tears don’t come easily; when they do, they arrive with sobs that feel like they’re tearing me apart, alarming everyone around me.

“I’ve thought about this for days, my love,” she continued, twisting my hair restlessly with her fingers, a habit that poor Mrs. Vesey has tried so hard, yet so unsuccessfully, to break her of. “I’ve considered it seriously, and I know I can be brave when my conscience tells me I’m right. Let me talk to him tomorrow—in front of you, Marian. I won’t say anything wrong or anything we should be ashamed of. But oh, it would lift such a weight off my heart to end this miserable secrecy! Just let me feel that I have no deception to answer for, and then, once he’s heard me, he can react however he chooses.”

She sighed and rested her head back against my chest. A heavy sense of foreboding settled in my mind about what the outcome would be, but still unsure of myself, I agreed to her request. She thanked me, and we gradually shifted our conversation to lighter topics.

At dinner, she rejoined us, appearing more relaxed and herself around Sir Percival than I had ever seen. Later that evening, she went to the piano, selecting new music that was flashy and tuneless. Since Hartright left, she hadn’t played the beautiful old melodies of Mozart that he loved. The music book was no longer on the stand; she had taken it away herself to avoid anyone discovering it and asking her to play from it.

I didn’t have a chance to find out if her plans had changed until she wished Sir Percival goodnight. Her words revealed that her intentions remained unchanged. She calmly stated that she wanted to speak with him after breakfast and that he would find her in her sitting room with me. I noticed his face change color at her words, and I felt his hand tremble slightly when it was my turn to shake it. The events of the following morning would determine his future, and he clearly understood that.

As usual, I went through the door connecting our two bedrooms to say goodnight to Laura before she fell asleep. As I leaned down to kiss her, I spotted the little book of Hartright’s drawings half-hidden under her pillow, just where she used to tuck away her favorite toys as a child. I couldn’t bring myself to say anything, so I simply pointed to the book and shook my head. She reached up, cupping my face in her hands and drawing me down until our lips met.

“Leave it there tonight,” she whispered. “Tomorrow might be harsh and could force me to say goodbye to it forever.”

9th.—The first thing that greeted me in the morning wasn’t uplifting—a letter arrived from poor Walter Hartright. It was his response to my letter explaining how Sir Percival cleared himself of the suspicions raised by Anne Catherick’s letter. He wrote tersely and bitterly about Sir Percival’s explanations, only mentioning that he felt he had no right to judge the actions of those above him. This saddened me, but his occasional references to his own struggles troubled me even more. He mentioned that the effort to return to his old life and habits was becoming increasingly difficult. He implored me, if I had any influence, to help him find work that would take him away from England and introduce him to new places and people. A passage at the end of his letter alarmed me, making me even more inclined to fulfill his request.

After mentioning that he hadn’t seen or heard anything from Anne Catherick, he suddenly stopped, hinting in a strange and abrupt way that he had been constantly watched and followed by mysterious men ever since he returned to London. He admitted that he couldn’t point to any specific individuals to prove this bizarre suspicion, but he insisted that the feeling haunted him day and night. This frightened me because it seemed like his obsession with Laura was becoming too much for him to handle. I decided to write to some of my mother’s influential friends in London and push for his case to be taken seriously. A change of scenery and a new focus might just save him during this critical time in his life.

To my relief, Sir Percival sent an apology for missing breakfast. He had taken an early cup of coffee in his room and was still busy writing letters. He promised to visit Miss Fairlie and Miss Halcombe at eleven o’clock, if that time worked for us.

I watched Laura’s face while the message was delivered. She had been unusually quiet and composed when I entered her room that morning, and she maintained that calm throughout breakfast. Even as we sat together on the sofa in her room, waiting for Sir Percival, she held onto her self-control.

“Don’t be afraid of me, Marian,” she said softly. “I might lose my composure with an old friend like Mr. Gilmore or with you, my dear sister, but I won’t lose it with Sir Percival Glyde.”

I looked at her, surprised by her words. Throughout our years of close friendship, this quiet strength in her character had been hidden from me—hidden even from herself until love uncovered it, and suffering brought it to the surface.

As the clock on the mantelpiece struck eleven, Sir Percival knocked at the door and entered. Anxiety and agitation were etched into every line of his face. His persistent dry cough, which usually troubled him, seemed to be bothering him even more today. He sat down across from us at the table, while Laura remained by my side. I studied them both, and he looked the paler of the two.

He exchanged a few trivial words, clearly struggling to maintain his usual ease. But his voice wavered, and the restless unease in his eyes was impossible to hide. He must have sensed this himself, as he abruptly stopped mid-sentence, giving up the effort to conceal his discomfort.

There was a moment of heavy silence before Laura spoke.

“I need to talk to you, Sir Percival,” she said, “about something very important for both of us. My sister is here because her presence gives me strength and confidence. She hasn’t suggested a single word of what I’m about to say—I’m speaking entirely for myself. I hope you’ll understand that before I continue?”

Sir Percival nodded. She had spoken with perfect calm and propriety up to this point. They looked at each other, both seemingly determined to communicate openly.

“I’ve heard from Marian,” she continued, “that I can simply ask for my release from our engagement to receive it from you. It was generous of you, Sir Percival, to send me such a message. I want to acknowledge that I’m grateful for the offer, but I believe it’s only fair to tell you that I’m declining it.”

His attentive expression softened slightly. But I noticed one of his feet quietly tapping against the carpet under the table, revealing his underlying anxiety.

“I haven’t forgotten,” she said, “that you sought my father’s permission before proposing to me. Perhaps you also remember what I said when I agreed to our engagement? I mentioned that my father’s influence and advice played a significant role in my decision to promise you my hand. I trusted my father because he was always the most reliable adviser, the best protector, and a dear friend. He’s gone now—I only have his memory to cherish, but my faith in that beloved memory has never wavered. I believe, as strongly as I ever did, that he knew what was best for me, and that his hopes and wishes should still guide mine.”

Her voice trembled for the first time. Her restless fingers found their way into my lap, gripping one of my hands tightly. After another moment of silence, Sir Percival spoke.

“May I ask,” he said, “if I have ever proven myself unworthy of the trust that has been my greatest honor and joy?”

“I don’t have any complaints about how you’ve treated me,” she replied. “You’ve always shown me kindness and patience. You’ve earned my trust, and more importantly, you’ve earned my father’s trust, which is where mine comes from. You haven’t given me any reason to ask to be released from my promise, even if I had wanted to. I’ve said all this to express how much I owe you. My respect for that obligation, my father’s memory, and my own promise all prevent me from being the one to withdraw from our engagement. If it’s going to end, it must be your decision, Sir Percival—not mine.”

His restless foot stopped abruptly, and he leaned forward, eager, across the table.

“My decision?” he asked. “What reason could I possibly have to break this off?”

I noticed her breath quickening, and I felt her hand grow cold. Despite her earlier reassurances, I began to feel a sense of dread. I was mistaken.

“There’s a reason that’s hard to explain,” she said. “I’ve changed, Sir Percival—a change serious enough to justify you, for your own sake and mine, in ending our engagement.”

His face drained of color, his lips turning pale. He raised the arm resting on the table, turned slightly in his chair, and supported his head with his hand, presenting only his profile to us.

“What change?” he asked, his voice strained, revealing a painful tension.

She sighed deeply and leaned closer to me, resting her shoulder against mine. I could feel her trembling, and I tried to ease her burden by speaking up. She stopped me with a gentle pressure of her hand and turned to Sir Percival again, this time without meeting his gaze.

“I’ve heard—and I believe it—that the deepest and truest affection a woman should have is for her husband. When we got engaged, I had that affection to give, and you had the chance to earn it. Will you forgive me, and spare me, Sir Percival, if I admit that I no longer feel that way?”

Tears welled in her eyes, spilling down her cheeks as she paused, waiting for his response. He remained silent. At the start of her confession, he had moved the hand that was covering his face, hiding his expression from view. I could only see the upper part of his body at the table. Not a single muscle moved. His fingers were buried deep in his hair, possibly conveying hidden anger or grief—it was hard to tell. There was no visible sign of what he was feeling at that moment, a moment that was pivotal for both of them.

I was determined to make him respond, for Laura’s sake.

“Sir Percival!” I interjected sharply, “don’t you have anything to say after all that my sister has shared? More, I believe,” I added, letting my frustration get the better of me, “than any man in your position has a right to hear from her.”

That last impulsive remark gave him an easy way out, and he seized it immediately.

“Excuse me, Miss Halcombe,” he said, still shielding his face with his hand, “but I must remind you that I have claimed no such right.”

The few simple words that could have brought him back to the heart of the matter were on the tip of my tongue when Laura spoke again, stopping me.

“I hope my painful admission hasn’t been in vain,” she continued. “I hope it has earned your full confidence in what I still need to say.”