The Story Continued by Vincent Gilmore (of Chancery Lane, Solicitor)

I write these lines at the request of my friend, Mr. Walter Hartright. Mr. Hartright decided to present the story to others, in the most truthful and most vivid manner.

I was present during the living of Sir Percival Glyde in Cumberland, and was personally concerned in one important result of his short residence under Mr. Fairlie’s roof. It is my duty, therefore, to add these new links to the chain of events.

I arrived at Limmeridge House on Friday the second of November.

My object was to remain at Mr. Fairlie’s until the arrival of Sir Percival Glyde. But Mr. Fairlie had been, or had fancied himself to be, an invalid for years past, and he was not well enough to receive me.

I did not see Miss Fairlie until later in the day, at dinner-time. She was not looking well, and I was sorry to observe it. She is a sweet lovable girl, amiable and attentive to everyone.

Miss Halcombe was the first member of the family whom I saw. She met me at the house door, and introduced me to Mr. Hartright, who had been staying at Limmeridge for some time past. Mr. Walter Hartright, the art teacher, seemed a very pleasant young man. I was informed that Mr. Hartright was leaving the next day. Marian also told me about the business of the letter which Laura had received, and how helpful Mr. Hartright had been to her about that. I told them that I would send a copy of the letter to Sir Percival.

On Saturday Mr. Hartright had left before I got down to breakfast. I took a walk by myself in the afternoon, and looked about at some of the places.

I’ve been a lawyer to the Fairlie family for many years. I knew Laura’s father, Mr. Philip Fairlie, very well, and I’ve known Marian and Laura since they were children. I’m very fond of them both, and I was most anxious to make a good marriage settlement for Laura. Laura, I’m sorry to say, didn’t look well – not like her usual happy self at all. She played the piano to us that evening, but she made a lot of mistakes.

At two o’clock Mr. Fairlie sent to say he was well enough to see me. He had not altered since I first knew him. His talk was to the same purpose as usual – all about himself and his ailments, his wonderful coins, and his Rembrandt etchings.

The moment I tried to speak of the business that had brought me to his house, he shut his eyes and said I “upset” him.

* * *

The rest of the weekend passed quietly and on Monday Sir Percival Glyde arrived. I found him to be a most charming and friendly man, so far as manners and appearance were concerned. He looked rather older than I had expected. I have seldom met such a charming and friendly man. When we were introduced, I found his manner so easy and pleasant that straight away we got on together like old friends.

However I was surprised to see that Laura didn’t seem very happy to see him. After his arrival, she left the room as soon as she could politely do so, leaving Marian and I to speak with Sir Percival.

Miss Fairlie was constrained and uneasy in his presence. Sir Percival neither noticed the restraint in her reception of him, nor her sudden withdrawing from our society.

As soon as the door had closed behind Laura, Sir Percival brought up the business of the letter. He had received the copy which I had sent him and, as I had expected, he had a very satisfactory explanation. He had stopped in London on his way from Hampshire, had read the documents forwarded by me, and had travelled on to Cumberland, anxious to satisfy our minds by the speediest and the fullest explanation that words could convey. I offered him the original letter, which I had kept for his inspection. He thanked me, and declined to look at it, saying that he had seen the copy, and that he was quite willing to leave the original in our hands.

He told us that several years ago he had had a servant called Mrs. Catherick who was excellent in every way and had provided him with loyal and faithful service through difficult times. She had been doubly unfortunate in being married to a husband who had deserted her, and in having an only child whose mental faculties had been in a disturbed condition from a very early age. Her daughter’s name was Anne. Yes, unfortunately there was something wrong with her mind – so that she didn’t behave like a normal person. These problems got so bad that in the end her mother could no longer look after her at home.

* * *

Sir Percival offered to help by finding and placing Anne in an excellent Asylum where people would be kind to her and where she would be well looked after. It was expensive to keep Anne in the Asylum, but because of Mrs. Catherick’s loyal service to him, he offered to pay the money.

Unfortunately Anne had found out that Sir Percival had had something to do with placing her in the Asylum. He had done his duty to the unhappy young woman. But Anne hadn’t understood that he was acting out of kindness to help her mother and herself. She hated him because he had placed her there so she had written the letter to Laura.

I was the first to speak in answer to this appeal. When Sir Percival had finished, I said, “Now everything is very clear and I understand completely. Thank you, Sir Percival. How kind of you it was to help Mrs. Catherick’s poor daughter.”

To my surprise Marian seemed to show some hesitation. Sir Percival was also quick to notice this.

“My dear Marian,” he said. “I know you still have some doubts about this matter, so let me make a suggestion.”

Sir Percival walked to the writing-table as he spoke, drew a chair to it, and opened the paper case.

“Let me beg you to write the note,” he said, “Please write to Mrs. Catherick yourself and ask her two questions. It need not occupy you more than a few minutes. You have only to ask Mrs. Catherick two questions. First, if her daughter was placed in the Asylum with her knowledge and approval. Secondly, if she was pleased about the help which I gave her. You cannot ask for the proof, Miss Halcombe, and it is therefore my duty to you, and still more to Miss Fairlie, to offer it.”

I saw Miss Halcombe change colour, and look a little uneasy. Marian looked a little embarrassed, but she agreed.

Miss Halcombe was not long in writing the note. She wrote the note quickly. Sir Percival gave her Mrs. Catherick’s address. When the letter was done she rose from the writing-table, and handed the open sheet of paper to Sir Percival. He bowed, took it from her, folded it up immediately without looking at the contents, sealed it, wrote the address, and handed it back to her in silence. I never saw anything more gracefully done in my life.

“You insist on my posting this letter, Sir Percival?” said Miss Halcombe.

“I beg you will post it,” he answered. “And now that it is written and sealed up, allow me to ask one or two last questions about the unhappy woman to whom it refers. Now, if you have no objections, I’d like to ask some questions myself. I’m most anxious to find Anne Catherick. We must help the poor woman by returning her to the Asylum as soon as possible. Marian, please, tell me, did Anne Catherick see Miss Fairlie?”

“Certainly not,” replied Miss Halcombe.

“Did she see you?”

“No.”

“She saw nobody from the house then, except a certain Mr. Hartright, who accidentally met with her in the churchyard here?”

“Nobody else.”

“Mr. Hartright was employed at Limmeridge as a drawing-master, I believe?”

“Yes, that’s right. Mr. Hartright has left us now and gone back to London,” answered Miss Halcombe.

He paused for a moment, as if he was thinking over the last answer, and then added —

“Did you find out where Anne Catherick was living, when she was in this neighbourhood?”

“Yes. At a farm on the moor, called Todd’s Corner.”

“I’ll go there at once,” said Sir Percival. “Perhaps she said something to the people there which will help us find her.” Then he left the room in a great hurry.

“Don’t you believe Sir Percival’s explanation?” I asked Marian. She shook her head slowly.

“I don’t know,” she said. “It makes sense… and yet something isn’t quite right. But I don’t know what.”

“A good morning’s work, Miss Halcombe,” I said, as soon as we were alone. “Here is an anxious day well ended already.”

“Yes,” she answered; “no doubt. I am very glad your mind is satisfied.”

“If any doubts still trouble you,” I said, “why not mention them to me at once? Tell me plainly, have you any reason to distrust Sir Percival Glyde?”

“None whatever.”

“Do you see anything improbable, or contradictory, in his explanation?”

“How can I say I do, after the proof he has offered me of the truth of it? Can there be better testimony in his favour, Mr. Gilmore, than the testimony of the woman’s mother?”

“None better.”

She left me abruptly.

We all met again at dinner-time.

Sir Percival went in the morning (taking one of the servants with him as a guide) to Todd’s Corner. His inquiries, as I afterwards heard, led to no results. On his return he had an interview with Mr. Fairlie, and in the afternoon he and Miss Halcombe rode out together. Nothing else happened worthy of record. The evening passed as usual. There was no change in Sir Percival, and no change in Miss Fairlie.

The Wednesday’s post brought with it an event – the reply from Mrs. Catherick. I took a copy of the document. It ran as follows —

“Madam, – It is quite true that my daughter, Anne, was placed under medical superintendence by Sir Percival Glyde with my knowledge and approval, and I was quite happy with this arrangement. Your obedient servant,

Jane Anne Catherick”

“Now, Marian,” I said, “you must agree there can be no further doubt about Sir Percival.”

This was my opinion, and with certain minor reservations, Miss Halcombe’s opinion also. Sir Percival, when the letter was shown to him, told us that Mrs. Catherick was a woman of few words, a clear-headed, straightforward person, who wrote briefly and plainly, just as she spoke.

Miss Halcombe had left the room to go to her sister, when she suddenly returned again, and sat down by the easy-chair in which I was reading the newspaper. Sir Percival had gone out a minute before to look at the stables, and no one was in the room but ourselves.

“I suppose we have really and truly done all we can?” she said, turning and twisting Mrs. Catherick’s letter in her hand.

“If we are friends of Sir Percival’s, who know him and trust him, we have done all, and more than all, that is necessary,” I answered, a little annoyed by this return of her hesitation. “But if we are enemies who suspect him – ”

“No,” she interposed. “We are Sir Percival’s friends.”

Marian didn’t look very happy. “Now I must go and tell Laura everything. You know that Sir Percival saw Mr. Fairlie yesterday, and that he afterwards went out with me.”

“Yes. I saw you riding away together.”

“We began the ride by talking about Anne Catherick, and about the singular manner in which Mr. Hartright met with her. But we soon dropped that subject, and Sir Percival spoke of his engagement with Laura.

She paused, and looked at me with an expression of distress.

“Consult your own knowledge of Laura, Mr. Gilmore. You know that she never broke a promise in her life – you know that her father spoke hopefully and happily of her marriage to Sir Percival Glyde on his deathbed.”

The next morning, as soon as breakfast was over, I went up to Miss Fairlie’s sitting-room. The poor girl looked so pale and sad that I was quite worried about her.

“Please tell me, my dear,” I said as gently as I could. “Is there something wrong? Aren’t you happy about your marriage to Sir Percival? If you aren’t, we can try to stop it.”

“Oh, no,” said Laura. “I promised my father on his deathbed that I would marry Sir Percival and I won’t break my promise. You must excuse me – I haven’t been very well lately; that’s why I’m so weak and nervous.”

“My dear, it is necessary to refer to your marriage-settlement,” I said.

She moved uneasily in her chair, then looked in my face on a sudden very earnestly.

“If it does happen,” she began faintly, “if I am – ”

“If you are married,” I added.

“Don’t let him part me from Marian,” she cried, with a sudden outbreak of energy.

The hour for my departure was now drawing near. Just before I left I saw Miss Halcombe for a moment alone.

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

“Yes,” I replied. “She is very weak and nervous – I am glad she has you to take care of her.”

Miss Halcombe’s sharp eyes studied my face attentively.

Sir Percival most politely insisted on seeing me to the carriage door.

“If you are ever in my neighbourhood,” he said, “pray don’t forget that I am sincerely anxious to improve our acquaintance. The trusted old friend of this family will be always a welcome visitor in any house of mine.”

A charming man indeed – courteous, considerate, delightfully free from pride – a gentleman, every inch of him.

A week passed, after my return to London, without the receipt of any communication from Miss Halcombe. On the eighth day a letter in her handwriting was placed among the other letters on my table.

It announced that Sir Percival Glyde had been definitely accepted, and that the marriage was to take place, as he had originally desired, before the end of the year. In all probability the ceremony would be performed during the last fortnight in December. Miss Fairlie’s twenty-first birthday was late in March. She would, therefore, by this arrangement, become Sir Percival’s wife about three months before she was of age.

On receiving Marian’s letter, I started to prepare the marriage settlement for Laura. On her twenty-first birthday she would receive a very large sum of money – twenty thousand pounds – which her father had left to her when he died two years ago. This money had been kept for her until she came of age – in other words, until she was twenty-one.

The most important part of Laura’s marriage settlement concerned what would happen to this twenty thousand pounds if Laura died before her husband.

If she had children, clearly the money would all go to the children. But if she had no children, the situation was more complicated.

While I was at Limmeridge House, I had asked Laura what she wished to do with her twenty thousand pounds if she died before Sir Percival. Laura had immediately replied that she wanted the money to go to her half-sister, Marian.

It seemed right and fair to me that Laura’s money should return to her family. I therefore drew up the marriage settlement according to her wishes and sent a copy of the document to Sir Percival Glyde’s lawyer.

After a lapse of two days the document was returned to me, with notes and remarks of the baronet’s lawyer – in red ink.

“I regret to inform you that Sir Percival Glyde cannot accept what you are proposing. He insists that if his wife, Lady Glyde, dies without leaving children, the whole of her twenty thousand pounds must go to himself.”

I was extremely worried by this. That is to say, not one farthing of the twenty thousand pounds was to go to Miss Halcombe, or to any other relative or friend of Lady Glyde’s. The whole sum, if she left no children, was to slip into the pockets of her husband.

I wrote a note back immediately, saying that I could not possibly accept such a thing.

Later that day, Sir Percival’s lawyer, Mr. Merriman, visited me. He was a fat smiling man who pretended to be very friendly.

“And how is good Mr. Gilmore?” he began, all in a glow with the warmth of his own amiability. “Glad to see you, sir, in such excellent health. I was passing your door, and I thought I would look in in case you might have something to say to me. Have you heard from your client yet?”

“Yes. Have you heard from yours?”

“My dear, good sir! I’m sorry, Mr Gilmore, but Sir Percival is absolutely insisting that the money go to him. Those were Sir Percival’s words a fortnight ago, and all I can do now is to repeat them. I have no other alternative.” He walked to the fireplace and warmed himself.

I thought quickly. The only thing I could do was to play for time, so I said,

“This is Friday,” I said. “Give us till Tuesday next for our final answer.”

“By all means,” replied Mr. Merriman. “Longer, my dear sir, if you like.” He took up his hat to go, and then addressed me again. “By the way,” he said, “your clients in Cumberland have not heard anything more of the woman who wrote the anonymous letter, have they?”

“Nothing more,” I answered. “Have you found no trace of her?”

“Not yet,” said my legal friend. “But we don’t despair. Sir Percival has his suspicions that somebody is keeping her in hiding, and we are having that somebody watched.”

“You mean the old woman who was with her in Cumberland,” I said.

“Quite another party, sir,” answered Mr. Merriman. “Our somebody is a man. We shall see what happens. A dangerous woman, Mr. Gilmore; nobody knows what she may do next. I wish you good-morning, sir. On Tuesday next I shall hope for the pleasure of hearing from you.” He smiled amiably and went out.

I was very fond of Laura and I knew I had to help her. Her father had been a dear friend who was very good to me. I had to do my best for his only child – I couldn’t let all her money go to her husband if that wasn’t what she wanted.

Laura was still under age – she wasn’t yet twenty-one – so she was still under the protection of her uncle, Mr Frederick Fairlie.

If Mr Fairlie objected to the marriage settlement, it couldn’t go ahead. I therefore decided to travel to Limmeridge House and talk to Mr. Fairlie. I was sure I could make him see that this marriage settlement wasn’t in Laura’s best interests.

Leaving by an early train, I got to Limmeridge in time for dinner. The house was empty and dull. Marian and Laura were away in Yorkshire.

The weather on Saturday was beautiful, a west wind and a bright sun. I sent a message to Mr. Fairlie to say that I had arrived. I received a note back from him to say that my unexpected visit had been a great shock and unfortunately he didn’t feel well enough to see me that evening. But he would be pleased to see me at ten o’clock the next morning.

I slept very badly that night. A strong wind blew loudly around the house, and the noise kept me awake.

At ten o’clock I was conducted to Mr. Fairlie’s apartments. He was in his usual room, his usual chair, and his usual aggravating state of mind and body. When I went in, his servant was standing before him, holding up for inspection a heavy volume of etchings, as long and as broad as my office writing-desk.

“You very best of good old friends,” said Mr. Fairlie, “are you quite well? How nice of you to come here and see me in my solitude. Dear Gilmore!”

“I have come to speak to you on a very important matter,” I said, “and you will therefore excuse me, if I suggest that we had better be alone.”

The unfortunate servant looked at me. Mr. Fairlie faintly repeated my last three words, “better be alone,” with every appearance of the utmost possible astonishment.

I explained to him as clearly as I could how worried I was about Laura’s marriage settlement. I told him that Sir Percival was insisting Laura’s money all go to him after Laura’s death.

“Sir Percival has no legal claim to Laura’s money,” I said. “Laura wants her money to go to Marian after her death. You can help us, Mr. Fairlie. If you decide to object to the marriage settlement, Sir Percival must give in or people will say that he’s only marrying Laura for her money.”

“Don’t bully me!” exclaimed Mr. Fairlie, falling back helplessly in the chair, and closing his eyes. “Please don’t bully me. I’m not strong enough.”

Mr. Fairlie shook his head and sighed piteously.

“This is heartless of you, Gilmore – very heartless,” he said.

I put all the points to him carefully. When I had finished, Mr. Fairlie shut his eyes and sighed.

“Good Gilmore!” he said, “I don’t understand why you’ve come here to upset me. My nerves are very delicate, you know. Please don’t upset me any more.”

“Laura isn’t yet twenty-one. How is it possible that she should die before Sir Percival Glyde, who is forty-five?

“Gilmore, two things are very important to me – peace and quiet. I don’t want you coming here to disturb me. Please leave the marriage settlement as it is.”

“Give me a plain answer to a plain question, Mr. Fairlie. I tell you again, Sir Percival Glyde has no shadow of a claim to expect more than the income of the money. The money itself if your niece has no children, ought to be under her control, and to return to her family.”

Mr. Fairlie shook the silver bottle at me playfully.

“You dear old Gilmore, how you do hate rank and family, don’t you? How you detest Glyde because he happens to be a baronet. What a Radical you are – oh, dear me, what a Radical you are!”

A Radical!!! My blood boiled at it – I started out of my chair – I was speechless with indignation.

“Don’t shake the room!” cried Mr. Fairlie – “for Heaven’s sake don’t shake the room! I think I am a Radical myself. Yes. We are a pair of Radicals. Please don’t be angry. I can’t quarrel – I haven’t forces enough. Shall we drop the subject? Yes. Come and look at these sweet etchings. Do now, there’s a good Gilmore!”

I felt very disappointed and angry with Mr Fairlie.

“Mr. Fairlie, you are entirely wrong, sir,” I said, “in supposing that I speak from any prejudice against Sir Percival Glyde. But don’t you care about your niece? Don’t you care about what is good for her?”

“Please, Gilmore,” said Mr Fairlie, “don’t be so heartless. Can’t you see you are upsetting me? I tell you again, leave the marriage settlement as it is. Agree to everything that Sir Percival wants, then we’ll have peace and quiet. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m very tired. The servants will give you lunch downstairs before you go back to London.”

“You shall not irritate me, Mr. Fairlie – for your niece’s sake and for her father’s sake, you shall not irritate me. You shall take the whole responsibility of this discreditable settlement on your own shoulders before I leave the room.”

“Don’t! – now please don’t!” said Mr. Fairlie. “Think how precious your time is, Gilmore, and don’t throw it away. You want to upset me, to upset yourself, to upset Glyde, and to upset Laura; and – oh, dear me! – all for the sake of the very last thing in the world that is likely to happen. No, dear friend, in the interests of peace and quietness, positively no!”

I walked at once to the door, and Mr. Fairlie “tinkled” his hand-bell. Before I left the room I turned round and addressed him for the last time.

“Whatever happens in the future, sir,” I said, “remember that my plain duty of warning you has been performed. As the faithful friend and servant of your family, I tell you that no daughter of mine should be married to any man alive under such a settlement as you are forcing me to make for Miss Fairlie.”

The door opened behind me, and the servant stood waiting on the threshold.

“Louis,” said Mr. Fairlie, “show Mr. Gilmore out, and then come back and hold up my etchings for me again. Make them give you a good lunch downstairs. Do, Gilmore, make my idle servants give you a good lunch!”

I turned on my heel, and left him in silence. I didn’t stay for lunch. There was a train at two o’clock in the afternoon, and by that train I returned to London.

The following Tuesday I told Sir Percival’s lawyer that we would accept his wishes. I had no choice. Another lawyer would do it up the deed if I had refused to undertake it. But in my heart I felt great sorrow and anxiety about the future.

My task is done. Other pens than mine will describe the strange circumstances which followed. Seriously and sorrowfully I close this brief record. Seriously and sorrowfully I repeat here the parting words that I spoke at Limmeridge House: No daughter of mine should have been married to any man alive under such a settlement as I was compelled to make for Laura Fairlie.

The End of Mr. Gilmore’s Narrative.