XIII

by Wilkie Collins

The open space of the churchyard forced me to be careful about where I chose to hide.

The main entrance to the church was on the side closest to the burial ground, and the door was sheltered by a porch that was walled in on both sides. After a moment of hesitation, driven by a natural reluctance to conceal myself—despite how necessary that concealment was for my purpose—I decided to step into the porch. Each side wall had a small window. Through one of these, I could see Mrs. Fairlie’s grave. The other window faced the stone quarry where the sexton’s cottage stood.

In front of me, directly across from the porch entrance, lay a bare patch of burial ground, a low stone wall, and a stretch of lonely brown hill, with heavy sunset clouds drifting above it in the strong, steady wind. No living creature was in sight or sound—no birds flew by, and no dogs barked from the sexton’s cottage. The dull rhythm of the surf was interrupted only by the dreary rustling of the small trees near the grave and the faint bubbling of the brook over its stony bed. It was a bleak scene at a bleak hour. My spirits sank as I counted the minutes of the evening from my hiding place under the church porch.

It wasn’t twilight yet—the light of the setting sun still lingered in the sky, and I had only been watching alone for about half an hour—when I heard footsteps and a woman’s voice. The footsteps were coming from the other side of the church.

“Don’t you worry, my dear, about the letter,” the voice said. “I gave it to the lad just fine, and he took it from me without a word. He went his way, and I went mine, and not a soul followed me after that, I promise you.”

These words caught my attention, raising my hopes to a level that was almost painful. There was a moment of silence, but the footsteps continued to approach. In a moment, two women passed into view from the porch window. They were walking straight toward the grave, their backs turned to me.

One woman wore a bonnet and shawl. The other was dressed in a long dark-blue traveling cloak, with the hood pulled over her head. A few inches of her white gown peeked out from beneath the cloak. My heart raced as I noted the color—it was white.

After walking about halfway between the church and the grave, they stopped, and the woman in the cloak turned her head toward her companion. But her profile, which I could have seen if she hadn’t been wearing the hood, was hidden from view.

“Make sure you keep that warm cloak on,” said the same voice I had heard before—the voice of the woman in the shawl. “Mrs. Todd was right about you looking too much like a ghost yesterday, all in white. I’ll walk around a bit while you’re here; churchyards don’t bother me, whatever they may do to you. Finish what you need to do before I come back, and let’s make sure we get home before nightfall.”

With that, she turned and retraced her steps, facing me as she walked. Her face was that of an older woman—weathered, strong, and healthy, with nothing dishonest or suspicious about it. She paused near the church to pull her shawl tighter around her.

“Strange,” she muttered to herself, “always strange, with her quirks and her ways, ever since I can remember. Harmless, though—poor soul, as harmless as a child.”

She sighed, glanced nervously around the graveyard, shook her head as if the dreary scene didn’t please her, and disappeared around the corner of the church.

For a moment, I hesitated, unsure whether to follow and speak to her. My intense desire to confront her companion pushed me to stay put. I could wait near the churchyard until the woman in the shawl returned, though I doubted she could provide the information I sought. The person who delivered the letter was of little importance. The one who had written it was my main concern, and I felt certain that person was right there in the churchyard.

As these thoughts raced through my mind, I saw the woman in the cloak approach the grave and pause to look at it for a moment. Then she glanced around and pulled a white cloth or handkerchief from under her cloak, turning toward the brook. The small stream flowed into the churchyard through a tiny archway in the wall and wound its way out again under a similar opening. She dipped the cloth in the water, then returned to the grave. I watched her kiss the white cross, kneel before the inscription, and begin to wipe it clean with the damp cloth.

After thinking carefully about how to approach her without scaring her, I decided to climb over the wall in front of me, walk around it, and re-enter the churchyard through the stile near the grave. I wanted her to see me as I came closer. She was so focused on her task that she didn’t notice me until I stepped over the stile. When she did, she looked up, jumped to her feet with a soft gasp, and stood frozen in fear, staring at me.

“Please don’t be afraid,” I said gently. “You remember me, don’t you?”

I paused as I spoke, then took a few cautious steps forward, stopping again, inching closer until I was right in front of her. If there had been any doubt left in my mind, it vanished in that moment. There she was, the same face I had seen before, now looking back at me over Mrs. Fairlie’s grave.

“You remember me?” I asked. “We met late one night, and I helped you find your way to London. Surely you haven’t forgotten?”

Her expression softened, and she let out a heavy sigh of relief. I could see the flicker of recognition breaking through the paralyzing fear that had gripped her.

“Don’t try to speak just yet,” I continued. “Take your time to collect yourself—make sure you know I’m a friend.”

“You’re very kind to me,” she murmured. “Just as kind now as you were then.”

She fell silent, and I remained quiet too. I wasn’t just giving her time to calm down; I needed a moment to gather myself as well. Under the dim, eerie light of the evening, we stood together again, a grave between us, surrounded by the dead, with the lonely hills closing in around us. The time, the place, and the circumstances of our meeting in that still, desolate valley felt heavy with significance. The future of Laura Fairlie’s life could hinge on the next few words exchanged between us. The weight of it all threatened to unsettle my composure, which was crucial for the progress I hoped to make. I focused hard, trying to use these moments of reflection wisely.

“Are you feeling calmer now?” I asked, when I thought it was time to speak again. “Can you talk to me without being scared and remember that I’m a friend?”

“How did you get here?” she asked, ignoring my previous question.

“Don’t you remember me telling you that I was going to Cumberland when we last met? I’ve been in Cumberland ever since—I’ve been staying at Limmeridge House.”

“At Limmeridge House!” Her pale face lit up as she repeated the words, her wandering eyes suddenly focused on me with interest. “Oh, how happy you must have been!” she said, looking at me eagerly, her earlier distrust completely gone.

I seized the opportunity of her newfound trust to study her face, a curiosity I had held back until now. As I looked at her, my mind was filled with memories of another beautiful face that had reminded me of her on the terrace under the moonlight. I had seen Anne Catherick’s likeness in Miss Fairlie, and now I saw Miss Fairlie’s likeness in Anne Catherick. The similarities were more striking than ever, especially as I noted the differences between them as well.

In the general shape of her face, the proportions of her features, the color of her hair, and the slight nervous quiver of her lips, the resemblance was startling. But that was where the similarities ended, and the differences began. The delicate beauty of Miss Fairlie’s complexion, the clarity of her eyes, the smoothness of her skin, and the soft color on her lips were all absent from the worn, weary face before me.

Though I hated myself for thinking it, as I looked at the woman in front of me, I couldn’t shake the idea that one sad change in the future could make the likeness complete, which I now saw was so imperfect in detail. If sorrow and suffering ever left their marks on Miss Fairlie’s youth and beauty, then, and only then, would Anne Catherick and she become twin reflections of each other, living reminders of what might have been.

I felt a chill at the thought. There was something unsettling about the blind, unreasoning fear of the future that crossed my mind. It was a relief when I felt Anne Catherick’s hand on my shoulder. Her touch was as sudden and stealthy as the one that had frozen me in place the night we first met.

“You’re looking at me, and you’re thinking about something,” she said, her words tumbling out in a breathless rush. “What is it?”

“Nothing much,” I replied. “I was just wondering how you got here.”

“I came with a friend who’s been very kind to me. I’ve only been here for two days.”

“And you found your way to this place yesterday?”

“How do you know that?”

“I just guessed.”

She turned away from me and knelt down again in front of the inscription.

“Where else would I go?” she said. “The friend who was better than a mother to me is the only one I have to visit at Limmeridge. It breaks my heart to see a stain on her tomb! It should be kept as white as snow for her sake. I was tempted to start cleaning it yesterday, and I can’t help but come back to continue today. Is there anything wrong with that? I hope not. Surely nothing I do for Mrs. Fairlie’s sake can be wrong?”

The familiar gratitude for her benefactor’s kindness was clearly still the main thought in her mind—a mind that had opened to little else since those happier days of her youth. I realized that my best chance of gaining her trust lay in encouraging her to continue with the simple task she had come to the graveyard to do. When I told her she could go on, she resumed her work, treating the hard marble as if it were a living thing. She whispered the words of the inscription to herself repeatedly, as if she were back in her girlhood, patiently learning her lesson once again at Mrs. Fairlie’s side.

“Would you be very surprised,” I said, trying to approach the topic carefully, “if I admitted that it’s both a relief and a surprise to see you here? I felt quite uneasy about you after you left me in the cab.”

She looked up at me, her expression shifting to one of suspicion.

“Uneasy?” she echoed. “Why?”

“A strange thing happened after we parted that night. Two men caught up with me in a carriage. They didn’t see where I was standing, but they stopped nearby and spoke to a policeman across the street.”

She immediately paused her cleaning. The damp cloth she had been using fell to her side, and her hand gripped the marble cross at the head of the grave. Her face turned slowly towards me, a mask of terror settling back onto her features. I pressed on; it was too late to hold back now.

“The two men spoke to the policeman,” I continued, “and asked if he had seen you. He hadn’t. Then one of the men said you had escaped from his Asylum.”

She sprang to her feet as if my words had unleashed her pursuers.

“Stop! Listen to the rest,” I urged. “Stop! You need to know how I helped you. A single word from me would have told those men where you had gone—and I never spoke that word. I helped your escape—I made it safe. Please, try to understand what I’m telling you.”

My demeanor seemed to affect her more than my words. She struggled to grasp this new idea, her hands hesitatingly shifting the damp cloth from one to the other, just as they had when she carried her little traveling bag the night we first met. Slowly, the meaning of my words began to penetrate the confusion and fear in her mind. Her features softened, and her eyes looked at me with a growing curiosity that was replacing her fear.

“You don’t think I should be back in the Asylum, do you?” she asked.

“Of course not. I’m glad you escaped—I’m glad I helped you.”

“Yes, yes, you did help me; you helped me at the hardest part,” she said, her voice a bit distant. “It was easy to escape, or I wouldn’t have gotten away. They never suspected me like they did the others. I was so quiet, so obedient, and so easily frightened. Finding my way in London was the hard part, and that’s where you helped me. Did I thank you at the time? I thank you now, very sincerely.”

“Was the Asylum far from where you met me? Come on, show me you trust me, and tell me where it was.”

She named the place—a private Asylum, as its location indicated; one not too far from where I had seen her. Then, with a clear suspicion of what I might do with her answer, she anxiously repeated her earlier question, “You don’t think I should be taken back, do you?”

“I’m really glad you got away—I’m glad to hear you’re doing well after leaving me,” I said. “You mentioned you had a friend in London. Did you find her?”

“Yes. It was quite late, but there was a girl doing needlework in the house, and she helped me wake up Mrs. Clements. Mrs. Clements is my friend. She’s a good, kind woman, but she’s not like Mrs. Fairlie. No one is like Mrs. Fairlie!”

“Is Mrs. Clements an old friend? Have you known her for a long time?”

“Yes, she used to live near us back home in Hampshire. She liked me and took care of me when I was a little girl. Years ago, when she moved away, she wrote in my Prayer-book to tell me where she would be living in London. She said, ‘If you ever find yourself in trouble, Anne, come to me. I have no husband to say no, and no children to look after, so I can take care of you.’ Those were kind words, weren’t they? I think I remember them so well because they were kind. I don’t remember much else—just a little, just a little!”

“Didn’t you have a father or mother to take care of you?”

“Father? I never saw him. I never heard my mother mention him. Father? Oh dear! I suppose he’s dead.”

“And your mother?”

“We don’t get along well. We’re a trouble and a fear to each other.”

A trouble and a fear to each other! For the first time, a suspicion crossed my mind that her mother might be the one who had put her under restraint.

“Please don’t ask me about my mother,” she continued. “I’d rather talk about Mrs. Clements. She’s like you; she doesn’t think I should be back in the Asylum, and she’s just as relieved as you are that I escaped. She cried over my misfortune and said it must be kept a secret from everyone.”

Her “misfortune.” What did she mean by that? Was it a reference that could explain her motive for writing the anonymous letter? Could it be the all-too-common reason that has led many women to secretly sabotage the marriage of the man who has wronged them? I decided I needed to clarify this before we exchanged any more words.

“What misfortune?” I asked.

“The misfortune of being locked away,” she replied, looking genuinely surprised by my question. “What other misfortune could there be?”

I resolved to press on, as gently as I could. It was crucial that I understood every detail of this investigation.

“There’s another misfortune,” I said, “that a woman can face, one that can bring lifelong sorrow and shame.”

“What is it?” she asked, her curiosity piqued.

“The misfortune of believing too innocently in her own virtue and in the faith and honor of the man she loves,” I answered.

She looked up at me, her expression one of childlike confusion. There was no hint of embarrassment or shame on her face—nothing that suggested any hidden awareness of wrongdoing. Her expression, which was usually so transparent, assured me that the motive I had suspected for her writing the letter to Miss Fairlie was clearly wrong. That doubt was now settled, but its resolution opened up a new uncertainty. The letter, as I knew from reliable sources, pointed to Sir Percival Glyde, though it didn’t name him. She must have had a powerful reason, rooted in a deep sense of injury, to secretly accuse him to Miss Fairlie in such strong terms. That motive, however, was clearly not linked to the loss of her innocence or reputation. What could it be?

“I don’t understand you,” she said, clearly struggling to grasp the meaning of my words.

“Never mind,” I replied. “Let’s return to what we were discussing. How long did you stay with Mrs. Clements in London, and how did you end up here?”

“How long?” she echoed. “I stayed with Mrs. Clements until we both came here, two days ago.”

“So you’re living in the village?” I asked. “It’s strange that I haven’t heard about you, considering you’ve only been here for two days.”

“No, not in the village. Three miles away at a farm. Do you know it? They call it Todd’s Corner.”

I remembered the place well—we had often passed by it during our drives. It was one of the oldest farms in the area, nestled in a quiet spot between two hills.

“They’re relatives of Mrs. Clements at Todd’s Corner,” she continued, “and they’ve often invited her to visit. She said she would go and take me with her for some peace and fresh air. It was really kind of her, wasn’t it? I would have gone anywhere just to find some quiet, to feel safe, and to be away from everything. But when I found out that Todd’s Corner was near Limmeridge—oh! I was so happy I would have walked there barefoot just to see the schools, the village, and Limmeridge House again. The people at Todd’s Corner are very nice. I hope I can stay there for a long time. There’s just one thing I don’t like about them, and about Mrs. Clements—”

“What is it?” I asked.

“They tease me about wearing all white—they say it looks so peculiar. How would they know? Mrs. Fairlie understood me best. She would never have made me wear this ugly blue cloak! She loved white in her lifetime, and there’s white stone around her grave—and I’m making it even whiter for her sake. She often wore white herself, and she always dressed her little girl in white. Is Miss Fairlie well and happy? Does she wear white now, like she did when she was a girl?”

Her voice dropped when she asked about Miss Fairlie, and she turned her head further away from me. I sensed a shift in her demeanor, an uneasy awareness of the risk she had taken by sending the anonymous letter. I decided to frame my response in a way that would catch her off guard.

“Miss Fairlie wasn’t very well or happy this morning,” I said.

She murmured something, but it was so unclear and quiet that I couldn’t make out what she meant.

“Did you ask me why Miss Fairlie wasn’t well or happy this morning?” I pressed on.

“No,” she replied quickly and eagerly. “Oh no, I never asked that.”

“I’ll tell you anyway,” I continued. “Miss Fairlie has received your letter.”

She had been kneeling for a while, carefully wiping away the last weather stains from the inscription while we spoke. The first sentence I had just said made her pause, turning slowly to face me without getting up. The second sentence left her completely frozen. The cloth she had been holding slipped from her fingers—her lips parted, and all the color drained from her face in an instant.

“How do you know?” she whispered faintly. “Who showed it to you?” The blood rushed back into her face, overwhelming her as she realized her own words had betrayed her. She struck her hands together in despair. “I never wrote it,” she gasped, terrified. “I don’t know anything about it!”

“Yes,” I replied, “you wrote it, and you know about it. It was wrong to send such a letter; it was wrong to frighten Miss Fairlie. If you had something important to say, you should have gone to Limmeridge House yourself—you should have spoken to her face to face.”

She hunched over the flat stone of the grave, hiding her face against it, and said nothing.

“Miss Fairlie will be as kind and good to you as her mother was, if you mean well,” I continued. “She’ll keep your secret and make sure you don’t come to any harm. Will you see her tomorrow at the farm? Will you meet her in the garden at Limmeridge House?”

“Oh, if I could just die and be hidden and at rest with YOU!” Her lips murmured the words against the gravestone, filled with passionate affection for the remains beneath. “You know how I love your child, for your sake! Oh, Mrs. Fairlie! Mrs. Fairlie! Tell me how to save her. Be my darling and my mother once more, and tell me what to do.”

I heard her lips kissing the stone, and I saw her hands beating against it in desperation. The sound and sight moved me deeply. I bent down and took her trembling hands in mine, trying to comfort her.

It was no use. She pulled her hands away from me and kept her face pressed against the stone. Realizing I needed to calm her down at any cost, I appealed to the one concern she seemed to have regarding me—her desire to prove she was capable of managing her own life.

“Come on,” I said gently. “Try to pull yourself together, or you’ll make me change my opinion of you. Don’t let me think that the person who put you in the asylum might have had some reason…”

The words faded from my lips the moment I mentioned the person responsible for her being in the asylum. She shot up onto her knees, and an astonishing transformation washed over her. Her face, usually so vulnerable and expressive, suddenly twisted into a mask of intense hatred and fear, giving her features an unnerving energy. In the dim light of the evening, her eyes widened like those of a wild animal. She grabbed the cloth that had fallen beside her as if it were a living thing she could destroy, squeezing it in her hands with such force that the few drops of moisture left in it dripped onto the stone floor beneath her.

“Let’s talk about something else,” she hissed through clenched teeth. “I’ll lose myself if you keep talking about that.”

All the gentler thoughts that had filled her mind just moments before vanished. It was clear that Mrs. Fairlie’s kindness wasn’t the only powerful memory etched in her mind. Alongside her gratitude for her school days at Limmeridge was a deep-seated resentment for the wrong done to her by her confinement in the asylum. Who had inflicted that wrong? Could it really have been her mother?

It was difficult to let go of the inquiry, but I forced myself to abandon the thought. Seeing her in this state, it would have been cruel to pursue anything other than the urgent need to help her regain her composure.

“I won’t say anything to upset you,” I said gently.

“You want something,” she replied, her tone sharp and wary. “Don’t look at me like that. Just tell me what you want.”

“I just want you to calm down, and when you’re feeling better, to think about what I’ve said.”

“What did you say?” She paused, twisting the cloth in her hands, murmuring to herself, “What was it he said?” Then she turned back to me, shaking her head in frustration. “Why don’t you help me?” she demanded, her anger flaring.

“Yes, yes,” I assured her. “I will help you, and you’ll remember soon enough. I want you to see Miss Fairlie tomorrow and tell her the truth about the letter.”

“Miss Fairlie—Fairlie—Fairlie—”

Just saying that familiar name seemed to soothe her. Her expression softened, returning to something more like her usual self.

“You don’t need to worry about Miss Fairlie,” I continued. “And you won’t get into trouble over the letter. She already knows so much about it that you’ll have no trouble being honest with her. There’s hardly anything left to hide. You don’t mention any names in the letter, but Miss Fairlie knows that the person you’re writing about is Sir Percival Glyde—”

The moment I spoke that name, she leaped to her feet, and a scream erupted from her, echoing through the churchyard and sending a jolt of fear through me. The dark look that had just faded from her face returned, intensified. The scream at the name, along with the renewed expression of hatred and fear, made everything clear. There was no longer any doubt. Her mother was innocent of imprisoning her in the asylum. A man had done it—and that man was Sir Percival Glyde.

The scream caught the attention of others. I heard the door of the sexton’s cottage creak open, and from the other side, I heard the voice of her companion, the woman in the shawl, the one she had referred to as Mrs. Clements.

“I’m coming! I’m coming!” the voice called from behind a cluster of small trees.

Moments later, Mrs. Clements rushed into view.

“Who are you?” she demanded, confronting me as she stepped onto the stile. “How dare you frighten a poor, helpless woman like that?”

She was at Anne Catherick’s side, wrapping an arm around her before I could respond. “What’s wrong, my dear?” she asked. “What has he done to you?”

“Nothing,” the poor girl replied. “Nothing. I’m just scared.”

Mrs. Clements turned to me with a fierce indignation that I couldn’t help but respect.

“I’d be ashamed of myself if I deserved that look,” I said. “But I don’t. I startled her without meaning to. This isn’t the first time she’s seen me. Ask her yourself; she’ll tell you I would never intentionally harm her or any woman.”

I spoke clearly so that Anne Catherick could hear and understand me, and I could see my words had reached her.

“Yes, yes,” she said. “He was kind to me once—he helped me—” She whispered the rest into her friend’s ear.

"That's strange," Mrs. Clements said, her brow furrowed with confusion. "But it really does change everything. I'm sorry I spoke so harshly to you, sir; you have to admit that things looked pretty suspicious from a stranger's perspective. I suppose I’m more to blame than you are for indulging her whims and letting her wander alone in a place like this. Come on, dear—let's head home now."

I noticed that Mrs. Clements seemed a bit uneasy about the walk back, so I offered to accompany them until they were in sight of their home. She thanked me politely but declined, saying they would surely run into some of the farm workers as soon as they reached the moor.

"Please try to forgive me," I said as Anne Catherick took her friend's arm to leave. Even though I hadn’t meant to frighten her, my heart ached as I looked at her pale, terrified face.

"I'll try," she replied. "But you know too much now—I’m afraid you’ll always scare me."

Mrs. Clements looked at me and shook her head with pity.

"Goodnight, sir," she said. "I know you didn’t mean it, but I wish it had been me you frightened instead of her."

They took a few steps away, and I thought they were leaving, but then Anne suddenly paused and pulled away from her friend.

"Wait a moment," she said. "I need to say goodbye."

She walked back to the grave, placed both hands gently on the marble cross, and kissed it.

"I feel better now," she sighed, looking up at me with a calm expression. "I forgive you."

She rejoined Mrs. Clements, and they left the burial ground. I watched as they stopped near the church to speak with the sexton’s wife, who had come out from her cottage and was waiting for them from a distance. Then they continued up the path toward the moor. I kept my eyes on Anne Catherick until she disappeared completely into the twilight, watching with a mix of anxiety and sorrow as if that was the last time I would see the woman in white in this weary world.