II

von Wilkie Collins

**Limmeridge House**

November 27th. My worst fears have come true. The wedding is set for December 22nd.

The day after we left for Polesdean Lodge, Sir Percival wrote to Mr. Fairlie, explaining that the necessary repairs and renovations at his house in Hampshire would take much longer than he had initially expected. He requested that the proper estimates be submitted to him as soon as possible. It would help him greatly in making arrangements with the workers if he could know the exact date of the wedding. This way, he could plan accordingly and send apologies to friends who had been invited to visit him that winter, knowing they couldn’t come while the house was under construction.

In response, Mr. Fairlie asked Sir Percival to suggest a date for the marriage, pending Miss Fairlie’s approval, which her guardian was more than willing to try to secure. Sir Percival replied promptly, proposing a date in late December—perhaps the 22nd or 24th, or any other day that suited the lady and her guardian. Since Laura wasn’t there to speak for herself, her guardian decided on the earliest date mentioned—the 22nd of December—and wrote to summon us back to Limmeridge.

After explaining these details to me in a private meeting yesterday, Mr. Fairlie suggested, in his most charming manner, that I should initiate the necessary discussions today. I felt that resisting was pointless unless I could first get Laura’s permission to do so. I agreed to talk to her but made it clear that I wouldn’t try to persuade her to agree to Sir Percival’s wishes. Mr. Fairlie complimented me on my “excellent conscience,” much like he might have praised my “excellent health” if we had been out for a walk, and seemed perfectly content to pass yet another family responsibility onto my shoulders.

This morning, I spoke to Laura as I had promised. The calmness—or perhaps the numbness—she had maintained since Sir Percival left us couldn’t withstand the shock of the news I had to share. She turned pale and trembled.

“Not so soon!” she pleaded. “Oh, Marian, not so soon!”

Just a hint from her was enough for me. I stood to leave the room, ready to confront Mr. Fairlie on her behalf.

As my hand reached for the door, she grabbed my dress, stopping me.

“Let me go!” I insisted. “I’m ready to tell your uncle that he and Sir Percival can’t have everything their way.”

She sighed deeply, still holding onto my dress.

“No!” she said softly. “It’s too late, Marian, too late!”

“Not a minute too late,” I shot back. “The timing is OUR decision—and trust me, Laura, I’ll make sure we take full advantage of it.”

I tried to free myself from her grip, but she wrapped her arms around my waist, holding me tighter than ever.

“It will only lead to more trouble and confusion,” she said. “It will put you and my uncle at odds, and bring Sir Percival back with even more complaints—”

“Good!” I exclaimed passionately. “Who cares about his complaints? Are you supposed to break your heart just to keep him happy? No man deserves such sacrifices from us women. Men! They are the enemies of our innocence and peace—they pull us away from our families and friends, claiming us entirely, chaining our lives to theirs like a dog to its kennel. And what do they give us in return? Let me go, Laura—I can’t stand thinking about it!”

Tears—miserable, weak tears of frustration and anger—filled my eyes. She smiled sadly and covered my face with her handkerchief to hide my weakness—the very weakness I despised most.

“Oh, Marian!” she said. “You’re crying! Just think about what you would say to me if our roles were reversed and those tears were mine. All your love and courage won’t change what’s going to happen, sooner or later. Let my uncle have his way. Let’s avoid any more troubles and heartaches that I can prevent with my sacrifice. Promise me you’ll stay with me, Marian, when I’m married—and let’s leave it at that.”

But I said more than that. I fought back the tears that offered me no comfort and only distressed her, trying to reason and plead as calmly as I could. It was useless. She made me repeat the promise to stay with her after she got married, and then suddenly asked a question that shifted my sorrow and sympathy in a new direction.

“While we were at Polesdean,” she said, “you received a letter from Marian—”

Her changed tone, the way she abruptly turned away from me and buried her face against my shoulder, and the hesitation that silenced her before she finished her question all made it painfully clear who she was asking about.

“I thought we agreed never to mention him again,” I said gently.

“You got a letter from him?” she pressed.

“Yes,” I admitted, “if you really want to know.”

“Are you planning to write to him again?”

I hesitated. I had been reluctant to tell her he was no longer in England or how my efforts to support his new ambitions had led to his departure. What could I say? He was gone to a place where no letters could reach him for months, maybe even years.

“What if I do plan to write to him again?” I finally replied. “What then, Laura?”

Her cheek felt hot against my neck, and her arms trembled as they tightened around me.

“Don’t tell him about THE TWENTY-SECOND,” she whispered. “Promise me, Marian—please promise you won’t even mention my name when you write next.”

I gave my promise. No words can express how sorrowfully I made it. She immediately pulled her arm from around me, walked to the window, and stood looking out with her back to me. After a moment, she spoke again, still not turning around, not allowing me to see even a glimpse of her face.

“Are you going to my uncle’s room?” she asked. “Will you tell him I agree to whatever arrangement he thinks is best? Don’t worry about leaving me, Marian. I’ll be better off alone for a little while.”

I stepped out. If I could have sent Mr. Fairlie and Sir Percival Glyde to the farthest corners of the earth with just a flick of my finger, I would have done it without a second thought. For once, my anger was my ally. I would have completely broken down and cried if my tears hadn’t been burned away by my frustration. Instead, I stormed into Mr. Fairlie’s room and called out as harshly as I could, “Laura consents to the twenty-second,” before rushing out again without waiting for a reply. I slammed the door behind me, hoping to rattle Mr. Fairlie’s nerves for the rest of the day.

28th.—This morning, I reread poor Hartright’s farewell letter, a doubt creeping in since yesterday about whether I was wise to hide his departure from Laura.

Upon reflection, I still believe I’m right. The references in his letter to the preparations for the expedition to Central America show that its leaders are aware of the dangers. If this realization makes me uneasy, how would it affect HER? It’s bad enough to feel that his departure has robbed us of the one friend we could rely on in a time of need, but it’s far worse to know he’s gone to face the dangers of a harsh climate, an untamed land, and a restless population. Surely, it would be cruel to tell Laura this without a pressing need to do so.

I even wonder if I should go a step further and burn the letter right away, to prevent it from falling into the wrong hands. It not only mentions Laura in a way that should remain a secret between him and me, but it also reiterates his unsettling suspicion that he’s been secretly watched since leaving Limmeridge. He claims he saw the faces of two strange men following him through the streets of London, watching him among the crowd gathered at Liverpool to see the expedition set sail, and he insists he heard the name Anne Catherick spoken behind him as he got into the boat.

His own words are, “These events have a meaning; they must lead to a result. The mystery of Anne Catherick is NOT resolved yet. She may never cross my path again, but if she crosses yours, make better use of the opportunity, Miss Halcombe, than I did. I speak from strong conviction—I urge you to remember what I say.”

These are his exact words. I won’t forget them—my memory clings to anything Hartright said about Anne Catherick. But there’s danger in keeping the letter. A simple accident could put it in the hands of strangers. I could fall ill—I could die. It’s better to burn it now and relieve myself of one worry.

It’s gone. The ashes of his farewell letter—the last one he might ever write to me—are scattered in a few dark fragments on the hearth. Is this the sad conclusion to such a sorrowful story? Oh, it can’t be the end—surely, surely it’s not over yet!

November 29th.—The preparations for the wedding have begun. The dressmaker has come to take her orders. Laura is completely indifferent, utterly unconcerned about the one thing that usually matters most to a woman. She’s left everything to the dressmaker and to me. If poor Hartright had been the baronet, the man her father wanted her to marry, she would have acted so differently! She would have been anxious and unpredictable, and the best dressmaker would have struggled to keep her satisfied.

November 30th.—We hear from Sir Percival every day. The latest news is that the renovations on his house will take four to six months to finish properly. If painters, wallpaper hangers, and decorators could create happiness as well as beauty, I’d be interested in their work on Laura’s future home. As it stands, the only part of Sir Percival’s last letter that stirs any feeling in me is his mention of the honeymoon. He suggests that, since Laura is delicate and winter is likely to be especially harsh, they should go to Rome and stay in Italy until early summer. If that plan doesn’t suit, he’s ready to spend the season in London, in the best furnished house he can find.

Setting aside my own feelings—which I know I must do—I have no doubt that the first option is the best. Either way, a separation between Laura and me is unavoidable. If they go abroad, it will be a longer separation than if they stay in London. But we must weigh that against the benefit to Laura of spending the winter in a milder climate. More importantly, the excitement of traveling for the first time in her life to the most fascinating country in the world will surely lift her spirits and help her adjust to her new life. She isn’t the type to find solace in the usual distractions of London. Those would only make the burden of this unfortunate marriage heavier for her. I dread the start of her new life more than I can express, but I see some hope for her if she travels—none if she stays at home.

It’s strange to look back at this latest entry in my journal and realize I’m writing about Laura’s marriage and our parting as if it were a settled matter. It feels so cold and unfeeling to be contemplating the future in such a detached way. But what other choice do I have now that the time is drawing so close? In less than a month, she will be HIS Laura instead of mine! HIS Laura! I can hardly grasp what those two words mean—my mind feels almost numbed by it, as if writing about her marriage were akin to writing about her death.

December 1st.—A sad, sad day—a day I can hardly bear to describe in detail. After hesitating last night, I had to talk to her this morning about Sir Percival’s proposal for the honeymoon.

With the belief that I would be with her wherever she went, the poor girl—because she’s still a child in many ways—was almost excited at the thought of seeing the wonders of Florence, Rome, and Naples. It nearly shattered my heart to shatter her illusion and confront her with the harsh truth. I had to tell her that no man tolerates a rival—not even a female rival—in his wife’s affections when he first marries, no matter what he might do later. I had to warn her that my chance of living with her under her own roof depended entirely on not provoking Sir Percival’s jealousy and distrust by standing between them at the start of their marriage, in the role of the keeper of his wife’s closest secrets.

I poured the bitter wisdom of this world into her pure heart and innocent mind, while every nobler feeling within me recoiled from this miserable task. It’s done now. She has learned her hard, unavoidable lesson. The simple illusions of her girlhood are gone, and my hand has stripped them away. Better mine than his—that’s all the consolation I have—better mine than his.

The first proposal was the one that got accepted. They were heading to Italy, and I needed to arrange, with Sir Percival’s permission, to meet them and stay with them when they returned to England. In other words, I was about to ask for a personal favor for the first time in my life, and it was from the one man I least wanted to owe anything significant. But for Laura’s sake, I felt I could do even more than that.

Looking back, I realize I’ve always referred to Sir Percival in negative terms. Given how things have turned out, I must confront my bias against him. I can’t even recall how it started; I certainly didn’t feel this way before.

Is it Laura’s hesitance to marry him that has turned me against him? Have Hartright’s understandable prejudices seeped into my mind without me realizing? Does that letter from Anne Catherick still linger in my thoughts, despite Sir Percival’s explanation and the proof I have that supports it? I can’t make sense of my feelings. The one thing I know for sure is that it’s my duty—especially now—not to wrong Sir Percival by unfairly doubting him. If I’ve developed a habit of writing about him in a negative light, I must break that habit, even if it means putting my journal away until after the wedding. I’m truly disappointed in myself—I won’t write anymore today.

December 16th. Two whole weeks have passed, and I haven’t opened these pages once. I’ve been away long enough to return with a clearer and more positive mindset, at least regarding Sir Percival.

There’s not much to report from the last two weeks. The dresses are nearly finished, and the new travel trunks have arrived from London. Poor Laura hardly leaves my side all day, and last night, when neither of us could sleep, she slipped into my bed to talk. “I’ll lose you so soon, Marian,” she said. “I need to make the most of our time together.”

They’re getting married at Limmeridge Church, and thankfully, none of the neighbors will be invited. The only guest will be our old friend, Mr. Arnold, who is coming from Polesdean to give Laura away since her uncle is too frail to venture out in this harsh weather. If I weren’t determined to focus on the bright side of our situation, the absence of any male relative of Laura’s at such a crucial moment would fill me with gloom and worry about the future. But I’ve decided to leave behind any negativity—that is, I won’t write about it in this journal anymore.

Sir Percival is arriving tomorrow. He offered, if we wanted to adhere to strict etiquette, to write to our clergyman and request to stay at the rectory during his short visit before the wedding. However, neither Mr. Fairlie nor I felt it was necessary to concern ourselves with such trivial formalities. In our wild moorland home, we can afford to be free from the petty conventions that bind others. I wrote to Sir Percival to thank him for his kind offer and asked him to stay in his usual rooms at Limmeridge House.

17th. He arrived today, looking a bit worn and anxious, yet he spoke and laughed as if he were in the best spirits. He brought some truly beautiful jewelry as gifts, which Laura accepted with grace and, at least on the surface, perfect composure. The only hint I see of the struggle she must be facing to maintain appearances is her sudden reluctance to be alone. Instead of retreating to her room as she usually does, she seems to fear going there. When I went upstairs today after lunch to put on my bonnet for a walk, she insisted on joining me. Later, before dinner, she opened the door between our rooms so we could talk while getting ready. “Keep me busy,” she said. “Always keep me with someone. Just don’t let me think—that’s all I ask now, Marian—don’t let me think.”

This unfortunate change in her only seems to draw Sir Percival closer. I can see how he interprets it to his advantage. There’s a feverish flush in her cheeks and a bright sparkle in her eyes that he welcomes as signs of her beauty returning and her spirits lifting. At dinner today, she spoke with a false gaiety and a carelessness that felt shockingly out of character. I found myself wishing I could silence her and take her away. Sir Percival’s delight and surprise were palpable, almost beyond words. The anxiety I had noticed on his face when he arrived had vanished, and he looked, to my eyes, a good ten years younger than his actual age.

There’s no denying it—though some strange stubbornness prevents me from acknowledging it fully—Sir Percival is undeniably handsome. He has regular features, which is a definite advantage. His bright brown eyes are captivating, whether in a man or a woman. Even his baldness, limited to his forehead, is rather appealing, as it adds to the intelligence of his face. He possesses grace and ease in his movements, an endless energy, and a talent for conversation—all of which are undeniable merits. Surely Mr. Gilmore, unaware of Laura’s secret, wasn’t wrong to be surprised that she might regret her engagement. Anyone else in his position would have shared our good friend’s opinion.

If I had to pinpoint any flaws in Sir Percival, I could only mention two. First, his constant restlessness and excitability, which might stem from his unusually energetic character. Second, his short, sharp, and often irritable way of speaking to the servants, which could simply be a bad habit. No, I can’t argue it, and I won’t—Sir Percival is a very handsome and charming man. There, I’ve finally written it down, and I’m relieved it’s over.

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18th.—Feeling weary and down this morning, I left Laura with Mrs. Vesey and went out for one of my brisk midday walks, which I’ve neglected too much lately. I took the dry, airy road over the moor toward Todd’s Corner. After half an hour, I was surprised to see Sir Percival approaching me from the direction of the farm. He was walking quickly, swinging his stick, his head held high, and his shooting jacket flapping in the wind. When we met, he didn’t wait for me to ask any questions—he immediately told me he had been to the farm to check if Mr. or Mrs. Todd had heard anything about Anne Catherick since his last visit to Limmeridge.

“You found out, of course, that they hadn’t heard anything?” I asked.

“Nothing at all,” he replied. “I’m starting to seriously worry that we’ve lost her. Do you happen to know,” he continued, looking me straight in the eye, “if the artist—Mr. Hartright—has any further information?”

“He hasn’t heard or seen her since he left Cumberland,” I answered.

“That’s very sad,” said Sir Percival, sounding disappointed, yet oddly relieved at the same time. “It’s impossible to know what misfortunes may have befallen that poor woman. I’m incredibly frustrated that all my efforts to bring her back to the care and protection she desperately needs have failed.”

This time, he genuinely looked annoyed. I offered a few sympathetic words, and we shifted to other topics as we walked back to the house. Surely my chance encounter with him on the moor revealed another positive aspect of his character? It was remarkably considerate and selfless of him to think of Anne Catherick on the eve of his marriage and to go all the way to Todd’s Corner to inquire about her when he could have spent that time enjoying Laura’s company instead. Given that he must have acted out of pure charity, his behavior, under the circumstances, shows a level of kindness that deserves high praise. Well! I give him that praise—and that’s that.

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19th.—More discoveries in the endless reservoir of Sir Percival’s virtues.

Today, I brought up the idea of staying with his wife when he brings her back to England. I had barely hinted at it when he took my hand warmly and said I had made the very offer he had been eager to make to me. I was the companion he most sincerely wanted for his wife, and he urged me to believe that I had done him a lasting favor by proposing to live with Laura after her marriage, just as I always had before.

After I thanked him on behalf of both Laura and myself for his thoughtful kindness, we shifted our conversation to his wedding trip and began discussing the English society in Rome that Laura would soon be a part of. He mentioned several friends he expected to see abroad this winter. All of them were English, except for one—Count Fosco.

Hearing the Count’s name, and realizing that he and his wife would likely encounter the newlyweds in Europe, cast Laura’s marriage in a surprisingly positive light for the first time. It might even help mend a family rift. Until now, Madame Fosco had chosen to ignore her responsibilities as Laura’s aunt, driven by resentment towards the late Mr. Fairlie over the legacy issue. But now, she couldn’t maintain that stance any longer. Sir Percival and Count Fosco were old friends, and their wives would have no choice but to interact politely.

In her youth, Madame Fosco had been one of the most insufferable women I’d ever met—capricious, demanding, and vain to an absurd degree. If her husband has managed to bring her down to earth, he deserves the gratitude of every family member, starting with me.

I find myself increasingly curious about the Count. He is Sir Percival’s closest friend, and that connection piques my interest. Neither Laura nor I have ever met him. All I know is that years ago, he happened to be on the steps of the Trinita del Monte in Rome, where he helped Sir Percival escape a robbery and potential assassination at a critical moment when he was already wounded in the hand and could have easily been struck in the heart. I also recall that during Mr. Fairlie’s ridiculous objections to his sister’s marriage, the Count wrote him a calm and sensible letter about it, which, I regret to admit, went unanswered. That’s the extent of my knowledge about Sir Percival’s friend. I wonder if he’ll ever come to England? I wonder if I’ll like him?

But I digress into mere speculation. Let me return to the facts. Sir Percival’s response to my bold suggestion of living with his wife was more than kind; it felt almost affectionate. I’m confident that Laura’s husband won’t have any reason to complain about me if I continue as I’ve started. I’ve already called him handsome, charming, and compassionate towards the unfortunate, as well as kind to me. Honestly, I hardly recognize myself in this new role as Sir Percival’s closest friend.

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20th.—I hate Sir Percival! I absolutely deny that he’s good-looking. I find him to be ill-tempered, disagreeable, and completely lacking in kindness and empathy. Last night, the cards for the married couple arrived. Laura opened the package and saw her future name printed for the first time. Sir Percival leaned over her shoulder, casually looking at the new card that had transformed Miss Fairlie into Lady Glyde. He smiled with the most infuriating self-satisfaction and whispered something in her ear. I don’t know what he said—Laura won’t tell me—but I saw her face turn a deadly pale, and I thought she might faint. He didn’t even notice her reaction; he seemed cruelly oblivious to the pain he had caused her. All my old feelings of animosity towards him surged back instantly, and the hours since have done nothing to lessen them. I feel more unreasonable and unjust than ever. In three words—how easily my pen writes them!—I hate him.

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21st.—Have the anxieties of this tense time finally shaken me a bit? For the past few days, I’ve been writing with a lightness that feels so far from my heart, and I’m shocked to see it when I look back at my journal entries.

Maybe I’ve caught the feverish excitement of Laura’s spirits over the last week. If that’s the case, the feeling has already faded, leaving me in a strange state of mind. Since last night, a persistent thought has been nagging at me—that something might still happen to prevent the marriage. What has sparked this odd notion? Is it a result of my worries for Laura’s future? Or has it been unconsciously suggested by the growing restlessness and irritability I’ve noticed in Sir Percival as the wedding day approaches? It’s impossible to say. I know I have this idea—surely the wildest thought a woman could have under these circumstances—but no matter how hard I try, I can’t trace it back to its origin.

This last day has been nothing but chaos and despair. How can I even begin to write about it? Yet, I feel compelled to put pen to paper. Anything is better than drowning in my own dark thoughts.

Kind Mrs. Vesey, who we’ve all neglected lately, unwittingly set the tone for a sorrowful morning. For months, she had been secretly crafting a warm Shetland shawl for her beloved pupil—a truly stunning piece of work for a woman of her age and habits. This morning, she presented the gift, and poor, warm-hearted Laura completely fell apart when the shawl was lovingly draped over her shoulders by her old friend and the guardian of her motherless childhood. I barely had time to calm them both or dry my own tears before Mr. Fairlie summoned me to share his elaborate plans for maintaining his own peace on the wedding day.

“Dear Laura” was to receive his gift—a shabby ring adorned with a lock of her affectionate uncle’s hair instead of a precious stone, inscribed with a cold French phrase about kindred spirits and eternal friendship. “Dear Laura” was to receive this tender token from me immediately, so she could recover from the emotional upheaval before facing Mr. Fairlie. “Dear Laura” was to pay him a little visit that evening, and he insisted she not make a scene. “Dear Laura” was to come again in her wedding dress the next morning, again without causing any drama. “Dear Laura” was to stop by one last time before leaving, but without upsetting him by mentioning when she would be going or shedding any tears—“for the love of everything, dear Marian, that is affectionate, domestic, and charmingly composed, WITHOUT TEARS!” I was so infuriated by this selfish nonsense at such a critical moment that I would have shocked Mr. Fairlie with some of the harshest truths he’d ever heard, if Mr. Arnold hadn’t arrived from Polesdean, pulling me away to new responsibilities downstairs.

The rest of the day is a blur. I don’t think anyone in the house truly grasped how it passed. The jumble of minor events piled on top of each other left everyone bewildered. Dresses were delivered that had been forgotten—trunks were packed and unpacked repeatedly—gifts arrived from friends near and far, from all walks of life. We were all in a needless rush, anxiously anticipating the next day. Sir Percival, in particular, was too restless to stay in one place for more than a few minutes. His short, sharp cough bothered him more than ever. He was in and out of doors all day, and suddenly, he seemed overly curious, questioning even the strangers who came with small errands for the house.

On top of all this, there was the constant thought in both Laura’s and my minds that we would part the next day, along with the unspoken dread that this disastrous marriage might be the one fatal mistake of her life and the one hopeless sorrow of mine. For the first time in all our years of close friendship, we almost avoided looking at each other, and we agreed, without saying a word, to refrain from speaking privately throughout the evening. I can’t dwell on it any longer. Whatever future sorrows await me, I will always remember this twenty-first of December as the most miserable and comfortless day of my life.

I’m writing these lines in the solitude of my room, long after midnight, having just returned from a secret look at Laura in her sweet little white bed—the bed she’s slept in since childhood.

She lay there, unaware that I was watching her—so still, quieter than I had dared to hope, but not asleep. The soft glow of the night-light revealed that her eyes were only half-closed, and the remnants of tears shimmered between her eyelids. My little keepsake—a simple brooch—sat on the table by her bedside, alongside her prayer book and the miniature portrait of her father that she carried everywhere.

I lingered for a moment, peering at her from behind her pillow as she rested beneath me, one arm draped over the white coverlet, so still and breathing so gently that the frill of her nightdress didn’t even stir. I watched her, as I had countless times before, knowing I would never see her like this again. Then, I quietly slipped back to my room.

My own love! With all your beauty and grace, how alone you are! The one man who would give everything to protect you is far away, battling the stormy seas tonight. Who else do you have? No father, no brother—only the helpless woman who writes these sorrowful lines, who keeps vigil over you until morning, consumed by a sorrow she cannot shake, and a doubt she cannot overcome. What a burden is placed in that man’s hands tomorrow! If he ever forgets it—if he ever harms a single hair on her head!

**DECEMBER 22ND.**

Seven o’clock. It’s a wild, unsettled morning. She has just woken up—better and calmer now that the moment has arrived, compared to how she was yesterday.

Ten o’clock. She’s dressed. We’ve kissed, promising each other not to lose hope. I’ve stepped away for a moment into my own room. Amid the chaos of my thoughts, I can’t shake this strange feeling that something might happen to delay the marriage. Is that thought lingering in his mind too? I see him from the window, pacing nervously among the carriages at the door. How foolish of me to think such things! The marriage is a certainty. In less than half an hour, we’ll be on our way to the church.

Eleven o’clock. It’s all done. They are married.

Three o’clock. They’re gone! I’m blinded by tears—I can’t write anymore.

* * * * * * * * * *

[The First Part of the Story ends here.]

**THE SECOND PART**

**THE STORY CONTINUED BY MARIAN HALCOMBE.**