X (1/2)

by Wilkie Collins

June 20th—8:00 AM. The sun is shining in a clear sky. I haven’t been near my bed—I haven’t closed my tired eyes even once. From the same window where I stared into the darkness last night, I now gaze out at the bright stillness of the morning.

I measure the hours that have passed since I found refuge in this room by how I feel—and those hours stretch out like weeks.

It’s amazing how little time has passed, yet it feels like an eternity to me—since I collapsed in the darkness, here on the floor—soaked to the skin, my limbs cramped, cold to the bone, a useless, helpless, panic-stricken mess.

I can hardly remember when I pulled myself together. I barely recall how I stumbled back to the bedroom, lit the candle, and searched (with a strange uncertainty about where to look) for dry clothes to warm myself. I remember doing those things, but not when they happened.

Can I even recall when the chill and stiffness left me, replaced by a throbbing heat?

Surely that must have been before the sun rose? Yes, I heard the clock strike three. I remember that moment, marked by the sudden brightness and clarity, the feverish strain and excitement that surged through me. I resolved to keep my composure, to wait patiently hour after hour until the chance came to remove Laura from this dreadful place, without the risk of immediate discovery and pursuit. I convinced myself that the words exchanged between those two men would not only justify our departure but also serve as our defense against them. I felt an urgent need to write down those words exactly as they were spoken, while I still had the time and my memory was fresh. All of this is clear in my mind; there’s no confusion yet.

I remember coming in from the bedroom with my pen, ink, and paper before sunrise—sitting at the wide-open window to catch as much air as I could to cool myself—writing feverishly, faster and faster, the heat rising within me, pushing me to stay awake through the agonizing hours before the house stirred again. I can recall it vividly, from the flickering candlelight to the bright sunlight of the new day.

Why am I still sitting here? Why do I strain my tired eyes and throbbing head by writing more? Why not lie down and rest, trying to quench the fever that consumes me with sleep?

I can’t dare to do that. A fear greater than any other has taken hold of me. I’m afraid of this heat that scorches my skin. I’m afraid of the pulsing and throbbing in my head. If I lie down now, how can I be sure I’ll have the strength to get up again?

Oh, the rain, the rain—the cruel rain that chilled me last night!

9:00 AM. Was that the hour that struck, or was it eight? It must be nine, surely? I’m shivering again—shivering from head to toe in the summer air. Have I been sitting here asleep? I can’t tell what I’ve been doing.

Oh, my God! Am I going to be ill?

Ill, at such a time as this!

My head—I’m terribly afraid of my head. I can write, but the lines are all blurring together. I see the words. Laura—I can write Laura and see it clearly. Eight or nine—which was it?

So cold, so cold—oh, that rain last night!—and the clock strikes, the chimes I can’t count, echoing in my head—

* * * * * * * * * *

[At this point, the entry in the diary becomes illegible. The next few lines contain fragments of words mixed with blots and scratches of the pen. The last marks on the paper resemble the first two letters (L and A) of Lady Glyde’s name.

On the next page of the diary, another entry appears. It’s written in a man’s handwriting, large, bold, and neatly formed, dated “June 21st.” It contains these lines—]

POSTSCRIPT BY A SINCERE FRIEND

The illness of our dear Miss Halcombe has given me the chance to enjoy an unexpected intellectual delight.

I’m referring to the reading (which I have just completed) of this fascinating diary.

There are hundreds of pages here. I can honestly say that every page has charmed, refreshed, and delighted me.

For a man of my sentiments, it’s immensely gratifying to express this.

What an admirable woman!

I’m speaking of Miss Halcombe.

What a remarkable effort!

I’m referring to the diary.

These pages are incredible. The tact, the discretion, the rare courage, the remarkable memory, the keen observation of character, the effortless grace of style, and the heartfelt expressions of femininity have all deepened my admiration for this extraordinary woman, this magnificent Marian. The way my own character is portrayed is nothing short of brilliant. I wholeheartedly affirm the accuracy of this depiction. I can only imagine the strong impression I must have made to be captured in such bold, rich colors.

I can’t help but mourn the cruel necessity that drives us apart, setting our interests at odds. Under better circumstances, I would have been so deserving of Miss Halcombe—how deserving she would have been of me.

The feelings that fill my heart assure me that what I’ve just written holds a profound truth.

These feelings elevate me above any personal concerns. I can honestly attest to the brilliance of the strategy that this remarkable woman used to orchestrate the private meeting between Percival and me, as well as the astonishing accuracy of her account of our entire conversation.

These sentiments have even led me to offer my extensive knowledge of chemistry and my understanding of the more subtle aspects of medical and magnetic science to the unyielding doctor attending to her. So far, he has stubbornly refused my help. What a miserable man!

Ultimately, these feelings inspire the words—grateful, sympathetic, paternal—that you see here. I close the book now. My sense of propriety compels me to return it (through my wife) to its rightful place on the writer’s table. Events are moving quickly, and circumstances are steering me toward serious matters. Vast horizons of success unfold before me. I pursue my destiny with a calmness that is almost terrifying. The only thing I can claim as my own is my admiration, which I lay with respectful tenderness at Miss Halcombe’s feet.

I wish her a swift recovery.

I express my condolences for the inevitable failure of every plan she has made for her sister’s benefit. At the same time, I urge her to understand that the insights I’ve gained from her diary will not contribute to that failure. They merely reinforce the course of action I had already planned. I owe these pages my gratitude for awakening the finest sensibilities within me—nothing more.

For someone with similar sensibilities, this simple statement will clarify and justify everything.

Miss Halcombe is indeed a person of similar sensibility.

With that belief, I sign off, Fosco.

THE STORY CONTINUED BY FREDERICK FAIRLIE, ESQ., OF LIMMERIDGE HOUSE

The way Mr. Fairlie’s narrative, along with other narratives that will follow, was originally obtained will be explained later.

It is the greatest misfortune of my life that nobody will leave me alone.

Why—I ask everyone—why do you insist on bothering me? No one answers, and no one lets me be. Relatives, friends, and strangers all come together to annoy me. What have I done? I ask myself, I ask my servant, Louis, fifty times a day—what have I done? Neither of us can figure it out. It’s truly bizarre!

The latest annoyance I’ve faced is the demand to write this narrative. Is a man in my state of nervous misery really capable of writing narratives? When I raise this perfectly reasonable objection, I’m told that certain serious events concerning my niece have occurred in my presence, and that I’m the right person to describe them. I’m threatened with consequences that I can hardly bear to think about. There’s really no need for threats. Overwhelmed by my poor health and family troubles, I’m unable to resist. If you insist, you’re taking unfair advantage of me, and I immediately give in. I will try to recall what I can (under protest) and write what I can (also under protest). For anything I can’t remember or write, Louis will have to step in. He’s an idiot, and I’m an invalid, so we’re bound to make all sorts of mistakes together. How humiliating!

I’m told to remember dates. Good heavens! I’ve never done that in my life—how am I supposed to start now?

I asked Louis. He’s not quite as much of an idiot as I thought. He remembers the date of the event, give or take a week or two—and I remember the name of the person involved. The date was around the end of June or the beginning of July, and the name (which I find rather common) was Fanny.

At the end of June or the beginning of July, I found myself lounging in my usual spot, surrounded by the various pieces of art I had collected to elevate the taste of the rather uncultured folks in my neighborhood. I had photographs of my paintings, prints, coins, and other treasures scattered around me, all of which I intended to donate—eventually, if the clumsy English language would allow me to express myself—to the institution in Carlisle (a dreadful place!), hoping to refine the tastes of its members (who, I must say, are nothing short of barbarians).

You might think that a gentleman engaged in such a noble endeavor would be the last person to be bothered by personal troubles and family matters. But you would be mistaken in my case.

So there I was, reclining with my art treasures, yearning for a peaceful morning. Naturally, that’s when Louis decided to walk in. It was only natural that I would question why he appeared without me ringing for him. I rarely swear—it’s such an unrefined habit—but when Louis responded with a grin, I think it was perfectly reasonable for me to express my annoyance at his grin. And so I did.

I’ve noticed that this kind of treatment tends to bring people from the lower classes back to reality. It certainly worked on Louis. He promptly stopped grinning and informed me that a young woman was outside wanting to see me. He added, with the irritating chatter typical of servants, that her name was Fanny.

“Who is Fanny?” I asked.

“Lady Glyde’s maid, sir.”

“What does Lady Glyde’s maid want with me?”

“She has a letter for you, sir—”

“Then give it to me.”

“She refuses to hand it over to anyone but you, sir.”

“Who sent the letter?”

“Miss Halcombe, sir.”

The moment I heard Miss Halcombe’s name, I surrendered. I’ve learned from experience that it’s best to give in to Miss Halcombe. It saves a lot of fuss. So, I gave in this time. Dear Marian!

“Let Lady Glyde’s maid come in, Louis. Wait! Do her shoes creak?”

I had to ask. Creaking shoes could ruin my day. I was prepared to meet the young woman, but I was NOT prepared to let her noisy shoes disturb my peace. There’s a limit to my patience.

Louis assured me that her shoes were fine. I waved my hand, and he introduced her. Is it necessary to mention that she expressed her embarrassment by keeping her mouth shut and breathing through her nose? For anyone studying the nature of working-class women, it surely isn’t.

To be fair, her shoes did NOT creak. But why do all young women in service seem to sweat from their hands? Why do they all have round noses and rough cheeks? And why do their faces look so unfinished, especially around the corners of their eyelids? I’m not one to ponder deeply on such matters, but I appeal to those who do. Why is there such a lack of variety in our young women?

“You have a letter for me from Miss Halcombe? Please put it on the table and don’t knock anything over. How is Miss Halcombe?”

“Very well, thank you, sir.”

“And Lady Glyde?”

I received no answer. The young woman’s face became even more unfinished, and I thought I saw her eyes glistening. Were those tears or sweat? Louis, whom I just consulted, thinks they were tears. He belongs to her class, so he should know best. Let’s assume they were tears.

Unless art has refined them to the point of losing all resemblance to nature, I have a distinct aversion to tears. Scientifically, they’re just a secretion. I can understand that a secretion can be either healthy or unhealthy, but I fail to see the sentimental value in it. Perhaps my own secretions are all out of whack, making me a bit biased on the subject. Regardless, I behaved with all due propriety and concern. I closed my eyes and said to Louis—

“Try to find out what she means.”

Louis tried, and the young woman tried too. They ended up confusing each other to such an extent that I must admit, it was quite entertaining. I think I’ll call for them again when I’m feeling down. I just mentioned this idea to Louis, and strangely enough, it seemed to make him uneasy. Poor fellow!

Surely, I’m not expected to repeat my niece’s maid’s explanation of her tears, translated through my Swiss valet’s English? That would be utterly impossible. I can share my own impressions and feelings, perhaps. Will that suffice? Please say yes.

She started by telling me, through Louis, that her employer had let her go from her mistress's service. (Honestly, how was I responsible for her losing her job?) After being dismissed, she went to the inn to sleep. (I don’t run the inn—why mention it to me?) Between six and seven, Miss Halcombe had come to say goodbye and handed her two letters—one for me and one for a gentleman in London. (I’m not a gentleman in London—forget about him!) She tucked the two letters into her bosom (why should I care about her bosom?); she felt very unhappy when Miss Halcombe left; she hadn’t had the heart to eat or drink anything until it was almost bedtime, and then, just before nine o’clock, she decided she wanted a cup of tea. (Am I responsible for her mood swings, starting with sadness and ending with tea?) Just as she was warming the pot (I’m quoting Louis, who insists he knows what that means and wants to explain, but I dismiss him on principle)—just as she was warming the pot, the door opened, and she was completely taken aback (her own words, and completely baffling to both Louis and me) by the appearance of her ladyship, the Countess. I can’t help but relish my niece’s maid’s description of my sister’s title. My poor sister is a tiresome woman who married a foreigner. Anyway, back to the story: the door opened, the Countess walked into the parlor, and the Young Person was utterly stunned. Quite remarkable!

I really need to take a moment before I can continue. After I’ve rested for a few minutes with my eyes closed, and Louis has refreshed my aching temples with a bit of eau-de-Cologne, I might be able to go on.

Her ladyship the Countess—

No, I can continue, but I can’t sit up. I’ll recline and dictate. Louis has a terrible accent, but he knows the language and can write. How convenient!

Her ladyship, the Countess, explained her unexpected visit to the inn by saying she had come to deliver a couple of little messages that Miss Halcombe had forgotten in her rush. The Young Person waited anxiously to hear what the messages were, but the Countess seemed reluctant to mention them (just like my sister!) until Fanny had her tea. Surprisingly, her ladyship was kind and considerate about it (very unlike my sister), saying, “I’m sure, my poor girl, you must want your tea. We can wait until afterwards for the messages. Come, if nothing else will ease you, I’ll make the tea and have a cup with you.” Those were the words, as excitedly reported to me by the Young Person. In any case, the Countess insisted on making the tea, even going so far as to pour herself a cup and insisting that the girl take the other. The girl drank the tea and, according to her own account, marked the extraordinary occasion by fainting dead away for the first time in her life. I’m using her own words here. Louis thinks there were also more tears involved. I can’t say for sure; listening was quite enough for me, and my eyes were closed.

Where was I? Ah, yes—she fainted after having tea with the Countess—a situation that might have intrigued me if I were her doctor, but since I’m not, I found it rather boring. When she came to half an hour later, she was on the sofa, and the only person with her was the landlady. The Countess, realizing it was too late to stay at the inn, had left as soon as the girl showed signs of recovering, and the landlady had kindly helped her upstairs to bed.

Left alone, she checked her bosom (I regret having to mention this again), and found the two letters safe but oddly crumpled. She had felt dizzy during the night but managed to get up well enough to travel in the morning. She put the letter for that intrusive gentleman in London in the post and now handed me the other letter as instructed. This was the plain truth, and although she couldn’t blame herself for any intentional neglect, she was deeply troubled and in need of some advice. At this point, Louis thinks the tears appeared again. Maybe they did, but what’s far more important is that at this moment, I lost my patience, opened my eyes, and intervened.

“What does all this mean?” I asked.

My niece’s irrelevant maid stared at me, speechless.

“Try to explain,” I said to my servant. “Translate for me, Louis.”

Louis tried his best to translate, but it felt like he had jumped straight into a bottomless pit of confusion, and the Young Person followed him right down. I can’t remember the last time I was so entertained. I let them stay at the bottom of that pit as long as they kept me amused. But when their antics stopped being entertaining, I decided to use my brain and pulled them back up.

It goes without saying that my intervention eventually allowed me to figure out what the Young Person was so anxious about.

I learned that she was worried because the series of events she had just shared with me had prevented her from receiving some important messages that Miss Halcombe had entrusted to the Countess. She feared those messages might be crucial for her mistress’s interests. Her fear of Sir Percival had kept her from going to Blackwater Park late at night to ask about them, and Miss Halcombe’s strict instructions to catch the morning train had stopped her from waiting at the inn the next day. She was desperate that her fainting episode wouldn’t make her mistress think she was neglectful, and she humbly asked if I would advise her to write an explanation and apology to Miss Halcombe, requesting the messages by letter if it wasn’t too late. I won’t apologize for this rather dull paragraph; I’ve been told to write it. There are people, as strange as it may seem, who care more about what my niece’s maid said to me than what I said to her. It’s quite amusing, really!

“I would really appreciate your advice, sir, on what I should do,” the Young Person said.

“Just leave things as they are,” I replied, simplifying my language for her. “I always let things be. Is that all?”

“If you think it would be inappropriate for me to write, then I wouldn’t dream of doing so. But I’m very eager to do everything I can to serve my mistress faithfully—”

People from the lower classes often don’t know when or how to leave a room. They usually need help from those above them. I figured it was time to help the Young Person out. I did so with two simple words.

“Good morning.”

Something about this peculiar girl creaked, either from outside or within. Louis, who was watching her (which I wasn’t), said she creaked when she curtseyed. How odd. Was it her shoes, her corset, or her bones? Louis thinks it was her corset. Quite extraordinary!

Once I was alone, I took a little nap—I really needed it. When I woke up, I noticed Marian’s letter. If I had any idea what it contained, I would have never tried to open it. Unfortunately, being blissfully unaware, I read the letter. It immediately ruined my day.

I’m naturally one of the easiest-going people you could meet—I make allowances for everyone and take offense at nothing. But as I’ve mentioned before, there are limits to my patience. I set down Marian’s letter and felt, quite justifiably, like a wronged man.

I’m about to make a point that, of course, relates to the serious matter at hand, or I wouldn’t bring it up here.

In my opinion, nothing highlights the selfishness of humanity as vividly as the way single people are treated by married ones across all social classes. Once you’ve shown yourself to be considerate enough to avoid adding to an already overcrowded population, you become a target for your married friends, who have no such consideration or self-denial. They see you as the perfect person to unload their marital troubles onto and the designated friend of all their children.

Take my situation, for example. I choose to remain single, while my dear brother Philip makes the inconsiderate choice to marry. What happens when he dies? He leaves his daughter to me. She’s a lovely girl, but she’s also a huge responsibility. Why should that fall on me? Because, as a single man, I’m expected to take on the burdens of my married relatives. I do my best with my brother’s responsibility—I marry my niece, with endless fuss and difficulty, to the man her father wanted her to marry. They don’t get along, and unpleasant consequences arise. What does she do with those consequences? She hands them over to me. Why me? Because, as a single man, I’m supposed to relieve my married relatives of their troubles. Poor single people! Poor human nature!

It’s unnecessary to say that Marian’s letter felt like a threat. Honestly, everyone seems to threaten me these days. She laid out all sorts of horrors that would befall me if I hesitated to turn Limmeridge House into a refuge for my niece and her troubles. Yet, I hesitated.

Up until now, I had always given in to dear Marian to avoid conflict. But this time, the implications of her thoughtless suggestion made me stop and think. If I opened Limmeridge House as a sanctuary for Lady Glyde, what guarantee did I have that Sir Percival Glyde wouldn’t come here, furious with me for sheltering his wife? The potential mess seemed overwhelming, so I decided to tread carefully. I wrote to Marian, asking her to come here alone first, since she had no husband to claim her. I wanted her to discuss the situation with me. If she could address my concerns to my satisfaction, I promised I would welcome our sweet Laura with open arms, but not otherwise.

I knew that this delay would likely result in Marian arriving here, indignant and slamming doors. But the alternative could mean Sir Percival showing up, equally indignant and slamming doors as well. Between the two, I preferred Marian’s indignation because I was used to her. So, I sent off the letter right away. At least it bought me some time—and oh, how precious that was.

When I’m completely overwhelmed—and yes, I was utterly overwhelmed by Marian’s letter—it usually takes me three days to recover. I was being unreasonable, expecting three days of peace. Naturally, I didn’t get them.

On the third day, I received a rather rude letter from someone I didn’t know. He introduced himself as the acting partner of our stubborn old lawyer, Gilmore. He informed me that he had recently received a letter addressed to him in Miss Halcombe’s handwriting. Upon opening the envelope, he found nothing but a blank sheet of paper. This struck him as suspicious, suggesting to his overly analytical mind that the letter had been tampered with. Instead of being sensible and letting things unfold, he decided to bother me by asking if I knew anything about it. What on earth could I know? Why drag me into his anxiety? I replied, making my irritation clear. It was one of my sharpest letters; I hadn’t written anything so pointed since I dismissed the troublesome Mr. Walter Hartright.

My response did the trick. I didn’t hear from the lawyer again.

This wasn’t entirely surprising, but it was certainly noteworthy that I didn’t receive a second letter from Marian, nor did I see any signs of her impending arrival. Her unexpected absence was a relief. It was comforting to assume—of course I did—that my family had reconciled. Five days of uninterrupted peace, of delightful solitude, completely restored me. By the sixth day, I felt strong enough to call my photographer back to work on the presentation copies of my art collection, aiming to elevate the taste in this rather uncultured neighborhood. I had just sent him off to his workshop and was about to indulge in my coins when Louis suddenly appeared, holding a card.

“Another Young Person?” I said. “I won’t see her. In my current state, Young Persons are not good for me. Not at home.”