The Woman in White / Женщина в белом

Anne Catherick’s hand laid on my shoulder.

“You are looking at me, and you are thinking of something,” she said. “What is it?”

“Nothing extraordinary,” I answered. “I was only wondering how you came here.”

“I came with a friend who is very good to me. I have only been here two days. Her tomb must be as white as snow. Is there anything wrong in that? I hope not. Surely nothing can be wrong that I do for Mrs. Fairlie’s sake?”

She was watching me.

“My name is Anne Catherick,” she said. “And I’ve come here to be close to my dear friend’s grave. Nobody looks after it – see how dirty it is. I must clean it.”

She picked up her cloth and started cleaning the marble.

“Are you staying in the village?” I asked her.

“No, no, not in the village,” she replied, “at a farm about three miles away. “Three miles away at a farm. Do you know the farm? They call it Todd’s Corner.[42]”

I remembered the place perfectly – it was one of the oldest farms in the neighbourhood, situated in a solitary, sheltered spot.

“The people there are good and kind, and an elderly woman looks after me well.”

“And where have you come from?” I went on.

“I escaped,” she said. “I’ve run away and I’m not going back.”

I remember that she escapes from an Asylum – a place where mad people are kept.

“You don’t think I should go back there, do you?” she said, looking at me worriedly. “I’m not mad and I’ve done nothing wrong. I was shut up in the Asylum by a man who is very cruel.”

“Certainly not. I am glad you escaped from it – I am glad I helped you.”

“Yes, yes, you did help me indeed,” she went on. “It was easy to escape. They never suspected me as they suspected the others. I was so quiet, and so obedient, and so easily frightened. You helped me. Did I thank you at the time? I thank you now very kindly.”

“Had you no father or mother to take care of you?”

“Father? – I never saw him – I never heard mother speak of him. Father? Ah, dear! he is dead, I suppose.”

“And your mother?”

“I don’t get on well with her.[43] We are a trouble and a fear to each other. Don’t ask me about mother.”

Suddenly she looked at me with a new expression. “How is Miss Fairlie?” she asked.

“I’m afraid Miss Fairlie was not very well or very happy this morning,” I said.

She murmured a few words, but they were spoken in such a low tone, that I could not even guess at what they meant.

“Miss Fairlie has received your letter this morning. You did write that letter, didn’t you, Anne?”

* * *

“How do you know?” she said faintly. “Who showed it to you?” The blood rushed back into her face. “I never wrote it,” she cried; “I know nothing about it!”

“Yes,” I said, “you wrote it, and you know about it. It was wrong to send such a letter, it was wrong to frighten Miss Fairlie. If you had anything to say that it was right and necessary for her to hear, you should have gone yourself to Limmeridge House – you should have spoken to the young lady with your own lips.”

Anne sank down on her knees with her arms round the cross, and made no reply.

“Miss Fairlie will keep your secret,” I went on, “and not let you come to any harm. Will you see her tomorrow at the farm? Will you meet her in the garden at Limmeridge House?”

“Oh!” Her lips murmured the words close on the grave-stone. “You know how I love your child! Oh, Mrs. Fairlie! Mrs. Fairlie! Tell me how to save her. Be my darling and my mother once more, and tell me what to do for the best.”

I heard her lips kissing the stone. I stooped down,[44] and took the poor helpless hands tenderly in mine, and tried to soothe her.

It was useless. She snatched her hands from me, and never moved her face from the stone.

“I will talk of nothing to distress you,” I said.

“You want something,” she answered sharply and suspiciously. “Don’t look at me like that. Speak to me – tell me what you want.”

“I only want you to quiet yourself.”

“Why don’t you help me?” she asked, with angry suddenness.

“Yes, yes,” I said, “I will help you, and you will soon remember. I ask you to see Miss Fairlie tomorrow and to tell her the truth about the letter.”

“Ah! Miss Fairlie – Fairlie – Fairlie – ”

The mere utterance of the loved familiar name seemed to quiet her. Her face softened and grew like itself again.

“You need have no fear of Miss Fairlie,” I continued, “She knows so much about it already, that you will have no difficulty in telling her all. You mention no names in the letter; but Miss Fairlie knows that the person you write of is Sir Percival Glyde – ”

At the mention of Sir Percival’s name, she started to her feet, and a look of terrible hatred and fear came over the woman’s face. She screamed out, and my heart leaped in terror.

“What harm has he done you?” I asked.

“Sir Percival Glyde is the wicked man who shut me up in the Asylum!” she cried.

* * *

“I’m coming! I’m coming!” cried the voice from behind the clump of trees. In a moment more an elderly woman appeared.

“Who are you?” she cried. “How dare you frighten a poor helpless woman like that?”

She was at Anne Catherick’s side, and had put one arm around her, before I could answer. “What is it, my dear?” she said. “What has he done to you?”

“Nothing,” the poor creature answered. “Nothing. I’m only frightened.”

“Try to forgive me,” I said, when Anne Catherick took her friend’s arm to go away. “I will try,” she answered. “But you know too much – I’m afraid you’ll always frighten me now.”

“Good-night, sir,” said an old woman.

They moved away a few steps. I thought they had left me, but Anne suddenly stopped, and separated herself from her friend.

“Wait a little,” she said. “I must say good-bye.”

She returned to the grave, rested both hands tenderly on the marble cross, and kissed it.

“I’m better now,” she sighed, looking up at me quietly. “I forgive you.”

She joined her companion again, and they left the burial-ground.[45]

Half an hour later I was back at the house, and was informing Miss Halcombe of all that had happened during my meeting with Anne Catherick. She listened to me from beginning to end with a steady, silent attention.

“I’m so worried about the future,” she said. “I don’t have a very good feeling about Laura’s marriage to Sir Percival. What shall we do now?”

“I have a suggestion,” I said. “We have to ask Anne Catherick a lot more questions, but I’m sure she will talk more openly to a woman than a man. If Miss Fairlie – ”

“No,” interposed Miss Halcombe, in her most decided manner.

“Let me suggest, then,” I continued, “that you should see Anne Catherick yourself. Tomorrow, why don’t you come with me to the farm where she’s staying? You can meet her there and talk to her.”

“I will go anywhere and do anything to serve Laura’s interests. What did you say the place was called?”

“You must know it well. It is called Todd’s Corner.”

“Certainly. Todd’s Corner is one of Mr. Fairlie’s farms. Our dairymaid here is the farmer’s second daughter. She goes backwards and forwards constantly between this house and her father’s farm, and she may have heard or seen something which it may be useful to us to know.”

“Very well,” agreed Marian. “And in the meantime, there’s something else we have to do. We need to find out why Sir Percival Glyde shut Anne Catherick up in the Asylum. The Asylum you have mentioned is a well-known private one and it’s very expensive. Why is Sir Percival Glyde paying all that money to keep Anne there? We need to know the answer to that question before Sir Percival can marry my sister. Laura’s happiness means everything to me.

I’ll write to our family lawyer, Mr Gilmore, and tell him what’s happened. He will advise me as to what to do.”

“There is not the shadow of a doubt. The only mystery that remains is the mystery of his motive”.

“I see where the doubt lies, Mr. Hartright. Sir Percival Glyde shall not be long in this house without satisfying Mr. Gilmore, and satisfying me.”

We parted for the night.

This was my last day at Limmeridge House, and it was necessary, as soon as the post came in, to follow Miss Halcombe’s advice, and to ask Mr. Fairlie’s permission to shorten my engagement by a month, in consideration of a necessity for my return to London.

After breakfast the next morning, when the post had come, I sent a polite note to Mr. Fairlie. I told him I had to return to London on urgent business and asked his permission to leave. I knew that my time at Limmeridge House was nearly at an end.

I sat down at once to write the letter, expressing myself in it as civilly, as clearly, and as briefly as possible. An hour later I received Mr. Fairlie’s reply.

“Dear Mr Hartright,

I’m sorry but I’m not feeling well enough to see you at the moment.

Please excuse me. My nerves are so very delicate.

I cannot possibly imagine what business you have in London which is more important than your business at Limmeridge House. I am really very disappointed in you. However as I do not wish to be upset by any more such requests from you, I will allow you to leave. My health is of the greatest importance. Therefore you may go.”

I folded the letter up, and put it away with my other papers. I didn’t feel any anger inwards Mr Fairlie, I was only glad to leave. I accepted it now as a written release from my engagement. Then I went downstairs to find Marian and tell her that I was ready to walk to the farmhouse with her to meet Anne Catherick.

“Has Mr. Fairlie given you a satisfactory answer?” Marian asked as we left the house.

“He has allowed me to go, Miss Halcombe.”

We had agreed to say nothing to Laura about my meeting with Anne in the churchyard, and what Anne had said about Sir Percival Glyde. It would only worry Laura and upset her.

On our way to Todd’s Corner we arranged that Marian would enter alone, and I would wait outside. I thought she would be a long time talking to Anne Catherick, but she went into the farmhouse and came out again in less than five minutes.

“Does Anne Catherick refuse to see you?” I asked in astonishment.

“Anne Catherick is gone,” replied Miss Halcombe.

“Gone?”

“Gone with Mrs. Clements,[46] her elderly companion. They both left the farm at eight o’clock this morning.”

I could say nothing – I could only feel that our last chance of discovery had gone with them.

“The dairymaid just told me she left for the station at eight o’clock this morning.”

“Let’s ask the dairymaid some more questions,” I said.

We went back inside. Clearly the dairymaid had no idea why Anne Catherick had left so suddenly. She had been planning to stay at the farm for several more days, but the evening before she had suddenly become ill and fainted.

“Do you think anything happened to frighten her?” I asked.

“I don’t think so,” replied the girl. “I was only trying to cheer her up by telling her the local news. She looked so pale and sad sometimes that I felt sorry for her.

“And you told her the news at Limmeridge House?”

“I was telling her about Miss Fairlie and Limmeridge House as I thought she would be interested.”

“Did you tell her that visitors were expected at the house on Monday?” I said.

“Yes, sir. I told her that somebody was coming. She was taken ill after that.”

“Did you mention names? Did you tell them that Sir Percival Glyde was expected on Monday?”

“Yes, miss – I told them Sir Percival Glyde was coming. I hope there was no harm in it – I hope I didn’t do wrong.”

“Don’t worry, you did nothing wrong,” Marian said kindly.

We stopped and looked at one another the moment we were alone again.

“Is there any doubt in your mind, now, Miss Halcombe?”

The expression on Marian’s face was very serious.

“Sir Percival Glyde shall remove that doubt, Mr. Hartright – or Laura Fairlie shall never be his wife.”

* * *

As we walked round to the front of the house, a horse and carriage approached us along the drive. Mr. Gilmore had arrived.

I looked at him, when we were introduced to each other, with an interest and a curiosity which I could hardly conceal.

Mr. Gilmore’s complexion was florid – his white hair was worn rather long and kept carefully brushed – his black coat, waistcoat, and trousers fitted him very well – his white cravat was carefully tied. He had an air of kindness which was very pleasing.

My hours were numbered at Limmeridge House – my departure the next morning was settled. I knew that Marian and Mr Gilmore would have a lot to talk about so I didn’t follow them inside. Instead I turned back into the garden and began to wander about alone, along the paths where we had spent so many happy times in the summer.

Now it was winter and everything had changed. The flowers with leaves had all gone, and the earth was bare and cold. Everything reminded me of the happy times when I had walked with Laura. I remembered her warm smile and her sweet voice and the conversations we had had. But now there was no Laura and only a frozen emptiness remained.

I could bear it no longer. The empty silence of the beach struck cold to my heart. I returned to the house and the garden.

On the west terrace walk I met Mr. Gilmore. He was evidently in search of me. “You are the very person I wanted to see,” said the old gentleman. “I had two words to say to you, my dear sir. Miss Halcombe and I have been talking over family affairs, and in the course of our conversation she said about the anonymous letter. You have acted well, Mr Hartright, and done everything you could. You have been of great help to Marian and Laura, and I owe you many thanks for that. Now I want to tell you that I’ll take over the matter. It is in safe hands – my hands.”

“May I ask what you are going to do?” I said.

“I’m going to send a copy of the letter to Sir Percival Glyde at once. He’ll be able to look at it before he comes here. He has an excellent reputation and a very high position in society. I’m sure he’ll give us a very satisfactory explanation when he arrives on Monday. The letter itself I shall keep here to show to Sir Percival as soon as he arrives. This is all that can be done until Sir Percival comes on Monday. I have no doubt myself that every explanation which can be expected from a gentleman and a man of honour, he will readily give. Sir Percival stands very high, sir – an eminent position, a reputation above suspicion – I feel quite easy about results – quite easy, I am rejoiced to assure you. Things of this sort happen constantly in my experience. Anonymous letters – unfortunate woman – sad state of society. The case itself is, most unhappily, common. We will wait for events – yes, yes, yes – we will wait for events. Charming place this. Charming place, though, and delightful people. You draw and paint, I hear, Mr. Hartright? What style?”

Mr Gilmore then changed the conversation to general subjects and we walked back to the house together. It was nearly time for dinner so I went to my room and waited there until I heard the dinner bell ring. Then I went downstairs.

I determined to end it. I told Marian the reasons to hasten my departure.

“No, no,” she said, earnestly and kindly, “leave us like a friend. Stay here and dine, stay here and help us to spend our last evening with you as happily, as like our first evenings, as we can. It is my invitation – ”she hesitated a little, and then added, “Laura’s invitation as well.”

I promised to remain. My own room was the best place for me till the dinner bell rang. I waited there till it was time to go downstairs.

I had not spoken to Miss Fairlie – I had not even seen her – all that day. And now our last evening together had come. She was wearing a pretty dark-blue dress – the one which was my favourite. She looked more beautiful than ever – beautiful but sad. She came forward to meet me and gave me her hand. She was trying hard to be as normal as possible, but her smile, usually so warm, was very faint and her fingers were as cold as ice.

As we sat through dinner I pretended to be happy, but I felt as if my heart was breaking. Mr. Gilmore and Marian did most of the talking. Mr. Gilmore noticed nothing wrong and told stories and jokes. Laura sat silently. Now and again her eyes would meet mine, and then she would look away.

At last the meal ended and we all went through to the sitting room. Mr. Gilmore and Marian got out the card table and started to play cards. I stood still, not knowing where to go or what to do next.

Mr. Gilmore was a great assistance to us. He was in high good humour, and he led the conversation.

“Shall I play some of those little melodies of Mozart’s which you used to like so much?” asked Laura, opening the music nervously, and looking down at it while she spoke.

Before I could thank her she hastened to the piano. The chair near it, which I had always been accustomed to occupy, stood empty. She struck a few chords – then glanced round at me – then looked back again at her music.

“Won’t you take your old place?” she said, speaking very abruptly and in very low tones.

“I may take it on the last night,” I answered.

She did not reply – she listened to the music – music which she knew by memory, which she had played over and over again, in former times, without the book.

“I am very sorry you are going,” she said, her voice almost sinking to a whisper, her eyes looking more and more intently at the music, her fingers flying over the keys of the piano with a strange energy which I had never noticed in her before.

“I shall remember those kind words, Miss Fairlie, long after tomorrow has come and gone.”

“Don’t speak of tomorrow,” she said. “Let the music speak to us of tonight, in a happier language than ours.”

Her lips trembled, her face grew even paler, and she turned away from me quickly.

At last the time had come to say goodnight. Mr. Gilmore stood and shook my hand warmly.

“It was a great pleasure to meet you, Mr Hartright,” he said. “I do hope we’ll meet again. And don’t worry about that little matter of business which we spoke about. It’s quite safe in my hands. Goodbye and have a good journey!”

The next morning I went downstairs at half past seven. Both Marian and Laura were in the breakfast room. Laura got up and ran from the room.

Marian took my hands and pressed them in her own.

“I’ll write to you,” she said. “You’ve been like a brother to me and Laura. Thank you so much for everything. I’ll watch you leave from upstairs. Goodbye.”

She too left the room and I remained alone for a few minutes, looking sadly out of the window at the winter scene outside.

Then I heard the door open again and the soft sound of a woman’s dress moving over the carpet. My heart beat quickly as I turned round. It was Laura, holding something in her hand.

“I only went to get this,” she said, holding out a little sketch. “I hope it will remind you of your friends here.”

It was drawn in her own hand and was of the summer house where we’d first met. My hand trembled as I took it from her. I was afraid to say what I really felt, so I just said,

“It will never leave me – it will stay beside me for the rest of my life.”

“Please promise me something. Promise me that if ever a time comes when you need help, you will remember me – the poor drawing master who taught you. Promise you’ll let me know.”

“I promise,” she replied. “I promise with all my heart. Oh, please don’t look at me like that.”

I had moved closer to her and taken her hand in mine. I held her hand fast and looked into her eyes while the tears were flowing down her cheeks.

“For God’s sake, leave me!” she cried out.

At that moment I knew that Laura loved me too.

I dropped her hand. Through the tears which blinded my own eyes, I saw her for the last time. She sank into a chair with her arms on the table and her head resting on them.

One farewell look, and the door had closed upon her – the great gulf of separation had opened between us – the image of Laura Fairlie was a memory of the past already.

The End of Hartright’s Narrative.

The Story Continued by Vincent Gilmore (of Chancery Lane,[47] 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.