XIV

by Wilkie Collins

Half an hour later, I returned to the house and filled Miss Halcombe in on everything that had happened.

She listened intently, her silence a clear indication of how deeply my story affected her.

“I have a bad feeling about this,” she finally said. “I’m really worried about what’s to come.”

“The future might depend on how we handle the present,” I suggested. “It’s possible that Anne Catherick might be more open with a woman than she was with me. If Miss Fairlie—”

“Not even for a moment,” Miss Halcombe interrupted firmly.

“Then how about you meeting Anne Catherick yourself? You could try to earn her trust. I really don’t want to frighten her again, as I’ve already done. Do you have any objections to coming with me to the farmhouse tomorrow?”

“None at all. I’ll go anywhere and do anything for Laura’s sake. What did you say the place was called?”

“You should know it well. It’s called Todd’s Corner.”

“Of course. Todd’s Corner is one of Mr. Fairlie’s farms. Our dairymaid is the farmer’s second daughter. She frequently travels back and forth between here and her father’s farm, and she might have seen or heard something useful. Should I check if she’s downstairs?”

She rang the bell and sent a servant to find out. When he returned, he informed us that the dairymaid was at the farm. She hadn’t been here for the last three days, and the housekeeper had allowed her to go home for a couple of hours that evening.

“I can talk to her tomorrow,” Miss Halcombe said once the servant left the room. “But first, I need to understand what we hope to achieve with my meeting with Anne Catherick. Are you sure that Sir Percival Glyde was the one who had her confined in the asylum?”

“I have no doubt about it. The only mystery left is his motive. Given the vast difference in their social standings, which makes any kind of relationship unlikely, it’s crucial to understand why he would take on the serious responsibility of having her committed—”

“To a private asylum, if I remember correctly?”

“Yes, a private asylum, where a considerable sum of money, which no poor person could afford, must have been paid for her care.”

“I see where the uncertainty lies, Mr. Hartright, and I promise I will resolve it, whether Anne Catherick helps us tomorrow or not. Sir Percival Glyde won’t stay in this house without answering to Mr. Gilmore and to me. My sister’s future is my top priority, and I have enough influence over her to have a say in her marriage.”

We said our goodnights.

The next morning, after breakfast, an unexpected obstacle arose that I had completely forgotten about after the events of the previous evening. This was my last day at Limmeridge House, and I needed to follow Miss Halcombe’s advice and ask Mr. Fairlie for permission to shorten my stay by a month due to an unforeseen need to return to London.

Fortunately, the post brought me two letters from friends in London that morning, which helped lend credibility to my excuse. I took them to my room and sent a servant to Mr. Fairlie, asking when I could meet him about a business matter.

I waited for the servant’s return, feeling no anxiety about how Mr. Fairlie might respond to my request. Whether he agreed or not, I had to leave. The realization that I had taken the first step on the long, lonely path that would separate me from Miss Fairlie dulled my sensitivity to any concerns about myself. I had let go of my pride and all my little artistic vanities. No rudeness from Mr. Fairlie, if he chose to be rude, could hurt me now.

The servant returned with a message I had half-expected. Mr. Fairlie regretted that his health that morning was such that he couldn’t receive me. He asked me to accept his apologies and to communicate what I needed to say in a letter instead.

I had received similar messages during my three months at the house. Mr. Fairlie had been pleased to “have” me, yet he had never been well enough to see me again. The servant took every set of drawings I mounted and restored back to him with my “respects,” returning empty-handed with Mr. Fairlie’s “kind compliments,” “best thanks,” and “sincere regrets” that his health still confined him to his room. It was hard to say who felt more grateful for this arrangement—Mr. Fairlie for his accommodating nerves or I for the freedom it provided.

I sat down immediately to write my letter, aiming to be as polite, clear, and concise as possible. Mr. Fairlie didn’t rush his reply. Nearly an hour passed before I received his response. It was written in beautiful, neat handwriting with violet ink on note-paper that was as smooth as ivory and nearly as thick as cardboard. The letter addressed me as follows:

“Mr. Fairlie’s compliments to Mr. Hartright. Mr. Fairlie is more surprised and disappointed than he can express (given his current state of health) by Mr. Hartright’s request. Mr. Fairlie is not a businessman, but he has consulted his steward, who is, and this person confirms Mr. Fairlie’s belief that Mr. Hartright’s request to break his engagement cannot be justified by any necessity, except perhaps in a life-or-death situation. If the appreciation for Art and its practitioners, which brings Mr. Fairlie some comfort in his suffering, could be easily shaken, Mr. Hartright’s current actions would have done so. They have not—except in Mr. Hartright’s own case.

“Having stated his opinion—so far as his acute nervous suffering allows him to state anything—Mr. Fairlie has nothing more to add except to express his decision regarding the irregular application made to him. Given that perfect peace of body and mind is crucial for him, Mr. Fairlie will not allow Mr. Hartright to disturb that peace by remaining in the house under circumstances that are irritating for both parties. Therefore, Mr. Fairlie waives his right of refusal purely to preserve his own tranquility and informs Mr. Hartright that he may leave.”

I folded the letter and tucked it away with my other papers. There was a time when I would have taken offense at such a dismissal, but now I accepted it as a release from my engagement. It was off my mind and almost out of my memory when I went downstairs to the breakfast room and told Miss Halcombe I was ready to walk with her to the farm.

“Did Mr. Fairlie give you a satisfactory answer?” she asked as we left the house.

“He has allowed me to go, Miss Halcombe.”

She looked up at me quickly, and for the first time since I had known her, she took my arm without prompting. No words could have conveyed her understanding of how I had received permission to leave my position, and her sympathy felt genuine, not as my superior but as my friend. I didn’t feel the sting of the man’s insolent letter, but I deeply appreciated the woman’s kindness.

On our way to the farm, we decided that Miss Halcombe would enter the house alone while I waited outside, within earshot. We chose this approach because we feared my presence might renew Anne Catherick’s anxiety after what had happened in the churchyard the night before, making her even more distrustful of a stranger. Miss Halcombe left me, intending to speak first to the farmer’s wife, who she knew would be willing to help.

I expected to be alone for a while, but to my surprise, little more than five minutes passed before Miss Halcombe returned.

“Does Anne Catherick refuse to see you?” I asked, astonished.

“Anne Catherick is gone,” she replied.

“Gone?”

“Gone with Mrs. Clements. They both left the farm at eight o’clock this morning.”

I was speechless, feeling that our last chance for discovery had vanished with them.

“I know everything Mrs. Todd knows about her guests,” Miss Halcombe continued, “and that leaves me just as confused as her. They both returned safely last night after leaving you and spent the first part of the evening with Mr. Todd’s family, as usual. But just before supper, Anne Catherick suddenly fainted, which startled everyone. She had experienced a similar, though less severe, episode on the day she arrived at the farm. At that time, Mrs. Todd had linked it to something Anne was reading in our local newspaper, which had been lying on the farm table, and which she had picked up just moments before.”

“Does Mrs. Todd know what specific part of the newspaper upset her?” I asked.

“No,” Miss Halcombe replied. “She skimmed through it and didn’t see anything that would disturb anyone. However, I asked if I could take a look, and on the very first page I opened, I found that the editor had included a piece about our family. He had published my sister’s engagement announcement alongside other marriage notices from the London papers. I immediately suspected that this was what had so strangely affected Anne Catherick, and I thought it might also explain the letter she sent to our house the next day.”

“There’s no doubt about it. But what did you hear about her second fainting spell last night?”

“Nothing. The cause remains a complete mystery. There was no stranger in the room; the only visitor was our dairymaid, who, as I mentioned, is one of Mr. Todd’s daughters. The conversation was just the usual gossip about local happenings. They heard her cry out and saw her go pale without any clear reason. Mrs. Todd and Mrs. Clements took her upstairs, and Mrs. Clements stayed with her. They were heard talking long after bedtime, and early this morning, Mrs. Clements pulled Mrs. Todd aside and shocked her by saying they had to leave. The only explanation Mrs. Todd could get from her was that something had happened, which wasn’t anyone’s fault at the farmhouse, but was serious enough to make Anne Catherick decide to leave Limmeridge immediately. It was useless to press Mrs. Clements for more details. She just shook her head and insisted, for Anne’s sake, that no one should question her. All she could repeat, looking genuinely agitated, was that Anne had to go, that she needed to go with her, and that their destination must remain a secret. I won’t recount Mrs. Todd’s attempts to persuade them to stay; in the end, she drove them both to the nearest station over three hours ago. She tried hard to get them to explain more on the way, but to no avail. When she dropped them off at the station, she was so hurt and offended by their abrupt departure and their unwillingness to trust her that she drove away in anger without even saying goodbye. That’s exactly what happened. Think back, Mr. Hartright, and tell me if anything happened in the burial ground last night that could explain the sudden departure of those two women this morning.”

“I’d like to first explain the sudden change in Anne Catherick that alarmed them at the farmhouse, hours after she and I had parted, when enough time had passed for any agitation I might have caused to settle. Did you ask specifically about the gossip going on in the room when she fainted?”

“Yes, but Mrs. Todd seemed more focused on her household duties that evening than on the conversation in the parlour. All she could tell me was that it was ‘just the news,’ meaning they were talking about each other as usual.”

“The dairymaid might remember better than her mother,” I suggested. “It would be wise for you to speak to her, Miss Halcombe, as soon as we get back.”

My suggestion was put into action the moment we returned to the house. Miss Halcombe led me to the servants’ quarters, where we found the girl in the dairy, sleeves rolled up to her shoulders, scrubbing a large milk pan while cheerfully singing to herself.

“I brought this gentleman to see your dairy, Hannah,” Miss Halcombe said. “It’s one of the highlights of the house, and it always reflects well on you.”

The girl blushed and curtsied, shyly replying that she hoped she always did her best to keep things tidy.

“We just came from your father’s,” Miss Halcombe continued. “I hear you were there yesterday evening and found visitors at the house?”

“Yes, miss.”

"One of them fainted and got sick, I heard. I hope nothing was said to scare her? You weren’t talking about anything too awful, were you?"

"Oh no, miss!" the girl replied with a laugh. "We were just discussing the news."

"Your sisters told you the news at Todd’s Corner, I assume?"

"Yes, miss."

"And you shared the news at Limmeridge House?"

"Yes, miss. I’m sure nothing was said to frighten her; I was talking when she fainted. It really shocked me, miss, since I’ve never fainted myself."

Before I could ask her anything more, she was called away to collect a basket of eggs at the dairy door. As she left, I leaned over to Miss Halcombe and whispered, "Ask her if she mentioned last night that visitors were expected at Limmeridge House."

Miss Halcombe gave me a knowing look and posed the question as soon as the dairymaid returned.

"Oh yes, miss, I mentioned that," the girl said simply. "The guests coming and the accident with the brindled cow were all the news I had to take to the farm."

"Did you mention any names? Did you tell them that Sir Percival Glyde was expected on Monday?"

"Yes, miss—I told them Sir Percival Glyde was coming. I hope that wasn’t a problem—I hope I didn’t do anything wrong."

"Oh no, no harm done. Come on, Mr. Hartright, Hannah will start to think we’re in her way if we keep interrupting her work."

Once we were alone again, we exchanged glances.

"Is there any doubt in your mind now, Miss Halcombe?"

"Sir Percival Glyde will clear that doubt, Mr. Hartright—or Laura Fairlie will never be his wife."