I write these lines at the request of my friend, Mr. Walter Hartright. They are intended to convey a description of certain events which seriously affected1 Miss Fairlie's interests, and which took place after the period of Mr. Hartright's departure from Limmeridge House.
There is no need for me to say whether my own opinion does or does not sanction the disclosure of the remarkable2 family story, of which my narrative3 forms an important component4 part. Mr. Hartright has taken that responsibility on himself, and circumstances yet to be related will show that he has amply earned the right to do so, if he chooses to exercise it. The plan he has adopted for presenting the story to others, in the most truthful5 and most vivid manner, requires that it should be told, at each successive stage in the march of events, by the persons who were directly concerned in those events at the time of their occurrence. My appearance here, as narrator, is the necessary consequence of this arrangement. I was present during the sojourn6 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, and to take up the chain itself at the point where, for the present only Mr. Hartright has dropped it.
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. If that event led to the appointment of any given day for Sir Percival's union with Miss Fairlie, I was to take the necessary instructions back with me to London, and to occupy myself in drawing the lady's marriage-settlement.
On the Friday I was not favoured by Mr. Fairlie with an interview. He had been, or had fancied himself to be, an invalid7 for years past, and he was not well enough to receive me. 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.
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, as amiable8 and attentive9 to every one about her as her excellent mother used to be--though, personally speaking, she takes after her father. Mrs. Fairlie had dark eyes and hair, and her elder daughter, Miss Halcombe, strongly reminds me of her. Miss Fairlie played to us in the evening--not so well as usual, I thought. We had a rubber at whist, a mere10 profanation11, so far as play was concerned, of that noble game. I had been favourably12 impressed by Mr. Hartright on our first introduction to one another, but I soon discovered that he was not free from the social failings incidental to his age. There are three things that none of the young men of the present generation can do. They can't sit over their wine, they can't play at whist, and they can't pay a lady a compliment. Mr. Hartright was no exception to the general rule. Otherwise, even in those early days and on that short acquaintance, he struck me as being a modest and gentlemanlike young man.
So the Friday passed. I say nothing about the more serious matters which engaged my attention on that day--the anonymous13 letter to Miss Fairlie, the measures I thought it right to adopt when the matter was mentioned to me, and the conviction I entertained that every possible explanation of the circumstances would be readily afforded by Sir Percival Glyde, having all been fully14 noticed, as I understand, in the narrative which precedes this.
On the Saturday Mr. Hartright had left before I got down to breakfast. Miss Fairlie kept her room all day, and Miss Halcombe appeared to me to be out of spirits. The house was not what it used to be in the time of Mr. and Mrs. Philip Fairlie. I took a walk by myself in the forenoon, and looked about at some of the places which I first saw when I was staying at Limmeridge to transact15 family business, more than thirty years since. They were not what they used to be either.
At two o'clock Mr. Fairlie sent to say he was well enough to see me. HE had not altered, at any rate, since I first knew him. His talk was to the same purpose as usual--all about himself and his ailments16, his wonderful coins, and his matchless 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. I persisted in upsetting him by returning again and again to the qubject. All I could ascertain17 was that he looked on his niece's marriage as a settled thing, that her father had sanctioned it, that he sanctioned it himself, that it was a desirable marriage, and that he should be personally rejoiced when the worry of it was over. As to the settlements, if I would consult his niece, and afterwards dive as deeply as I pleased into my own knowledge of the family affairs, and get everything ready, and limit his share in the business, as guardian18, to saying Yes, at the right moment-why, of course he would meet my views, and everybody else's views, with infinite pleasure. In the meantime, there I saw him, a helpless sufferer, confined to his room. Did I think he looked as if he wanted teasing? No. Then why tease him?
I might, perhaps, have been a little astonished at this extraordinary absence of all self-assertion on Mr. Fairlie's part, in the character of guardian, if my knowledge of the family affairs had not been sufficient to remind me that he was a single man, and that he had nothing more than a life-interest in the Limmeridge property. As matters stood, therefore, I was neither surprised nor disappointed at the result of the interview. Mr. Fairlie had simply justified19 my expectations--and there was an end of it.
Sunday was a dull day, out of doors and in. A letter arrived for me from Sir Percival Glyde's solicitor20, acknowledging the receipt of my copy of the anonymous letter and my accompanying statement of the case. Miss Fairlie joined us in the afternoon, looking pale and depressed21, and altogether unlike herself. I had some talk with her, and ventured on a delicate allusion22 to Sir Percival. She listened and said nothing. All other subjects she pursued willingly, but this subject she allowed to drop. I began to doubt whether she might not be repenting23 of her engagement-just as young ladies often do, when repentance24 comes too late.
On Monday Sir Percival Glyde arrived.
I found him to be a most prepossessing man, so far as manners and appearance were concerned. He looked rather older than I had expected, his head being bald over the forehead, and his face somewhat marked and worn, but his movements were as active and his spirits as high as a young man's. His meeting with Miss Halcombe was delightfully25 hearty26 and unaffected, and his reception of me, upon my being presented to him, was so easy and pleasant that we got on together like old friends. Miss Fairlie was not with us when he arrived, but she entered the room about ten minutes afterwards. Sir Percival rose and paid his compliments with perfect grace. His evident concern on seeing the change for the worse in the young lady's looks was expressed with a mixture of tenderness and respect, with an unassuming delicacy27 of tone, voice, and manner, which did equal credit to his good breeding and his good sense. I was rather surprised, under these circumstances, to see that Miss Fairlie continued to be constrained28 and uneasy in his presence, and that she took the first opportunity of leaving the room again. Sir Percival neither noticed the restraint in her reception of him, nor her sudden withdrawal29 from our society. He had not obtruded30 his attentions on her while she was present, and he did not embarrass Miss Halcombe by any allusion to her departure when she was gone. His tact31 and taste were never at fault on this or on any other occasion while I was in his company at Limmeridge House.
As soon as Miss Fairlie had left the room he spared us all embarrassment32 on the subject of the anonymous letter, by adverting33 to it of his own accord. He had stopped in London on his way from Hampshire, had seen his solicitor, 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. On hearing him express himself to this effect, I offered him the original letter, which I had kept for his inspection34. 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.
The statement itself, on which he immediately entered, was as simple and satisfactory as I had all along anticipated it would be.
Mrs. Catherick, he informed us, had in past years laid him under some obligations for faithful services rendered to his family connections and to himself. She had been doubly unfortunate in being married to a husband who had deserted35 her, and in having an only child whose mental faculties36 had been in a disturbed condition from a very early age. Although her marriage had removed her to a part of Hampshire far distant from the neighbourhood in which Sir Percival's property was situated37, he had taken care not to lose sight of her--his friendly feeling towards the poor woman, in consideration of her past services, having been greatly strengthened by his admiration38 of the patience and courage with which she supported her calamities39. In course of time the symptoms of mental affliction in her unhappy daughter increased to such a serious extent, as to make it a matter of necessity to place her under proper medical care. Mrs. Catherick herself recognised this necessity, but she also felt the prejudice common to persons occupying her respectable station, against allowing her child to be admitted, as a pauper40, into a public Asylum41. Sir Percival had respected this prejudice, as he respected honest independence of feeling in any rank of life, and had resolved to mark his grateful sense of Mrs. Catherick's early attachment42 to the interests of himself and his family, by defraying the expense of her daughter's maintenance in a trustworthy private Asylum. To her mother's regret, and to his own regret, the unfortunate creature had discovered the share which circumstances had induced him to take in placing her under restraint, and had conceived the most intense hatred43 and distrust of him in consequence. To that hatred and distrust--which had expressed itself in various ways in the Asylum--the anonymous letter, written after her escape, was plainly attributable. If Miss Halcombe's or Mr. Gilmore's recollection of the document did not confirm that view, or if they wished for any additional particulars about the Asylum (the a
ddress of which he mentioned, as well as the names and addresses of the two doctors on whose certificates the patient was admitted), he was ready to answer any question and to clear up any uncertainty44. He had done his duty to the unhappy young woman, by instructing his solicitor to spare no expense in tracing her, and in restoring her once more to medical care, and he was now only anxious to do his duty towards Miss Fairlie and towards her family, in the same plain, straightforward45 way.
I was the first to speak in answer to this appeal. My own course was plain to me. It is the great beauty of the Law that it can dispute any human statement, made under any circumstances, and reduced to any form. If I had felt professionally called upon to set up a case against Sir Percival Glyde, on the strength of his own explanation, I could have done so beyond all doubt. But my duty did not lie in this direction--my function was of the purely46 judicial47 kind. I was to weigh the explanation we had just heard, to allow all due force to the high reputation of the gentleman who offered it, and to decide honestly whether the probabilities, on Sir Percival's own showing, were plainly with him, or plainly against him. My own conviction was that they were plainly with him, and I accordingly declared that his explanation was, to my mind, unquestionably a satisfactory one.
Miss Halcombe, after looking at me very earnestly, said a few words, on her side, to the same effect--with a certain hesitation48 of manner, however, which the circumstances did not seem to me to warrant. I am unable to say, positively49, whether Sir Percival noticed this or not. My opinion is that he did, seeing that he pointedly50 resumed the subject, although he might now, with all propriety51, have allowed it to drop.
"If my plain statement of facts had only been addressed to Mr. Gilmore," he said, "I should consider any further reference to this unhappy matter as unnecessary. I may fairly expect Mr. Gilmore, as a gentleman, to believe me on my word, and when he has done me that justice, all discussion of the subject between us has come to an end. But my position with a lady is not the same. I owe to her--what I would concede to no man alive--a PROOF of the truth of my assertion. You cannot ask for that proof, Miss Halcombe, and it is therefore my duty to you, and still more to Miss Fairlie, to offer it. May I beg that you will write at once to the mother of this unfortunate woman--to Mrs. Catherick--to ask for her testimony52 in support of the explanation which I have just offered to you."
I saw Miss Halcombe change colour, and look a little uneasy. Sir Percival's suggestion, politely as it was expressed, appeared to her, as it appeared to me, to point very delicately at the hesitation which her manner had betrayed a moment or two since.
"I hope, Sir Percival, you don't do me the injustice53 to suppose that I distrust you," she said quickly.
"Certainly not, Miss Halcombe. I make my proposal purely as an act of attention to YOU. Will you excuse my obstinacy54 if I still venture to press it?"
He walked to the writing-table as he spoke55, drew a chair to it, and opened the paper case.
"Let me beg you to write the note," he said, "as a favour to ME. 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. Secondly56, if the share I took in the matter was such as to merit the expression of her gratitude57 towards myself? Mr. Gilmore's mind is at ease on this unpleasant subject, and your mind is at ease--pray set my mind at ease also by writing the note."
"You oblige me to grant your request, Sir Percival, when I would much rather refuse it."
With those words Miss Halcombe rose from her place and went to the writing-table. Sir Percival thanked her, handed her a pen, and then walked away towards the fireplace. Miss Fairlie's little Italian greyhound was lying on the rug. He held out his hand, and called to the dog good-humouredly.
"Come, Nina," he said, "we remember each other, don't we?"
The little beast, cowardly and cross-grained, as pet-dogs usually are, looked up at him sharply, shrank away from his outstretched hand, whined58, shivered, and hid itself under a sofa. It was scarcely possible that he could have been put out by such a trifle as a dog's reception of him, but I observed, nevertheless, that he walked away towards the window very suddenly. Perhaps his temper is irritable59 at times. If so, I can sympathise with him. My temper is irritable at times too.
Miss Halcombe was not long in writing the note. When it 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 gracefully60 and more becomingly 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. I have read the communication which Mr. Gilmore kindly61 addressed to my solicitor, describing the circumstances under which the writer of the anonymous letter was identified. But there are certain points to which that statement does not refer. 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-macter, I believe? Is he a member of one of the Water-Colour Societies?"
"I believe he is," 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 moor62, called Todd's Corner."
"It is a duty we all owe to the poor creature herself to trace her," continued Sir Percival. "She may have said something at Todd's Corner which may help us to find her. I will go there and make inquiries63 on the chance. In the meantime, as I cannot prevail on myself to discuss this painful subject with Miss Fairlie, may I beg, Miss Halcombe, that you will kindly undertake to give her the necessary explanation, deferring64 it of course until you have received the reply to that note."
Miss Halcombe promised to comp]y with his request. He thanked her, nodded pleasantly, and left us, to go and establish himself in his own room. As he opened the door the cross-grained greyhound poked65 out her sharp muzzle66 from under the sofa, and barked and snapped at him.
"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."
"My mind! Surely, with that note in your hand, your mind is at ease too?"
"Oh yes--how can it be otherwise? I know the thing could not be," she went on, speaking more to herself than to me; "but I almost wish Walter Hartright had stayed here long enough to be present at the explanation, and to hear the proposal to me to write this note."
I was a little surprised--perhaps a little piqued67 also--by these last words.
"Events, it is true, connected Mr. Hartright very remarkably68 with the affair of the letter," I said; "and I readily admit that he conducted himself, all things considered, with great delicacy and discretion69. But I am quite at a loss to understand what useful influence his presence could have exercised in relation to the effect of Sir Percival's statement on your mind or mine."
"It was only a fancy," she said absently. "There is no need to discuss it, Mr. Gilmore. Your experience ought to be, and is, the best guide I can desire."
I did not altogether like her thrusting the whole responsibility, in this marked manner, on my shoulders. If Mr. Fairlie had done it, I should not have been surprised. But resolute70, clear-minded Miss Halcombe was the very last person in the world whom I should have expected to find shrinking from the expression of an opinion of her own.
"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 contradictory71, 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. If the answer to your note of inquiry72 proves to be satisfactory, I for one cannot see what more any friend of Sir Percival's can possibly expect from him."
"Then we will post the note," she said, rising to leave the room, "and dismiss all further reference to the subject until the answer arrives. Don't attach any weight to my hesitation. I can give no better reason for it than that I have been over-anxious about Laura lately--and anxiety, Mr. Gilmore, unsettles the strongest of us."
She left me abruptly73, her naturally firm voice faltering74 as she spoke those last words. A sensitive, vehement75, passionate76 nature-a woman of ten thousand in these trivial, superficial times. I had known her from her earliest years--I had seen her tested, as she grew up, in more than one trying family crisis, and my long experience made me attach an importance to her hesitation under the circumstances here detailed77, which I should certainly not have felt in the case of another woman. I could see no cause for any uneasiness or any doubt, but she had made me a little uneasy, and a little doubtful, nevertheless. In my youth, I should have chafed78 and fretted79 under the irritation80 of my own unreasonable81 state of mind. In my age, I knew better, and went out philosophically82 to walk it off.
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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component
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| n.组成部分，成分，元件；adj.组成的，合成的 | |
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truthful
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| adj.真实的，说实话的，诚实的 | |
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sojourn
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| v./n.旅居，寄居；逗留 | |
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invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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profanation
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| n.亵渎 | |
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favourably
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| adv. 善意地，赞成地 =favorably | |
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anonymous
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| adj.无名的；匿名的；无特色的 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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transact
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| v.处理；做交易；谈判 | |
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ailments
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| 疾病（尤指慢性病），不适( ailment的名词复数 ) | |
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ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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solicitor
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| n.初级律师，事务律师 | |
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depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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repenting
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的现在分词 ) | |
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repentance
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delightfully
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| 大喜，欣然 | |
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hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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delicacy
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constrained
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withdrawal
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| n.取回，提款；撤退，撤军；收回，撤销 | |
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obtruded
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| v.强行向前，强行，强迫( obtrude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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adverting
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| 引起注意（advert的现在分词形式） | |
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inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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deserted
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faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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admiration
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calamities
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| n.灾祸，灾难( calamity的名词复数 )；不幸之事 | |
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pauper
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asylum
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| n.避难所，庇护所，避难 | |
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attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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uncertainty
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straightforward
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| adj.正直的，坦率的；易懂的，简单的 | |
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purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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judicial
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| adj.司法的，法庭的，审判的，明断的，公正的 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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pointedly
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| adv.尖地，明显地 | |
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propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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obstinacy
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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secondly
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| adv.第二，其次 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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whined
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| v.哀号( whine的过去式和过去分词 )；哀诉，诉怨 | |
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irritable
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| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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moor
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| n.荒野，沼泽；vt.(使)停泊；vi.停泊 | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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deferring
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| v.拖延，延缓，推迟( defer的现在分词 )；服从某人的意愿，遵从 | |
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poked
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| v.伸出( poke的过去式和过去分词 )；戳出；拨弄；与（某人）性交 | |
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muzzle
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| n.鼻口部；口套；枪(炮)口；vt.使缄默 | |
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piqued
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| v.伤害…的自尊心( pique的过去式和过去分词 )；激起（好奇心） | |
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remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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contradictory
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| adj.反驳的，反对的，抗辩的；n.正反对，矛盾对立 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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faltering
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| 犹豫的，支吾的，蹒跚的 | |
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vehement
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| adj.感情强烈的；热烈的；(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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detailed
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| adj.详细的，详尽的，极注意细节的，完全的 | |
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chafed
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| v.擦热（尤指皮肤）( chafe的过去式 )；擦痛；发怒；惹怒 | |
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fretted
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| 焦躁的，附有弦马的，腐蚀的 | |
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irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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philosophically
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| adv.哲学上；富有哲理性地；贤明地；冷静地 | |
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