XI

by Wilkie Collins

We walked back to the house in silence, each lost in our own thoughts. Miss Halcombe hurried to her sister’s room, while I retreated to my studio to organize the drawings of Mr. Fairlie that I hadn’t yet mounted or restored. I needed to prepare them for someone else to take care of.

As I worked, thoughts I had been pushing away rushed in, making my situation feel even more unbearable.

She was engaged to be married, and her fiancé was Sir Percival Glyde—a baronet with property in Hampshire.

There were countless baronets in England and many landowners in Hampshire. By all logical standards, I had no reason to connect Sir Percival Glyde to the unsettling inquiries made by the woman in white. Yet, somehow, I did. Was it because he was now linked in my mind to Miss Fairlie, who was in turn connected to Anne Catherick since that night I had noticed their eerie resemblance? Had the events of the morning rattled me so much that I was vulnerable to any delusion my imagination could conjure from mere coincidences? It was impossible to tell. All I knew was that my conversation with Miss Halcombe on our way back from the summer-house had left me feeling very strange.

A sense of foreboding settled over me, as if some hidden danger lurked in the shadows of the future. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was already tied to a series of events that even my impending departure from Cumberland wouldn’t be able to break free from. The uncertainty of whether we truly understood how things would end loomed heavily in my mind.

As painful as it was, the sorrow from the abrupt end of my brief, foolish love felt muted by an even stronger sense of something ominous approaching—something invisible that Time was holding over us all.

I had been working on the drawings for just over half an hour when there was a knock at the door. It swung open at my response, and to my surprise, Miss Halcombe stepped into the room.

She looked angry and agitated. Before I could offer her a chair, she grabbed one and sat down close beside me.

“Mr. Hartright,” she said, “I had hoped we wouldn’t have to discuss anything painful today. But it seems that’s not the case. There’s some underhanded scheme at work to frighten my sister about her upcoming marriage. You saw me send the gardener to the house with a letter addressed to Miss Fairlie, written in an unfamiliar hand?”

“Yes, I did.”

“That letter is anonymous—a vile attempt to tarnish Sir Percival Glyde’s reputation in my sister’s eyes. It has upset her so much that I struggled to calm her down enough to leave her room and come here. I know this is a family matter that I shouldn’t involve you in, and that you might not care about it—”

“I must interrupt, Miss Halcombe. I care deeply about anything that affects Miss Fairlie’s happiness, or yours.”

“I’m glad to hear you say that. You’re the only person I can turn to for advice. Mr. Fairlie, with his poor health and aversion to complications, is not an option. The clergyman is a well-meaning but weak man who knows nothing beyond his routine duties, and our neighbors are the type of comfortable acquaintances who can’t be relied upon in times of trouble. What I need to know is this: should I take immediate steps to find out who wrote the letter, or should I wait and consult Mr. Fairlie’s legal advisor tomorrow? It’s a question of gaining or losing a day, and it might be very important. What do you think, Mr. Hartright? If I hadn’t already confided in you under such delicate circumstances, I might hesitate to do so now. But given everything that’s happened between us, I don’t think it’s wrong to overlook that you’re just a friend I’ve known for three months.”

She handed me the letter. It started abruptly, without any greeting:

“Do you believe in dreams? I hope, for your own sake, that you do. Look at what Scripture says about dreams and their fulfillment (Genesis 40:8, 41:25; Daniel 4:18-25) and heed the warning I send you before it’s too late.

“Last night, I dreamed about you, Miss Fairlie. I dreamed that I was standing inside the communion rails of a church—I on one side of the altar table, and the clergyman, in his surplice and with his prayer book, on the other.”

After a while, a man and a woman walked down the aisle of the church, ready to get married. You were the woman. You looked so beautiful and innocent in your lovely white silk dress and long lace veil that my heart went out to you, and tears filled my eyes.

But these weren’t just ordinary tears, young lady. Instead of falling like the everyday tears we all shed, they transformed into two beams of light that stretched closer and closer to the man standing at the altar with you until they touched his chest. The beams arched like rainbows between us. I followed them and peered deep into his heart.

On the outside, the man you were marrying looked decent enough. He was of average height—not too tall, not too short. He seemed to be in his mid-forties, with a light, energetic demeanor. His face was pale, and he was balding on top, but had dark hair around the sides. He had a clean-shaven chin but let his rich brown beard grow on his cheeks and upper lip. His bright brown eyes were striking, and his straight, delicate nose could have belonged to a woman. His hands were similar. Occasionally, he had a dry, hacking cough, and when he raised his white right hand to his mouth, a red scar from an old wound showed on the back of it. Did I dream of the right man? You know best, Miss Fairlie. You can tell me if I was mistaken. Please, read on and see what I discovered beneath the surface.

As I looked along those beams of light, I saw into his innermost heart. It was as dark as night, and written on it in fiery red letters—the kind that belong to a fallen angel—were the words: “Without pity and without remorse. He has spread misery in the lives of others, and he will bring misery to this woman by his side.” I read that, and then the beams of light shifted, pointing over his shoulder. There, behind him, stood a laughing fiend. The beams shifted again, this time pointing over your shoulder, revealing an angel weeping behind you. Finally, the light shifted one last time, directing itself straight between you and that man. The beams widened, pushing you apart from each other. The clergyman searched for the marriage service in vain; it had vanished from the book, and he closed it in despair. I woke up with tears in my eyes and my heart racing—because I believe in dreams.

Please believe too, Miss Fairlie—I urge you, for your own sake. Joseph and Daniel, along with others in Scripture, believed in dreams. Look into the past of that man with the scar on his hand before you utter the words that will make you his unhappy wife. I give you this warning not for my sake, but for yours. I care about your well-being, and that concern will last as long as I breathe. Your mother’s daughter holds a special place in my heart—your mother was my first, my best, my only friend.

The extraordinary letter ended there, without any signature.

The handwriting offered no clues. It was written on ruled lines in a cramped, conventional style known as “small hand.” It was weak and faint, marred by blots, but otherwise unremarkable.

“That’s not an illiterate letter,” Miss Halcombe said, “but it’s also too disjointed to be from someone educated in the upper classes. The references to the wedding dress and veil, along with other phrases, suggest it was written by a woman. What do you think, Mr. Hartright?”

“I think so too. It seems to me to be the letter of a woman, but one whose mind must be—”

“Deranged?” Miss Halcombe suggested. “That crossed my mind as well.”

I didn’t respond. As I spoke, my gaze fell on the last sentence of the letter: “Your mother’s daughter has a tender place in my heart—for your mother was my first, my best, my only friend.” Those words, combined with my doubts about the writer’s sanity, sparked an idea that I was afraid to voice or even entertain. I began to worry that my own mind was teetering on the edge of imbalance. It felt almost obsessive to trace every strange occurrence and unexpected remark back to the same hidden source and dark influence. I resolved, for the sake of my own courage and sanity, not to make any conclusions that plain facts didn’t support, and to turn my back resolutely on anything that tempted me toward speculation.

“If we have any chance of finding out who wrote this,” I said, handing the letter back to Miss Halcombe, “we should take the opportunity as soon as it presents itself. I think we need to talk to the gardener again about the older woman who gave him the letter, and then continue our inquiries in the village. But first, let me ask something. You mentioned the option of consulting Mr. Fairlie’s lawyer tomorrow. Is there any way we could reach him sooner? Why not today?”

“I can only explain,” Miss Halcombe replied, “by sharing some details about my sister’s engagement that I didn’t think were necessary to mention this morning. One of Sir Percival Glyde’s reasons for coming here on Monday is to set a date for his wedding, which has been left completely undecided until now. He’s eager for it to happen before the year ends.”

“Does Miss Fairlie know about that?” I asked, my curiosity piqued.

“She has no idea, and after what’s happened, I won’t take the responsibility of telling her. Sir Percival has only shared his intentions with Mr. Fairlie, who has told me that he’s ready and willing, as Laura’s guardian, to support them. He’s written to London to their family solicitor, Mr. Gilmore. Unfortunately, Mr. Gilmore is currently away in Glasgow on business, but he has proposed to stop by Limmeridge House on his way back to town. He’ll arrive tomorrow and stay with us for a few days, giving Sir Percival time to make his case. If he’s successful, Mr. Gilmore will return to London with the instructions for my sister’s marriage settlement. Now you understand why I suggest we wait for legal advice until tomorrow. Mr. Gilmore has been a trusted friend of the Fairlie family for generations, and we can rely on him like no one else.”

The mention of the marriage settlement struck me like a blow, filling me with a jealous despair that poisoned my better instincts. I began to think—though it pains me to admit this, I must be honest throughout this terrible story I’m about to tell—I began to entertain a hateful hope regarding the vague accusations against Sir Percival Glyde mentioned in the anonymous letter. What if those wild claims were based on truth? What if we could prove them before the fatal consent was given and the marriage settlement was finalized? I’ve tried to convince myself that my feelings were purely about Miss Fairlie’s well-being, but I’ve never succeeded in fooling myself, and I won’t try to deceive anyone else. My feelings were rooted in reckless, vindictive, hopeless hatred for the man who was to marry her.

“If we’re going to uncover anything,” I said, fueled by this new determination, “we shouldn’t waste another minute. I suggest we question the gardener again and then head to the village right after.”

“I think I can assist you with both,” Miss Halcombe said, rising. “Let’s go, Mr. Hartright, and do our best together.”

I reached for the door to open it for her, but paused suddenly to ask an important question before we left.

“One of the paragraphs in the anonymous letter includes a detailed personal description. Sir Percival Glyde’s name isn’t mentioned, but does that description resemble him at all?”

“It matches perfectly—even down to stating his age as forty-five.”

Forty-five; and she was not yet twenty-one! Men his age married women her age every day, and experience showed those marriages were often the happiest. I knew that, yet even hearing his age, when I compared it to hers, deepened my blind hatred and distrust of him.

“Accurately,” Miss Halcombe continued, “even to the scar on his right hand, which he got years ago while traveling in Italy. There’s no doubt that the writer of the letter knows every detail of his appearance.”

“Even a cough he has is mentioned, if I remember correctly?”

“Yes, and it’s described accurately. He brushes it off himself, but it sometimes worries his friends.”

“I suppose there have never been any whispers about his character?”

“Mr. Hartright! I hope you’re not letting that despicable letter sway your judgment?”

I felt a rush of heat to my cheeks, knowing that it had influenced me.

“I hope not,” I replied, flustered. “Maybe I shouldn’t have asked that.”

“I’m not sorry you asked,” she said, “because it gives me a chance to defend Sir Percival’s reputation. Not a single whisper, Mr. Hartright, has ever reached me or my family about him. He’s successfully fought two contested elections and emerged from those challenges without a scratch. A man who can do that in England has a solid character.”

I opened the door for her in silence and followed her out. She hadn’t convinced me. Even if an angel had descended from heaven to back her up, opening his book for me to see, I still wouldn’t have been swayed.

We found the gardener busy with his usual tasks. No amount of questioning could pry any significant information from the boy’s thick-headedness. The woman who had given him the letter was elderly; she hadn’t said a word to him and had hurried off toward the south. That was all the gardener could tell us.

The village lay to the south of the house, so that was our next destination.