II

by Wilkie Collins

We all gathered again for dinner.

Sir Percival was in such high spirits that I could hardly recognize him as the same man whose quiet charm, refinement, and good sense had impressed me so much during our morning meeting. The only hint of his earlier self that I noticed came through his interactions with Miss Fairlie. A glance or a word from her would instantly quiet his loudest laughter, halt his most animated conversation, and make him focus entirely on her, ignoring everyone else at the table. While he never directly tried to pull her into the conversation, he never missed an opportunity to let her slip into it naturally, saying the right words to her in those moments—words that a man with less tact might have blurted out the moment they came to mind. To my surprise, Miss Fairlie seemed aware of his attention but remained unmoved by it. She appeared a bit flustered when he looked or spoke to her, yet she never warmed to him. Rank, wealth, good breeding, good looks, the respect of a gentleman, and the devotion of a suitor were all laid humbly at her feet, and, at least from what I could see, they were all offered in vain.

The next day, Tuesday, Sir Percival set out in the morning with one of the servants as a guide to Todd’s Corner. I later learned that his inquiries yielded no results. Upon his return, he had a meeting with Mr. Fairlie, and in the afternoon, he rode out with Miss Halcombe. Nothing else noteworthy occurred. The evening unfolded as usual, with no change in Sir Percival and no change in Miss Fairlie.

Wednesday brought a significant event—the reply from Mrs. Catherick. I took a copy of the letter, which I’ve kept and will present here. It read:

“MADAM,—I acknowledge receipt of your letter inquiring whether my daughter, Anne, was placed under medical supervision with my knowledge and approval, and whether Sir Percival Glyde’s involvement in the matter warrants my gratitude towards him. Please accept my affirmative response to both questions, and believe me to remain, your obedient servant,

“JANE ANNE CATHERICK.”

It was short, direct, and to the point; a rather business-like letter for a woman to write, and in substance, it was a clear confirmation of Sir Percival Glyde’s statement. This was my view, and with a few minor reservations, it was also Miss Halcombe’s perspective. When we showed the letter to Sir Percival, he didn’t seem taken aback by its blunt tone. He remarked that Mrs. Catherick was a woman of few words—clear-headed, straightforward, and unimaginative—who wrote as plainly as she spoke.

Now that we had received the answer, the next step was to inform Miss Fairlie of Sir Percival’s explanation. Miss Halcombe had taken on this task and had left the room to go to her sister when she suddenly returned, sitting down in the easy chair next to me as I read the newspaper. Sir Percival had just stepped out to check on the stables, leaving only the two of us in the room.

“I suppose we’ve really done everything we can?” she said, twisting Mrs. Catherick’s letter in her hands.

“If we are friends of Sir Percival’s, who know and trust him, then we’ve done all that’s necessary—and more,” I replied, a bit annoyed by her return to uncertainty. “But if we were enemies who suspected him—”

“That thought isn’t even worth considering,” she interrupted. “We are Sir Percival’s friends, and if generosity and patience can deepen our regard for him, then we should admire him as well. You know he met with Mr. Fairlie yesterday and then went out with me.”

“Yes, I saw you riding away together.”

We started our ride discussing Anne Catherick and the unusual way Mr. Hartright had encountered her. But soon, we shifted topics, and Sir Percival began to speak about his engagement to Laura in the most selfless manner.

He mentioned that he had noticed she seemed downcast, and unless told otherwise, he was inclined to think that was the reason for the change in her behavior toward him during this visit. However, if there was a more serious reason behind her shift, he urged that neither Mr. Fairlie nor I should pressure her in any way. All he asked was that she take a moment to remember, for the last time, the circumstances surrounding their engagement and how he had conducted himself throughout their courtship. If, after reflecting on those matters, she genuinely wished for him to withdraw his proposal to marry her—and if she could express that desire clearly to him—he would willingly step aside and leave her free to break off the engagement.

“No man could say more than that, Miss Halcombe. From my experience, few men in his position would have said as much,” I remarked.

She paused, looking at me with a mix of confusion and distress.

“I don’t blame anyone, and I suspect nothing,” she said abruptly. “But I cannot and will not take on the responsibility of persuading Laura to go through with this marriage.”

“That’s exactly what Sir Percival has asked you not to do,” I replied, surprised. “He’s asked you not to pressure her.”

“And yet, if I deliver his message, I’m indirectly forcing her to make a decision,” she countered.

“How can that be?”

“Think about it, Mr. Gilmore. If I tell her to reflect on her engagement, I’m appealing to two of her strongest emotions: her love for her father’s memory and her commitment to honesty. You know she has never broken a promise in her life. You know she entered this engagement during her father’s final illness, and he spoke hopefully about her marriage to Sir Percival on his deathbed.”

I must admit, I was taken aback by her perspective.

“Surely,” I said, “you don’t mean to suggest that when Sir Percival spoke to you yesterday, he anticipated such a consequence?”

Her honest, fierce expression answered for her before she even spoke.

“Do you think I would stay even a moment in the company of a man I suspected of such treachery?” she asked, her voice rising with anger.

I appreciated her passionate indignation; it was refreshing in a world where I often encountered malice rather than righteous anger.

“In that case,” I said, “forgive me if I point out that you’re straying from the main issue. Regardless of the outcome, Sir Percival has every right to expect that your sister will thoughtfully consider her engagement from all reasonable angles before she seeks to be released from it. If that unfortunate letter has turned her against him, you should go to her immediately and tell her that he has cleared his name in your eyes and mine. What objection could she possibly have after that? What reason could she give for changing her mind about a man she had effectively accepted as her husband over two years ago?”

“Legally and rationally, Mr. Gilmore, she has no excuse, I agree. But if she still hesitates, and if I still hesitate, you can attribute our strange behavior to mere whim, and we’ll have to bear that judgment as best we can.”

With that, she abruptly stood and left me. When a sensible woman dodges a serious question with a lighthearted remark, it’s usually a sign that she’s hiding something. I returned to my newspaper, strongly suspecting that Miss Halcombe and Miss Fairlie were keeping a secret from Sir Percival—and from me. I found that particularly unfair to both of us, especially to Sir Percival.

My doubts—or perhaps more accurately, my convictions—were confirmed by Miss Halcombe’s demeanor when I saw her again later that day. She was unusually brief and reserved as she shared the outcome of her conversation with her sister. It seemed that Miss Fairlie had listened quietly while the situation regarding the letter was explained to her, but when Miss Halcombe went on to say that Sir Percival had come to Limmeridge to persuade her to set a date for their wedding, Miss Fairlie interrupted, asking for more time. If Sir Percival could allow her a little breathing room, she promised to give him her final answer before the year was out. She pleaded for this delay with such anxiety and distress that Miss Halcombe agreed to use her influence, if necessary, to secure it. Thus, at Miss Fairlie’s earnest request, all further discussion about the marriage was put to rest.

While this temporary arrangement might have suited Miss Fairlie, it created a bit of a dilemma for me. That morning’s mail had brought a letter from my partner, which meant I had to return to London the next day on the afternoon train. It was highly likely that I wouldn’t have another chance to visit Limmeridge House before the year ended. If Miss Fairlie ultimately decided to go through with her engagement, my need to speak with her before finalizing her settlement would become nearly impossible. We would be forced to put in writing what should always be discussed face-to-face. I kept this concern to myself until Sir Percival had been consulted about the requested delay. He was too much of a gentleman not to grant it immediately. When Miss Halcombe relayed this to me, I insisted that I had to speak with her sister before leaving Limmeridge, and it was arranged for me to see Miss Fairlie in her sitting room the following morning. She didn’t come down for dinner or join us in the evening, claiming she was unwell, and I noticed Sir Percival looked a bit annoyed at the news.

The next morning, as soon as breakfast was over, I made my way to Miss Fairlie’s sitting room. The poor girl looked so pale and sorrowful, and she came forward to greet me so warmly that all my intentions to lecture her on her indecision vanished in an instant. I gently guided her back to her chair and took a seat across from her. Her pet greyhound was in the room, and I expected a noisy welcome. To my surprise, the little creature jumped into my lap and nudged its nose into my hand as soon as I sat down.

“You used to sit on my lap when you were a child,” I said, smiling. “Now it seems your little dog has taken your place. Is that lovely drawing yours?”

I gestured to a small album on the table beside her, which she had clearly been looking at when I arrived. The open page displayed a neatly mounted watercolor landscape. It was a casual question, but I struggled to find a way to shift the conversation toward business.

“No,” she replied, looking away from the drawing, a bit flustered. “It’s not mine.”

Her fingers had that familiar restless habit, always fidgeting with whatever was nearby when someone was speaking to her. This time, they wandered to the album, absently tracing the edges of the watercolor. A deeper melancholy settled on her face. She avoided looking at the drawing or at me, her eyes darting around the room, clearly aware of my purpose for visiting. Sensing this, I decided it was best to get straight to the point.

“One of the reasons I’m here, my dear, is to say goodbye,” I began. “I have to return to London today, and before I leave, I want to discuss your affairs with you.”

“I’m really sorry to see you go, Mr. Gilmore,” she said kindly. “It feels like the good old days having you here.”

“I hope to come back and relive those happy memories,” I replied. “But since the future is uncertain, I need to take this opportunity to speak with you now. As your old lawyer and friend, I feel I must remind you—without causing any offense—of the possibility of your marrying Sir Percival Glyde.”

She pulled her hand away from the small album as if it had suddenly burned her. Her fingers twisted together anxiously in her lap, and her gaze dropped to the floor. A look of tension settled on her face, resembling pain.

“Do we really have to talk about my engagement?” she asked quietly.

“It’s necessary to mention it,” I replied, “but we don’t need to linger on it. Let’s just say you have the option to marry or not. If you choose to marry, I need to prepare your settlement in advance, and I should consult you first out of courtesy. This might be my only chance to understand your wishes. So, let’s assume you decide to marry, and I’ll explain your current situation and what you could potentially change in the future.”

I outlined the purpose of a marriage settlement and detailed her prospects—first, when she turned eighteen, and second, upon the death of her uncle. I distinguished between the property she had a life interest in and the property she could control outright. She listened intently, the tense expression still on her face, her hands still nervously clasped in her lap.

“And now,” I concluded, “can you think of any conditions you would want me to include in this hypothetical situation—of course, subject to your guardian’s approval since you’re not yet of age?”

She shifted uncomfortably in her chair and suddenly looked at me with earnestness.

“If it happens,” she began hesitantly, “if I am—”

“If you are married,” I helped her along.

“Don’t let him separate me from Marian,” she exclaimed, a burst of energy breaking through. “Oh, Mr. Gilmore, please make it a rule that Marian can live with me!”

Under different circumstances, I might have found her interpretation of my question amusing, but the distress in her expression and voice made it impossible for me to feel anything but serious. Her few words revealed a desperate attachment to the past that did not bode well for her future.

“Having Marian Halcombe live with you can easily be arranged privately,” I said. “I think you misunderstood my question. It was about your own property—how you want your money to be handled. If you were to write a will when you come of age, who would you want it to go to?”

“Marian has been both mother and sister to me,” she said, her lovely blue eyes shining with emotion. “Can I leave it to Marian, Mr. Gilmore?”

“Of course, my dear,” I replied. “But remember, it’s a significant amount. Would you want it all to go to Miss Halcombe?”

She hesitated, her color rising and falling, and her hand returned to the little album.

“Not all of it,” she said. “There’s someone else besides Marian—”

She paused, her cheeks flushing, and her fingers gently tapped the edge of the drawing, as if her memories had set them in motion like a favorite tune.

“You mean another family member besides Miss Halcombe?” I suggested, noticing her struggle to continue.

The color deepened on her cheeks and neck, and her fingers tightened around the edge of the book.

“There is someone else,” she said, ignoring my last words, though she had clearly heard them. “There’s someone else who might appreciate a little keepsake if—if I could leave it. It wouldn’t hurt if I were to die first—”

She stopped again. The color that had rushed to her face faded just as quickly. Her hand slipped from the album, trembling slightly as she pushed the book away. She glanced at me for a moment before turning her head aside in her chair. Her handkerchief fell to the floor as she shifted, and she quickly hid her face in her hands.

It was heartbreaking to remember her as the liveliest, happiest child who once laughed through the day, and now to see her, in the bloom of her youth and beauty, so broken and diminished.

In my distress for her, I forgot the years that had passed and how they had changed our relationship. I moved my chair closer, picked up her handkerchief from the carpet, and gently drew her hands from her face. “Don’t cry, my love,” I said, wiping the tears gathering in her eyes with my own hand, as if she were still the little Laura Fairlie of ten years ago.

It was the best way to comfort her. She rested her head on my shoulder, smiling faintly through her tears.

“I’m really sorry for losing my composure,” she said, her voice genuine. “I haven’t been well lately—I've felt so weak and anxious, and I often find myself crying for no reason when I'm alone. But I’m feeling better now—I can talk to you properly, Mr. Gilmore, I really can.”

“No, no, my dear,” I replied gently. “Let’s put this topic aside for now. You’ve said enough for me to know I need to take good care of your interests, and we can discuss the details another time. Let’s move on to something else.”

I guided the conversation to lighter subjects. Within ten minutes, her spirits had lifted, and I stood up to leave.

“Please come back,” she said earnestly. “I’ll try to be more deserving of your kindness and concern for me if you promise to visit again.”

She was still holding onto the past—that past I represented for her, much like Miss Halcombe did in her own way. It pained me to see her looking back at the start of her journey, just as I was reflecting on the end of mine.

“If I do come back, I hope to find you feeling better,” I said. “Better and happier. God bless you, my dear!”

She responded by turning her cheek toward me for a kiss. Even lawyers have hearts, and mine ached a little as I took my leave.

Our entire conversation had barely lasted half an hour—she hadn’t said a word to explain the source of her distress and anxiety about the upcoming marriage, yet somehow, she had managed to sway me to her side without my understanding how or why. I had entered the room thinking that Sir Percival Glyde had every right to be upset with how she was treating him. I left, secretly hoping she would take him at his word and seek her freedom. A man of my age and experience should have known better than to waver like this. I can’t excuse myself; I can only admit that’s how it was.

As the time for my departure approached, I sent a message to Mr. Fairlie, offering to stop by to say goodbye if he wished, but mentioning that I was a bit pressed for time. He replied with a note written in pencil on a scrap of paper: “Kind love and best wishes, dear Gilmore. Any kind of hurry is terribly harmful to me. Please take care of yourself. Goodbye.”

Just before I left, I had a moment alone with Miss Halcombe.

“Have you said everything you wanted to Laura?” she asked.

“Yes,” I replied. “She’s very weak and anxious—I’m glad she has you to look after her.”

Miss Halcombe’s sharp gaze scrutinized my face closely.

“You’re changing your opinion about Laura,” she noted. “You’re more willing to make allowances for her than you were yesterday.”

No sensible man ever enters an unprepared verbal sparring match with a woman. I simply replied, “Let me know what happens. I won’t do anything until I hear from you.”

She continued to study my face. “I wish it was all over and done with, Mr. Gilmore—and so do you.” With that, she left me.

Sir Percival graciously insisted on escorting me to the carriage door.

“If you’re ever in my area,” he said, “please don’t forget that I genuinely want to strengthen our acquaintance. The trusted old friend of this family will always be a welcome guest in my home.”

He was truly an irresistible man—polite, thoughtful, and refreshingly humble—a gentleman through and through. As I drove away to the station, I felt as though I would gladly do anything to support Sir Percival Glyde—anything in the world, except draft the marriage settlement for his wife.