THE STORY TOLD BY NX-ALTER HARTRIGHT

PART ONE

A meeting by moonlight

It was the last day of July. The long hot summer was coming to an end, and I was feeling ill and depressed. I was also short of money, so I had little chance of escaping from the dusty London Streets, and would have to spend the autumn economically between my rooms in the city and my mother's house.

My mother and my sister Sarah lived in a cottage in Hampstead, in the northern suburbs, and I usually went to see them twice a week. This evening I arrived at the gate of the cottage Just as it was starting to get dark. I had hardly rung the bell before the door was opened violently, and my Italian friend, Professor Pesca, rushed one to greet me.

Pesca was a language teacher who had left Italy for political reasons and had made his home in England. He was a strange, excitable little man who was always trying to be more English than die English. I had met him from time to rime when he was teaching in the same houses as to was, and then one day I met him by chance in Brighton, We agreed to go for a swim together in the sea. He was very enthusiastic and it never for a moment occurred to me that he did not know how to swim! Fortunately, when he suddenly sank Co the bottom, I was able to dive down and save him. From that day on he was my grateful friend, and that evening he showed his gratitude to me in a way that changed my whole life.

'Now, my good friends he said, when we were all in my mother's sitting-room. 'I have some wonderful news for you. I have been asked by my employer to recommend a drawing teacher for a post with a rich family in the north of England. And who do you think I have recommended? The best drawing teacher in the world — Mr. Walter Hartright!

My dear Pesca! How good you are to Walter!' exclaimed my mother? 'How kind, how generous you are!'

As for myself, although I was certainly grateful for his kindness, I still felt strangely depressed. I thanked him warmly, however, and asked to see the conditions. The note he gave me said that a qualified drawing teacher was wanted by Mr. Frederick Fairlie of Limmeridge House, Cumberland, to teach his two young nieces for a period of at least four months. The teacher was to live at Limmeridge House as a gentleman and receive four pounds a week. Letters to show he was of good character would be required.

The position was certainly an attractive one, and I could not understand why I felt so little enthusiasm font. However, since my mother and sister thought it was a great opportunity, and I had no wish to hurt Pesca's feelings, I agreed to apply for the job.

The next morning I sent my letters of recommendation to the Professors employer, and four days later I heard that Mr. Fairlie accepted my services and requested me to start for Cumberland immediately. I arranged to leave the next day, and in the evening I walked to Hampstead to say goodbye to my mother and Sarah.

When I left them at midnight, a full moon was shining in a dark blue, starless sky, and the air was soft and warm. I decided to take the long route home and walk across Hampstead Heath before joining the road into the centre of the city. After a while I came to a crossroads and turned onto the London road. I was lost in my own thoughts, wondering about the two young ladies in Cumberland, when suddenly, my heart seemed to stop beating. A hand had touched my shoulder from behind.

I turned at once, my hand tightening on my walking stick. There, as if it had dropped from the sky, stood the figure of a woman, dressed from head to foot in white clothes. I was too surprised to speak.

'Is that the road into London?' she said. I looked at her carefully. It was then nearly one o'clock. All I could see in the moonlight was a young colourless face, large sad eyes, and light brown hair. Her manner was quiet and self-controlled. What sort of woman she was, and why she was out so late alone, I could not guess. But there was nothing evil about her - indeed, a kind of sad innocence seemed to come from her. 'Did you hear me?' she said, quietly and rapidly. 'Yes,' I replied, 'that's the road. Please excuse me - I was rather surprised by your sudden appearance.'

'You don't suspect me of doing anything wrong, do you?' 'No, no, seeing you so suddenly gave me a shock, that's all.' I heard you coming,' she said, 'and hid behind those trees to see what sort of man you were, before I risked speaking. May I trust you?' Her eyes searched my face, anxiously.

Her loneliness and helplessness were so obvious that I felt great sympathy for her. 'Tell me how I can help you,' I said, 'and if I can, I will.'

'Oh, thank you, thank you. You are very kind.' Her voice trembled a little as she spoke. I don't know London at all. Can I get a cab or a carriage at this time of night? Could you show me where to get one, and will you promise not to interfere with me? I have a friend in London who will be glad to receive me. I want nothing else — will you promise?'

She looked nervously up and down the road, then back at me. How could I refuse? Her fear and confusion were painful to see.

'Will you promise?' she repeated.

'Yes.'

We set off together towards the centre of London. It was like a dream — walking along that familiar road, with so strange and so mysterious a companion at my side.

'Do you know any men of the rank of Baronet in London?" she asked suddenly.

There was a note of suspicion in the strange question, and when I said I knew no Baronets, she seemed relieved. I questioned her further, and she murmured that she had been cruelly used by a Baronet she would not name. She told me she came from Hampshire and asked if I lived in London. I explained that I did, but that I was leaving for Cumberland the next day.

'Cumberland!' she repeated softly. 'Ah! I wish I was going there too. I was once happy in Cumberland, in Limmeridge village. I’d like to see Limmeridge House again.'

Limmeridge House! I stopped, amazed.

'What's wrong?' she asked anxiously. 'Did you hear anybody calling after us?'

No, no. It's just that I heard the name of Limmeridge House very recently. Do you know somebody there?'

I did once,' she said. 'But Mrs. Fairlie is dead; and her husband is dead; and their little girl may be married and gone away. ..'

Perhaps she would have told me more, but just at that moment we saw a cab. I stopped it, and she quickly got in.

'Please,' I said, 'let me see you safely to your friend's house.'

'No, no, she cried. 'I'm quite safe, and you must let me go. Remember your promise! But thank you - off thank you.

She caught my hand in hers, kissed it, and pushed it away. The cab disappeared into the black shadows on the road - and the woman in white had gone.

Ten minutes later I was still on the same road, thinking uneasily about the whole adventure, when I heard wheels behind me. An open carriage with two men in it passed me, and then stopped when they saw a policeman walking further down the street.

Officer! cried one of the men. 'Have you seen a woman pass this wav? A woman in white clothes?

No sir. Why? What has she done?'

Done! She has escaped from my asylum.'

An asylum! But the woman had not seemed mad to me. Nervous and a little strange perhaps but not mad. What had I done? Had I helped a woman wrongly imprisoned to escape? Or had I failed to protect a sick person who might come to harm? These disturbing thoughts kept me awake all night after I had got back to my rooms, until at last it was time to leave London and set out for Cumberland.

***

My travelling instructions directed me to Carlisle and then to change trains for Limmeridge. However, because of a long delay I missed my connection and did not get to Limmeridge till past ten. A servant in rather a bad temper was waiting for me at the station with a carriage and when I arrived at Limmeridge House everyone had gone to bed. I was shown to my room and when I at last put out the candle, I thought to myself. What shall I see in my dreams tonight? The woman in white? Or the unknown inhabitants of this Cumberland house?

Life at Limmeridge House

When I got up the next morning, I was greeted by bright sunlight and a view of blue sea through the window. The future suddenly seemed full of promise. I found my way down to the breakfast-room and there, looking out of a window with her back turned to me, was a young woman with a perfect figure. But when she turned and walked towards me, I saw to my surprise that her face was ugly. Hair grew on her upper lip, and her mouth was large and firm. It was almost a man's face, but the friendly smile she gave me softened it and made her look more womanly. She welcomed me in a pleasant, educated voice and introduced herself as Marian Halcombe, Miss Fairlie's half-sister.

'My mother was twice married,' she explained, in her easy, friendly manner. 'The first time to Mr. Halcombe my father and the second time to Mr. Fairlie my half-sister's father. My father was a poor man, and Miss Fairlie's father was a rich man. I've got nothing, and she has a fortune. I’m dark and ugly, and she's fair and pretty.' She said all this quite happily. 'My sister and I are very fond of each other, so you must please both of us, Mr. Hartright, or please neither of us.'

She then told me that Miss Fairlic had a headache that morning and was being looked after by Mrs. Vesey, an elderly lady who had once been Miss Fairlie's governess.

'So we shall be alone at breakfast, Mr. Hartright,' she said. 'As for Mr. Fairlie, your employer, you will doubtless meet him later. He is Miss Fairlie's uncle, a single man, who became Miss Fairlie's guardian when her parents died. He suffers from some mysterious illness of the nerves, and never leaves his rooms.'

While we ate breakfast, she described the quiet, regular life that she and her sister led. 'Do you think you will get used to it?' she said. "Or will you be restless, and wish for some adventure?'

Hearing the word 'adventure' reminded me of my meeting with the woman in white, and her reference to Mrs. Fairlie. I told Miss Halcombe all about my adventure, and she showed an eager interest, especially in the mention of her mother.

'But you didn't find out the woman's name?' she said.

I’m afraid not. Only that she came from Hampshire.'

'Well, I shall spend the morning,' said Miss Halcombe, 'looking through my mother's letters. I'm sure I will find some clues there to explain this mystery. Lunch is at two o'clock, Mr. Hartright, and I shall introduce you to my sister then.

After breakfast Mr. Fairlie's personal servant, Louis, came to tell me that Mr. Fairlie would like to see me. I followed the servant upstairs and was shown into a large room full of art treasures. There, in an armchair, sat a small, pale, delicate-looking man of about fifty. Despite his fine clothes and the valuable rings on his soft white fingers, there was something very unattractive about him.

'So glad to have you here, Mr. Hartright,' he said in a high, complaining voice. 'Please sit down, but don't move the chair. In my state of nerves any movement is painful to me. May I ask if you have found everything satisfactory here at Limmeridge?'

When I began to reply, he at once raised his hand to stop me.

'Please excuse me, but could you speak more softly? I simply cannot bear loud voices, or indeed, any kind of loud sound.

The interview did not last long as Mr. Fairlie quickly lost interest in it. He informed me that the ladies would make all the arrangements for their drawing lessons.

I suffer so much from my nerves, Mr. Hartright,' he said. 'Do you mind ringing the bell for Louis? Thank you. Good morning!'

With great relief I left the room, and spent the test of the morning looking forward to lunchtime, when I would be introduced to Miss Fairlie.

At two o'clock I entered the dining room and found Miss Halcombe seated at the table with a rather fat lady who smiled all the time. This, I discovered, was Mrs. Vesey. We started eating and before long we had finished lunch, with still no sign of Miss Fairlie. Miss Halcombe noticed my frequent glances at the door. I understand you, Mr. Hartright,' she said. 'You are wondering about your other student. Well, she has got over her headache, but did not want any lunch. If you will follow me, I think I can find her somewhere in the garden.'

We walked out together along a path through the garden, until we came to a pretty summer-house. Inside I could see a young lady standing near a table, looking out at the view and turning the pages of a little drawing book. This was Miss Laura Fairlie.

How can I describe her? How can I separate this moment from all that has happened since then? In a drawing I later made of her she appears as a light, youthful figure wearing a simple white and blue striped dress and a summer hat. Her hair is light brown, almost gold, and she has eyes that are clear and blue, with a look of truth in them. They give her whole face such a charm that it is difficult to notice each individual feature: the delicate, though not perfectly straight, nose; the sweet, sensitive mouth. The life and beauty of her face lies in her eyes.

Such was my impression, but at the same time I felt there was something about her that I could not explain — something that I ought to remember, but could not. In fact, I was thinking about this so much that I could hardly answer when she greeted me.

Miss Halcombe, believing I was shy, quickly said, 'Look at your perfect student,' and she pointed at the sketches. 'She has already started work before your lessons have begun. You must show them to Mr. Hartrighr, Laura, when we go for a drive.'

Miss Fairlie laughed with bright good humour.

'I hope he will give his true opinion of them and not just say something to please me,' she said.

'May I enquire why you say that?' I asked.

'Because J shall believe all that you tell me she answered simply.

In those few words she gave me the key to her own trusting, truthful character.

Later we went for our promised drive, but I must confess that I was far more interested in Miss Fairlie's conversation than her sketches. I soon realized I was behaving more like a guest than a drawing teacher and when I was on my own again I felt uneasy and dissatisfied with myself.

At dinner that evening these feelings soon disappeared, and when the meal was over, we went into a large sitting room with glass doors leading into the garden. Mrs. Vesey fell asleep in an armchair and Miss Halcombe sat near a window to look through her mother's letters. At my request Miss Fairlie played the piano.

How will I ever forget that peaceful picture? The flowers outside the music of Mozart. Miss Halcombe reading the letters in the half-light the delicate outline of Miss Fairlie's face against the dark wall. It was an evening of sights and sounds to remember for ever.

Later, when Miss Fairlie had finished playing and had wandered out into the moonlit garden, Miss Halcombe called me.

'Mr. Hartright, will you come here for a minute?'

I went over and she showed me a letter.

'It's from my mother to her second husband twelve years ago. She mentions a lady from Hampshire called Mrs. Catherick, who had come to look after her sick sister living in the village. It seems she brought her only child with her, a little girl called Anne, who was about a year older than Laura. I was at a school in Paris at the time. My mother, who took a great interest in the village school, says the little girl was slow in learning so she gave her lessons here at the house. She also gave her some of Laura's white dresses and white hats, saying she looked better in white than any other colour. She says that little Anne Catherick was so grateful, and loved her so much, that one day she kissed her hand and said, "I'll always wear white as long as I live. It will help me to remember you."

Miss Halcombe stopped and looked at me.

'Did the woman you met that night seem young enough to be twenty-two or twenty-three?'

'Yes, Miss Halcombe, as young as that.'

'And was she dressed from head to foot, all in white?'

All in white.

From where I sat, I could see Miss Fairlie walking in the garden, and the whiteness of her dress in the moonlight suddenly made my heart beat faster.

'Now listen to what my mother says at the end of the letter Miss Halcombe continued. 'It will surprise you. She says that perhaps the real reason for her liking little Anne Catherick so much was that she looked exactly like.

Before she could finish, I jumped up. Outside stood Miss Fairlie, a white figure alone in the moonlight. And suddenly I realized what it was that I had been unable to remember - it was the extraordinary likeness between Miss Laura Fairlie and the runaway from the asylum, the woman in white.

'You see it!' said Miss Halcombe. Just as my mother saw the likeness between them years ago.

'Yes,' I replied. 'But very unwillingly. To connect that lonely, friendless woman, even by an accidental likeness, to Miss Fairlie disturbs me very much. I don't like to think of it. Please call her in from that horrible moonlight!'

'We won't say anything about this likeness to Laura,' she said. 'It will be a secret between you and me. Then she called Miss Fairlie in, asking her to play the piano again; and so my first, eventful day at Limmeridge House came to an end.

***

The days passed, the weeks passed, and summer changed into a golden autumn. A peaceful, happy time, but at last, I had to confess to myself my real feelings for Miss Fairlie.

I loved her.

Every day I was near her in that dangerous closeness which exists between teacher and student. Often, as we bent over her sketch-book, our hands and faces almost touched. I breathed the perfume of her hair. I should have put a professional distance between myself and her, as I had always done with my students in the past. But I did not, and it was soon too late.

By the third month of my stay in Cumberland, I was lost in dreams of love and blind to the dangers ahead of me. Then the first warning finally came - from her. In the space of one night, she changed towards me. There was a sudden nervous distance, and a kind of sadness, in her attitude. The pain I felt at that moment is beyond description. But I knew then that she had changed because she had suddenly discovered not only my feelings, but her own as well. This change was also reflected in Miss Halcombe, who said nothing unusual to me, but who had developed a new habit of always watching me. This new and awful situation continued for some time until, on a Thursday, near the end of the third month, I was at last rescued by the sensible and courageous Miss Halcombe.

'Have you got a moment for me?' she asked after breakfast. 'Shall we go into the garden?'

We walked to the summer-house and went inside. Miss Halcombe turned to me. 'Mr. Hartright, what I have to say to you I can say here. Now, I know that you are a good man who always acts correctly. Your story about that unhappy woman in London proves that. As your friend, I must tell you that I have discovered your feelings for my sister, Laura. Although you have done nothing wrong, except show weakness, I must tell you to leave Limmeridge House before any harm is done. And there is something else I must tell you, which will also give you pain. Will you shake hands with your friend, Marian Halcombe, first?'

She spoke with such kindness that I shook her hand.

'You must leave because Laura Fairlie is to be married.'

The last word went like a bullet to my heart. I turned white, I felt cold. With one word all my hopes disappeared.

'You must put an end to your feelings, here, where you first met her. I will hide nothing from you. She is not marrying for love, but because of a promise she made to her father just before he died. The man she is to marry arrives here next Monday.'

'Let me go today,' I said bitterly. The sooner the better.

No, not today. That would look strange. Wait till tomorrow, after the post has arrived. Say to Mr. Fairlie that you have received bad news and must return to London.'

'I will follow your advice, Miss Halcombe,' I said sadly. 'But may I ask who the gentleman engaged to Miss Fairlie is?'

A rich man from Hampshire.

Hampshire! Again a connection with Anne Catherick!

And his name? I asked, as calmly as I could.

'Sir Percival Glyde.'

Sir! I remembered Anne Catherick’s suspicious question about Baronets, and my voice shook a little as I asked, 'Is he a Baronet?'

She paused for a moment, then answered, 'Yes, a Baronet.'

The unsigned letter

As I sat alone in my room later that morning, my thoughts crowded in on me. There was no reason at all for me to connect Sir Percival Glyde with the man who had made Anne Catherick so afraid - but I did. My suffering was great, but even greater was my feeling that some terrible, invisible danger lay ahead of us. Then I heard a knock at my door. It was Miss Halcombe.

'Mr. Hartright, I am sorry to disturb you, but you are the only person who can advise me. A letter has just arrived for Miss Fairlie - a horrible, unsigned letter, warning her not to marry Sir Percival Glyde. It has upset my sister very much. Should I try to find out who wrote it or wait to speak to Air Gilmore, Mr. Fairlie's legal adviser, who arrives tomorrow?

She gave me the letter. There was no greeting, no signature.

Do you believe in dreams, Miss Fairlie? Last night I dreamt I saw you in your white wedding dress in a church, so pretty, so innocent. By your side stood a man with the scar of an old wound on his right hand — a handsome man, but with a black, evil heart a man who has brought misery to many, and who will bring misery to you. And in my dream I cried for you. Find out the past life of this man, Miss Fairlie, before you marry him. I send you this warning, because your mother was my first, my best my only friend.

These last words suggested an idea to me, which I was afraid to mention. Was I in danger of losing my balance of mind? Why should everything lead back to the woman in white?

I think a woman wrote this letter,' said Miss Halcombe. 'It certainly refers to Sir Percival — I remember that scar. What should I do, Mr. Hartright? This mystery must be solved. Mr. Gilmore is coming to discuss the financial details of Miss Fairlie's marriage, and Sir Percival arrives on Monday to fix the date of the marriage - though Miss Fairlie does not know this yet.

The date of the marriage! Those words filled me with jealous despair. Perhaps there was some truth in this letter. If I could find the writer, perhaps I would find a way to prove that Sir Percival Glyde was not the honest man he seemed.

'I think we should begin enquiries at once. I said. 'The longer we delay, the harder it will be to find out anything.'

We questioned the servants and learnt that the letter had been delivered by an elderly woman, who had then disappeared in the direction of the village. People in Limmeridge remembered seeing the woman, but no one could tell us who she was or where she had come from. Finally, I suggested asking the school teacher. As we approached the school door, we could hear the teacher shouting at one of the boys, saying angrily that there were no such things as ghosts. It was an awkward moment, but we went in anyway and asked our question. The teacher could tell us nothing. However, as we turned to leave, Miss Halcombe spoke to the boy standing in the corner:

'Are you the foolish boy who was talking about ghosts?'

'Yes, Miss. But I saw one! I saw it yesterday, in the churchyard. I did! It was - it was the ghost of Mrs. Fairlie!'

His answer visibly shocked Miss Halcombe, and the teacher quickly stepped in to explain that the silly boy had said he had seen (or probably imagined) a woman in white standing next to Mrs. Fairlie's grave as he passed the churchyard yesterday evening. There was nothing more to it than that.

'What is your opinion of this?' Miss Halcombe asked me as we went out of the school.

'The boy may have seen someone, I said, 'but not a ghost. I think we should examine the grave. I have this suspicion, Miss Halcombe, that the writer of the letter and the imagined ghost in the churchyard might be the same person.'

She stopped, turned pale, and looked at me. 'What person?'

'Anne Catherick,' I replied. The woman in white.

I don't know why, but your suspicion frightens me,' she said slowly. 'I will show you the grave, and then I must go back to Laura. We'll meet again at the house later. In the churchyard I examined Mrs. Fairlie's grave carefully, and noticed that the gravestone had been partly cleaned. Perhaps the person who had done the cleaning would return to finish the job. I decided to come back that evening and watch. Back at the house I explained my plan to Miss Halcombe, who seemed uneasy but made no objection. So, as the sun began to go down, I walked to the churchyard, chose my position, and waited.

After about half an hour I heard footsteps. Then two women passed in front of me and walked to the grave. One wore a long cloak with a hood over her head, hiding her face. Below the cloak a little of her dress was visible - a white dress. The other woman said something to her companion, and then walked away round the corner of the church, leaving the woman in the cloak next to the grave. After looking all around her, she took out a cloth, kissed the white cross and started to clean it.

I approached her slowly and carefully, but when she saw me, she jumped up and looked at me in terror.

There, in front of me, was the face of the woman in white.

'Don't be frightened,' I said. 'Surely you remember me?' Her eyes searched my face. 'I helped you to find the way to London,' I went on. Surcly you have not forgotten that?'

Her face relaxed as she recognized me, and she sighed in relief. Before this, I had seen her likeness in Miss Fairlie. Now I saw Miss Fairlie's likeness in her. Except that Miss Fairlie's delicate-beauty was missing from this tired face, and I could not help thinking that if ever sorrow and suffering fell on Miss Fairlie, then, and only then, they would be the living reflections of one another. It was a horrible thought.

Gently, I began to question her. I told her that I knew she had escaped from an asylum, and that I was glad I had helped her. But had she found her friend in London that night?

'Oh yes. That was Mrs. Clements, who is here with me now. She was our neighbour in Hampshire, and took care of me when I was a little girl. She has always been my friend.'

'Have you no father or mother to take care of you?'

'I never saw my father - I never heard mother speak of him. And I don't get on well with her. I'd rather be with Mrs. Clements, who is kind, like you.'

I learnt that she was staying with relations of Mrs. Clements at a farm, three miles from the village, but there were other, harder questions I wanted to ask. Who had shut her away in an asylum? Her unkind mother perhaps? What was her motive in writing the letter to Miss Fairlie, accusing Sir Percival Clyde? Was it revenge? What wrong had Sir Percival done her?

She was easily frightened, easily confused, and could only hold one idea in her mind at a time. I tried not to alarm her. Had she ever, I asked, been wronged by a man and then abandoned? Her innocent, puzzled face told me that was not the answer.

All the time we were talking she was cleaning the gravestone with her cloth.

'Mrs. Fairlie was my best friend she murmured. 'And her daughter . . .' She looked up at me, then away again, as though hiding her face in guilt. 'Is Miss Fairlie well and happy?' she whispered anxiously.

I decided to try and surprise a confession from her. 'She was not well or happy this morning, after receiving your letter. You wrote it, didn't you? It was wrong to send such a letter.'

Her face went deathly pale. Then she bent down and kissed the gravestone. Oh, Mrs. Fairlie! Mrs. Fairlie! Tell me how to save your daughter. Tell me what to do.'

'You mention no names in the letter, but Miss Fairlie knows that the person you describe is Sir Percival Glyde.

The moment I said his name she gave such a scream of terror that my blood ran cold. Her face, now full of fear and hatred, told me everything. Without doubt the person who had shut her away in the asylum was Sir Percival Glyde.

At the sounds of her scream. Mrs. Clements came running and, looking angrily at me, said, 'What is it, my dear? What has this man done to you?'

'Nothing,' the poor girl said. 'He was good to me once. He helped me . . .' She whispered the rest in her friend's ear.

Then Mrs. Clements put her arm round Anne Catherick and led her away. I watched them go, feeling great pity for that poor, pale, frightened face.

Half an hour later I was back at the house, and the story I told Miss Halcombe made her very worried.

'I am certain Sir Percival Glyde put Anne Catherick in the asylum,' I said. But why? What is the connection between them?'

'We must find out,' said Miss Halcombe. 'We will go to the farm tomorrow, and I will speak to Anne Catherick myself.'

***

The first thing I had to do the next morning was to ask Mr. Fairlie if I could leave my job a month early. As his nerves were particularly bad, I could not speak to him directly but had to write a note, explaining that some unexpected news forced me to return to London. In reply I received a most unpleasant letter, informing me that I could go. Once, such a letter would have upset me greatly; now, I no longer cared.

Later Miss Halcombe and I walked to the farm, and Miss Halcombe went in while I waited nearby. To my surprise, she returned after only a few minutes.

'Does Anne Catherick refuse to see you?' I asked.

'Anne Catherick has gone,' replied Miss Halcombe. 'She left this morning, with Mrs. Clements. The farmer's wife, Mrs. Todd, has no idea why they left or where they went. She just said that Anne Catherick had been disturbed after reading something in the local newspaper a couple of days ago. I looked at the paper and saw that it mentioned Laura's future wedding. Then Mrs. Todd said that Anne Catherick fainted last night, apparently in shock at something mentioned by one of the servant girls from our house, who was visiting the farm on her evening off.'

We hurried back to the house to question the servant girl. Miss Halcombe asked her if she had mentioned Sir Percival Glyde's name while at the farm. 'Oh yes,' the girl replied. 'I said he was coming on Monday.'

At that moment a cab arrived and Mr. Gilmore, the family friend and legal adviser, got out. He was an elderly man, pleasant-looking and neatly dressed. Miss Halcombe introduced me, and then went away to discuss family matters with him. \ wandered out into the garden. My time at Limmeridge House was nearly at an end, and I wanted to say a last goodbye to the places where I had so often walked with Miss Fairlie, in the dream-time of my happiness and my love. But the autumn day was grey and damp, and those golden memories were already fading.

As I returned to the house, I met Mr. Gilmore.

'Ah, Mr. Hartright,' he said. 'Miss Halcombe has told me how helpful you have been about this strange letter received by Miss Fairlie. I want you to know that the investigation is now in my safe hands. I have written to Sir Percival Glyde's lawyer in London and I'm sure we will receive a satisfactory explanation.'

'I'm afraid I am not as sure as you,' was my reply.

'Well, well,' said Mr. Gilmore. 'We will wait for events.'

At dinner that evening —my last dinner at Limmeridge House - it was a hard battle to keep my self-control. I saw that it was not easy for Miss Fairlie, either. She gave me her hand as she had done in happier days, but her fingers trembled and her face was pale. Mr. Gilmore kept the conversation going, and afterwards we went into the sitting room as usual. Miss Fairlie sat at the piano.

'Shall I play some of those pieces by Mozart that you like? Will you sit in your old chair near me?' she asked nervously.

'As it is my last night, I will, I answered.

'I am very sorry you are going,' she said, almost in a whisper.

'I shall remember those kind words, Miss Fairlie, long after tomorrow has gone,' I replied.

'Don't speak about tomorrow.

Then she played, and at last it was time to say goodnight.

The next morning I found Miss Halcombe and Miss Fairlie waiting for me downstairs. When I began to speak, Miss Fairlie turned and hurried from the room. I tried to control my voice, but could only say, 'Will you write to me, Miss Halcombe?'

She took both my hands in hers, and her face grew beautiful with the force of her generosity and pity. 'Of course I will, Walter. Goodbye - and God bless you!'

She left, and a few seconds later Miss Fairlie returned, holding something. It was her own sketch of the summer-house where we had first met. With rears in her eyes she offered it to me, 'to remind you', she whispered. My own tears fell as I kissed her hand, then I turned to go. She sank into a chair, her head dropped on her arms. At that moment I knew that Laura Fairlie loved me too. But it was over. We were separated.

PART TWO

Date: 2015-12-24; view: 1239