`That is not an illiterate letter,' said Miss Halcombe, `and at the same time, it is surely too incoherent to be the letter of an educated person in the higher ranks of life. The reference to the bridal dress and veil, and other little expressions, seem to point to it as the production of some woman. What do you think, Mr Hartright?'

`I think so too. It seems to me to be not only the letter of a woman, but of a woman whose mind must be --'

`Deranged?' suggested Miss Halcombe. `It struck me in that light too.'

I did not answer. While I was speaking, my eyes rested on the last sentence of the letter: `Your mother's daughter has a tender place in my heart -- for your mother was my first, my best, my only friend.' Those words and the doubt which had just escaped me as to the sanity of the writer of the letter, acting together on my mind, suggested an idea, which I was literally afraid to express openly, or even to encourage secretly. I began to doubt whether my own faculties were not in danger of losing their balance. It seemed almost like a monomania to be tracing back everything strange that happened, everything unexpected that was said, always to the same hidden source and the same sinister influence. I resolved, this time, in defence of my own courage and my own sense, to come to no decision that plain fact did not warrant, and to turn my back resolutely on everything that tempted me in the shape of surmise.

`If we have any chance of tracing the person who has written this,' I said, returning the letter to Miss Halcombe, `there can be no harm in seizing our opportunity the moment it offers. I think we ought to speak to the gardener again about the elderly woman who gave him the letter, and then to continue our inquiries in the village. But first let me ask a question. You mentioned just now the alternative of consulting Mr Fairlie's legal adviser tomorrow. Is there no possibility of communicating with him earlier? Why not today?'

`I can only explain,' replied Miss Halcombe, `by entering into certain particulars, connected with my sister's marriage-engagement, which I did not think it necessary or desirable to mention to you this morning. One of Sir Percival Glyde's objects in coming here on Monday, is to fix the period of his marriage, which has hitherto been left quite unsettled. He is anxious that the event should take place before the end of the year.'

`Does Miss Fairlie know of that wish?' I asked eagerly.

`She has no suspicion of it, and after what has happened, I shall not take the responsibility upon myself of enlightening her. Sir Percival has only mentioned his views to Mr Fairlie, who has told me himself that he is ready and anxious, as Laura's guardian, to forward them. He has written to London, to the family solicitor, Mr Gilmore. Mr Gilmore happens to be away in Glasgow on business, and he has replied by proposing to stop at Limmeridge House on his way back to town. He will arrive tomorrow, and will stay with us a few days, so as to allow Sir Percival time to plead his own cause. If he succeeds, Mr Gilmore will then return to London, taking with him his instructions for my sister's marriage-settlement. You understand now, Mr Hartright, why I speak of waiting to take legal advice until tomorrow? Mr Gilmore is the old and tried friend of two generations of Fairlies, and we can trust him, as we could trust no one else.'

The marriage-settlement! The mere hearing of those two words stung me with a jealous despair that was poison to my higher and better instincts. I began to think -- it is hard to con fess this, but I must suppress nothing from beginning to end of the terrible story that I now stand committed to reveal -- I began to think, with a hateful eagerness of hope, of the vague charges against Sir Percival Glyde which the anonymous letter contained. What if those wild accusations rested on a foundation of truth? What if their truth could be proved before the fatal words of consent were spoken, and the marriage-settlement was drawn? I have tried to think since, that the feeling which then animated me began and ended in pure devotion to Miss Fairlie's interests, but I have never succeeded in deceiving myself into believing it, and I must not now attempt to deceive others. The feeling began and ended in reckless, vindictive, hopeless hatred of the man who was to marry her.


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