One day I received a letter. Frederick Fairlie, Esquire, of Limmeridge House, Cumberland,[3] wanted to hire a competent drawing-master, for a period of four months.

The master was to superintend the instruction of two young ladies in the art of painting in water-colours;[4] and he was to devote his leisure time, afterwards, to the business of repairing and mounting a valuable collection of drawings. Four guineas a week was the salary!

“Oh, Walter, your father never had such a chance as this![5]” said my mother, when she had read the letter and had handed it back to me.

This teacher would live at Limmeridge House with the family. I knew I was very lucky to get this job. Teaching the young ladies would be easy and pleasant, and the pay and working conditions were excellent.

The next morning I sent my papers. Three days passed, and on the fourth day, an answer came. It announced that Mr. Fairlie accepted my services, and requested me to start for Cumberland immediately. All the necessary instructions for my journey were carefully and clearly added in a postscript.

The heat had been awful all day, and it was now a close and sultry night. The moon was full and broad in the dark blue starless sky. I decided to walk. I wound my way down slowly over the heath. By the time I had arrived at the end of the road I had become completely absorbed in my own fanciful visions of Limmeridge House, of Mr. Fairlie, and of the two ladies whose practice in the art of water-colour painting I was so soon to superintend.[6]

I had now arrived at the point where four roads met – the road to Hampstead,[7] along which I had returned, the road to Finchley,[8] the road to West End, and the road back to London. I had mechanically turned in this latter direction. Suddenly I felt the touch of a hand laid lightly and suddenly on my shoulder from behind me.

There, in the middle of the broad bright wide road stood the figure of a solitary Woman, dressed from head to foot in white garments. The strange woman spoke first.

“Is that the road to London?” she said.

I looked attentively at her. It was then nearly one o’clock. There was nothing wild, nothing immodest in her manner: it was quiet and self – controlled. The voice had something curiously still and mechanical in its tones, and the utterance was remarkably rapid. She held a small bag in her hand: and her dress – bonnet, shawl, and gown all of white – was certainly not composed of very delicate or very expensive materials. I guessed her to be about twenty-two years old.

“Did you hear me?” she said, still quietly and rapidly. “I asked if that was the way to London.”

“Yes,” I replied, “that is the way: it leads to St. John’s Wood[9] and the Regent’s Park.[10] You must excuse me; I didn’t see you until you touched me. You gave me quite a shock.”

“I did not do anything wrong, I have met with an accident[11] – I am very unfortunate.”

She spoke with unnecessary earnestness and agitation. She turned, and pointed back to a place at the junction of the road to London and the road to Hampstead, where there was a gap in the hedge.

“I was hiding among those trees,” she said. “I heard you coming. I was afraid to speak to you until I had seen your face. When I saw that your face was kind, I followed you and touched you. Will you help me?”

Touch me? Why not call to me? Strange, very strange.

“May I trust you?” she asked. “I have met with an accident.” She stopped in confusion; and sighed bitterly.

The helplessness of the woman touched me.

“Please,” I said. “If it troubles you to explain your strange situation to me, don’t do it. I have no right to ask you for any explanations. Tell me how I can help you; and if I can, I will.”

“You are very kind, and I am very, very thankful to have met you. I have only been in London once before,” she went on, more and more rapidly, “and I don’t know London very well. But I have a friend here, a lady, who will be very glad to see me. I can stay with her but I need to carriage to take me to her house. Can you help me find one? Will you promise?”

She looked anxiously up and down the road; shifted her bag again from one hand to the other; repeated the words, “Will you promise?” and looked hard in my face.

What could I do? No house was near; no one was passing whom I could consult.

“Are you sure that your friend in London will receive you at such a late hour as this?” I said.

“Quite sure. But you must leave me when I tell you. Will you promise?”

As she repeated the words for the third time, she came close to me and laid her hand on my bosom – a thin hand; a cold hand (when I removed it with mine) even on that sultry night. Remember that I was young; remember that the hand which touched me was a woman’s.

“Will you promise?”

“Yes.”

We set our faces towards London, and walked on together in the first still hour of the new day – I, and this woman, whose name, whose character, whose story, whose objects in life, whose very presence by my side, at that moment, were mysteries to me. It was like a dream. Was I Walter Hartright? Who was this mysterious woman?

“I want to ask you something,” she said suddenly. “Do you know many people in London?”

“Yes, a great many.”

“And do you know anybody in London with the title of Baronet?[12]”

As she asked me this, she was staring hard into my face. I was astonished by her question.

“Why do you ask?”

“Because I hope, there is one Baronet that you don’t know.”

“Will you tell me his name?”

“I can’t – I daren’t – I forget myself when I mention it.” She spoke loudly. “I hope you don’t know him!”

“No,” I said, “I don’t know any baronets. I’m only a drawing-master. I am afraid the baronet, whose name you are unwilling to mention to me, has done you something wrong. Who is this wicked baronet?”

“Thank God!” she said to herself. “I may trust him. I can’t tell you any more.”

The woman was looking very upset.

“Please don’t ask me any more questions.”

We walked forward again at a quick pace;[13] and for half an hour, at least, not a word passed on either side. We had reached the first houses.

“Do you live in London?” she said.

“Yes,” I answered. And I added, “But tomorrow I shall be away from London for some time. I am going into the country.”

“Where?” she asked. “North or south?”

“North – to Cumberland.”

“Cumberland!” she repeated the word tenderly. “How I wish I was going there too. I was once happy in Cumberland.”

I tried again to lift the veil that hung between this woman and me.

“Perhaps you were born,” I said, “in the beautiful Lake country.”

“No,” she answered. “I was born in Hampshire; but I once went to school for a little while in Cumberland. Lakes? I don’t remember any lakes. Mrs Fairlie was my good friend. Mrs Fairlie’s husband was very rich and they lived in a big house, called Limmeridge House, just outside the village.”

It was my turn now to stop suddenly, staggered with astonishment.

“Ah! Mrs. Fairlie is dead; and her husband is dead; and their little girl may be married and gone away by this time. I can’t say who lives at Limmeridge now. If any more are left there of that name, I only know I love them.”

“This is London,” she said. “Do you see any carriage I can get? I am tired and frightened. I want to shut myself in and be driven away.”

I saw a cab, on the opposite side of the way.

“It’s so late,” she said. “I am only in a hurry because it’s so late. And I’m so tired, I don’t think I can walk any further. Let me take that cab.”

I saw that the driver had a kind face and I was sure he wouldn’t harm her. She got into the cab but I didn’t hear the address she gave to the driver.

“I’m quite safe, and quite happy now,” she said vehemently. “If you are a gentleman, remember your promise. Thank you – oh! thank you, thank you!”

My hand was on the cab door. She caught it in hers, kissed it, and pushed it away. The cab set off slowly, and disappeared into the darkness. The woman in white was gone.

Ten minutes or more had passed. I was still on the same side of the way. I was on the dark side of the road, in the thick shadow of some garden trees, when I stopped to look round. Suddenly I saw two men.

“Stop!” cried one. “Let’s ask him. Have you seen a woman pass this way, sir?”

“What sort of woman, sir?”

“A woman in white!”

“If you meet with the woman, please, stop her.”

“Why? What has she done?”

“She has escaped from the Asylum. Don’t forget; a woman in white!”

And two men ran away.

“She has escaped from my Asylum!” In the disturbed state of my mind, it was useless to think of going to bed, when I at last got back to my chambers. I sat down and tried to draw, then to read – but the woman in white got between me and my pencil, between me and my book. Where had she stopped the cab? What had become of her now?[14]

The following day I travelled to Cumberland. The journey was long, we drove away slowly through the darkness in perfect silence. The roads were bad, we could not go fast. We had passed one gate before entering the drive, and we passed another before we drew up at the house. Except for one servant, everybody had gone to bed. I was informed that the family had retired for the night, and was then led into a large room where my supper was awaiting me.

I was too tired to eat or drink much. In a quarter of an hour I was ready to go to bed. The servant said, “Breakfast at nine o’clock, sir” – looked all round him to see that everything was in its proper place, and noiselessly went away.

“What shall I see in my dreams tonight?” I thought to myself, as I put out the candle; “The woman in white? Or the unknown inhabitants of this Cumberland mansion?”

When I got up the next morning, the sun was shining. From my window I had a wonderful view of the gardens stretching down to the bright blue sea in the distance. It was all so different from my tiny room in London that I began to feel enthusiastic and happy about starting my new life.

A little before nine o’clock, I descended to the ground-floor of the house. The servant showed me the way to the breakfast-room.

When I opened the door, I saw a young lady standing by the far window, with her back turned towards me, looking out across the garden. She turned and came towards me, holding out her hand and smiling warmly.

She had thick black hair and dark shining eyes. She wasn’t at all beautiful but the expression on her face was bright, friendly and intelligent.

The lady’s complexion was almost swarthy, and the dark down on her upper lip was almost a moustache. She had a large, firm, masculine mouth and jaw; prominent, piercing, resolute brown eyes; and thick, coal-black hair, growing unusually low down on her forehead.

“Mr. Hartright?” said the lady, her dark face lighting up with a smile, and softening and growing womanly the moment she began to speak. “Allow me to introduce myself as one of your pupils. My name is Marian Halcombe.[15] Shall we shake hands? I suppose we must come to it sooner or later – and why not sooner?”

These odd words of welcome were spoken in a clear, ringing, pleasant voice. We sat down together at the breakfast-table in as cordial and customary a manner as if we had known each other for years.

“My sister is in her own room,” continued the lady. “My uncle, Mr. Fairlie, never joins us at any of our meals: he is an invalid, and stays in his own apartments. There is nobody else in the house. Mr. Hartright – which will you have, tea or coffee?”

She handed me my cup of tea, laughing gaily. It was impossible to be formal and reserved in her company.

“My mother was twice married: the first time to Mr. Halcombe, my father; the second time to Mr. Fairlie, my half-sister’s father.[16] Except that we are both orphans, we are in every respect as unlike each other as possible. My father was a poor man, and Miss Fairlie’s father was a rich man. I have got nothing, and she has a fortune. I am dark and ugly, and she is fair and pretty. Everybody thinks me crabbed and odd; and everybody thinks her sweet-tempered and charming. In short, she is an angel; and I am – Try some of that marmalade, Mr. Hartright, and finish the sentence, for yourself. What am I to tell you about Mr. Fairlie? Upon my honour, I hardly know. He will send for you after breakfast, and you can study him for yourself. In the meantime, I may inform you, first, that he is the late Mr. Fairlie’s younger brother; secondly,[17] that he is a single man; and thirdly,[18] that he is Miss Fairlie’s guardian.[19] I won’t live without her, and she can’t live without me; and that is how I come to be at Limmeridge House. My sister and I love each other very much. You must please both of us, Mr. Hartright, or please neither of us. Mr. Fairlie is too great an invalid to be a companion for anybody. I don’t know what is the matter with him, and the doctors don’t know what is the matter with him, and he doesn’t know himself what is the matter with him. We all say it’s on the nerves, and we none of us know what we mean when we say it. However, I advise you to humour his little peculiarities, when you see him today. Admire his collection of coins, prints, and water-colour drawings, and you will win his heart. From breakfast to lunch, Mr. Fairlie’s drawings will occupy you. After lunch, Miss Fairlie and I will go out to draw, under your directions. Drawing is her favourite whim, not mine. Women can’t draw – their minds are too flighty, and their eyes are too inattentive. No matter – my sister likes it; so I waste paint and spoil paper. As for the evenings, I think we can find interesting things to do. Miss Fairlie plays delightfully. And I can play chess, cards, and even billiards as well. What do you think of the plan? I do hope you’ll be happy with us. We enjoy living here, but it’s very quiet. We don’t have any of the excitement or adventures which you must be used to in London.”

Immediately her words reminded me of the woman in white.

“I don’t need any more adventures,” I said. “Two nights ago, I had an adventure which I will never forget.”

“You don’t say so,[20] Mr. Hartright! May I hear it?”

“You have a claim to hear it. The chief person in the adventure was a total stranger to me, and may perhaps be a total stranger to you; but she certainly mentioned the name of Mrs. Fairlie.”

“Mentioned my mother’s name! You interest me. Pray go on.”

Then I told Miss Halcombe about my meeting with the mysterious woman in white, exactly as they had occurred; and I repeated what she had said to me about Mrs. Fairlie and Limmeridge House, word for word.

“The strange thing is that she mentioned your mother, Mrs Fairlie,” I said. “She seemed to have known her and loved her very much. Do you know who this woman can possibly be?”

Miss Halcombe’s face expressed vivid interest and astonishment, but nothing more. She shook her head. She looked interested but also astonished. Clearly she had no idea who the woman in white could be.

“Whoever she may be,” I continued, “the woman knew that Mrs. Fairlie and her husband were both dead; and she spoke of Miss Fairlie as if they had known each other when they were children. She told me she came from Hampshire.”

“You had better not speak of it yet to Mr. Fairlie, or to my sister. They are rather nervous and sensitive. When my mother came here, after her second marriage, she certainly established the village school just as it exists at the present time. But the old teachers are all dead, or gone elsewhere. The only other alternative I can think of – ”

At this point we were interrupted by the entrance of the servant, with a message from Mr. Fairlie, telling that he would be glad to see me, as soon as I had done breakfast.

“Wait in the hall,” said Miss Halcombe, answering the servant for me, in her quick, ready way. “Mr. Hartright will come out directly. I was about to say,” she went on, addressing me again, “that my sister and I have a large collection of my mother’s letters, addressed to my father and to hers. In the absence of any other means of getting information, I will pass the morning in looking over my mother’s correspondence with Mr. Fairlie. I hope to discover something when we meet again. The luncheon hour is two, Mr. Hartright. I shall have the pleasure of introducing you to my sister by that time, and we will occupy the afternoon in driving round the neighbourhood and showing you all our pet points of view. Till two o’clock, then, farewell.”

As soon as she had left me, I turned my steps towards the hall, and followed the servant, on my way, for the first time, to the presence of Mr. Fairlie.

We arranged to meet later and I went upstairs to Mr Fairlie’s room. The furniture was the perfection of luxury and beauty; the table in the centre was full of books, elegant conveniences for writing, and beautiful flowers; the second table, near the window, was covered with all the necessary materials for mounting water-colour drawings. It was the prettiest and most luxurious little sitting-room I had ever seen; and I admired it with the warmest enthusiasm.

The servant silently opened the door for me to go out into the passage. We turned a corner, and entered a long second passage. The servant disclosed two curtains of pale sea-green silk hanging before us; raised one of them noiselessly; softly uttered the words, “Mr. Hartright,” and left me.

I found myself in a large, lofty room, with a magnificent carved ceiling, and with a carpet over the floor, so thick and soft that it felt like piles of velvet under my feet. One side of the room was occupied by a long bookcase of some rare wood that was quite new to me. Mr. Fairlie was over fifty and under sixty years old. His beardless face was thin, worn, and pale, but not wrinkled; his nose was high and hooked; his eyes were large; his hair was scanty. He was dressed in a dark frock-coat.[21] Two rings adorned his white delicate hands.

“I am very glad to see you at Limmeridge, Mr. Hartright,” he said in a croaking voice. “Pray sit down. And don’t trouble yourself to move the chair, please. Movement of any kind is painful to me. My nerves are very delicate, you know. Have you got everything you want? Do you like your room?

“Everything is fine,” I started to say, but to my surprise Mr. Fairlie stopped me.

“Pray excuse me. But could you speak in a lower voice? Loud sound of any kind is torture to me. You will pardon an invalid? Yes. My nerves are very delicate. Have you met Marian and Laura?”

“I’ve only met Marian,” I said.

“I beg your pardon,” interposed Mr. Fairlie. “Do you mind my closing my eyes while you speak? Even this light is too much for them. Yes?”

“The only point, Mr. Fairlie, that remains to be discussed,” I said, “refers, I think, to the question: what kind of art would you like me to teach the two young ladies?”

“Ah! just so,” said Mr. Fairlie. “I’m afraid I don’t feel strong enough to discuss that,” said Mr. Fairlie. “You must ask Marian and Laura. Mr Hartright, it’s been a real pleasure meeting you, but now I’m getting tired. Please don’t bang the door on your way out. So kind of you.”

When the sea-green curtains were closed, and when the two doors were shut behind me, I stopped for a moment in the little circular hall beyond, and drew a long, luxurious breath of relief. It was a great relief to get out of Mr Fairlie’s room. It was like coming to the surface of the water after deep diving, to find myself once more on the outside of Mr. Fairlie’s room.

The remaining hours of the morning passed away pleasantly enough, in looking over the drawings, arranging them in sets, trimming their ragged edges, and accomplishing the other necessary preparations.

At two o’clock I descended again to the breakfast-room, a little anxiously. My introduction to Miss Fairlie was now close at hand.

When I entered the room, I found Miss Halcombe seated at the luncheon-table.

“How did you find Mr. Fairlie?” inquired Miss Halcombe. “Was he particularly nervous this morning, Mr. Hartright? I see in your face[22] that he was particularly nervous; and I ask no more. Laura is in the garden, do come and meet her.”

We went out while she was speaking, and approached a pretty summer-house, built of wood, in the form of a miniature Swiss chalet.[23] I saw a young lady sitting inside at a table, drawing, with her head bent closely over her work. She was wearing a pretty summer dress and had golden hair. This was Miss Fairlie.

How can I describe her? The water-colour drawing that I made of Laura Fairlie lies on my desk while I write. I look at it. Does my poor portrait of her, my patient labour of long and happy days, show me all her beauty? A fair, delicate girl, in a pretty light dress.

“There’s Laura,” whispered Miss Halcombe. Then more loudly she said, “Look there, Mr. Hartright,” said Miss Halcombe, pointing to the sketch-book on the table. “The moment Laura hears that you are in the house, she takes her sketch-book, and begins to draw!”

At once the young lady looked up from her drawing and her eyes met mine. She had a lovely face and the most beautiful smile in the world. But there was something else about her too – something that troubled and disturbed me. Had I met her before? I didn’t think so. But she reminded me of somebody I knew. Miss Fairlie laughed.

“I must say that I like to draw, but I am conscious of my ignorance. Now I know you are here, Mr. Hartright. I hope Mr. Hartright will pay me no compliments,” said Miss Fairlie, as we all left the summer-house.

“But why?” I asked.

“Because I shall believe all that you say to me,” she answered simply.

In those few words she unconsciously gave me the key to her whole character. Then I realised. Impossible as it may seem, Laura Fairlie looked very much like the woman in white!

We had been out nearly three hours, when the carriage again passed through the gates of Limmeridge House. On our way back I offered the ladies to choose the view which they were to sketch, under my instructions, on the afternoon of the next day.

When the dinner was over we returned together to the drawing-room. The drawing-room was on the ground-floor, and was of the same shape and size as the breakfast-room. At my request[24] Miss Fairlie placed herself at the piano. How vividly that peaceful home-picture of the drawing-room comes back to me while I write! From the place where I sat I could see Miss Halcombe’s graceful figure, half of it in soft light, half in mysterious shadow.

Miss Fairlie was playing, Miss Halcombe was reading – till the light failed us. For half an hour more the music still went on. We went out to admire the night.

Then I heard Miss Halcombe’s voice – low, eager, and altered from its natural lively tone – pronounce my name.

“Mr. Hartright,” she said, “will you come here for a minute? I want to speak to you.”

I entered the room again immediately. Miss Halcombe was sitting with the letters scattered on her lap. On the side nearest to the terrace there stood a low sofa, on which I took my place. In this position I was not far from the glass doors, and I could see Miss Fairlie plainly.

“I’ve found out something interesting,” said Miss Halcombe. “I’ve been reading my mother’s letters and in one of them she mentions a little girl called Anne Catherick,[25] who was visiting Limmeridge one summer with her mother. My mother had set up a school for the village children and while Anne was in Limmeridge, she went to this school. My mother writes about Anne Catherick with great affection.”

Miss Halcombe paused, and looked at me across the piano.

“Did the forlorn woman whom you met in the road seem young?” she asked. “Young enough to be two – or three-and-twenty?”

“Yes, Miss Halcombe, as young as that.”

“And she was strangely dressed, from head to foot, all in white?”

“All in white.”

“All in white?” Miss Halcombe repeated. “The most important sentences in the letter, Mr. Hartright, are those at the end, which I will read to you immediately. The doctor may have been wrong when he discovered the child’s defects of intellect, and predicted that she would ‘grow out of them.’ She may never have grown out of them.”

I said a few words in answer – I hardly know what. All my attention was concentrated on the white gleam of Miss Fairlie’s dress.

“Listen to the last sentences of the letter,” said Miss Halcombe. “I think they will surprise you.”

As she raised the letter to the light of the candle, Miss Fairlie turned from the balustrade, looked doubtfully up and down the terrace, and then stopped, facing us.

“Anne told my mother that she would always wear white to remember her by, as my mother’s favourite colour was white.”

“So it’s quite possible that the woman in white is Anne Catherick,” I said slowly. “What happened to Anne?”

“I don’t know,” said Miss Halcombe. “She and her mother left Limmeridge after a few months and never came back. There is no further mention of her in my mother’s letters.”

I looked further. There stood Miss Fairlie, a white figure, alone in the moonlight; in her attitude, in the turn of her head, in her complexion, in the shape of her face, the living image of the woman in white!

During the following weeks, I experienced some of the happiest and most peaceful moments in my life. Every afternoon I went with Miss Halcombe, or Marian as I called her, and Laura into the countryside to draw and paint.

Miss Halcombe and I kept our secret. I enjoyed Marian’s company very much and I admired and respected her greatly. But feelings of a different kind were awakening within me for Laura.

The days passed on, the weeks passed on, and every day Laura and I were growing closer. As I was teaching how to hold her pencil to draw, my hand would nearly touch her hand or my cheek would touch her cheek. At those moments, I was breathing the perfume of her hair, and the warm fragrance of her breath. In the evenings after dinner we would light the tall candles in the sitting room and Laura would play the piano. I loved to sit and listen to the beautiful music while darkness fell outside.

I loved her. Yes, the truth was that I was falling deeply in love with Laura. I tried hard to keep my feelings hidden, but I suspected that Marian had guessed.

The days passed, the weeks passed; it was approaching the third month of my stay in Cumberland. We had parted one night as usual. Laura! No word had fallen from my lips, at that time or at any time before it, that could betray me. But when we met again in the morning, a change had come over her[26] – a change that told me all.

There was a coldness in her hand, there was an unnatural immobility in her face, there was in all her movements the mute expression of constant fear. The change in Miss Fairlie was reflected in her half-sister. A week elapsed, leaving us all three still in this position of secret constraint towards one another. My situation was becoming intolerable.

From this position of helplessness I was rescued by Miss Halcombe. Her lips told me the bitter, the necessary, the unexpected truth.

It was on a Thursday in the week, and nearly at the end of the third month of my living in Cumberland.

In the morning, when I went down into the breakfast-room at the usual hour, Miss Halcombe, for the first time since I had known her, was absent from her customary place at the table.

Miss Fairlie was out on the lawn. She bowed to me, but did not come in. She waited on the lawn, and I waited in the breakfast-room, till Miss Halcombe came in.

In a few minutes Miss Halcombe entered. She made her apologies for being late rather absently.

Our morning meal was short and silent. Miss Halcombe, after once or twice hesitating and checking herself, spoke at last.

“I have seen your uncle this morning, Laura,” she said. “He confirms what I told you. Monday is the day – not Tuesday.[27]”

Miss Fairlie looked down at the table beneath her. Her fingers moved nervously among the crumbs that were scattered on the cloth. Her lips themselves trembled visibly.

Miss Fairlie left the room. The kind sorrowful blue eyes looked at me, for a moment, with the sadness of a coming and a long farewell.

I turned towards the garden when the door had closed on her.[28] Miss Halcombe was standing with her hat in her hand, and her shawl over her arm, by the large window that led out to the lawn, and was looking at me attentively.

“I want to say a word to you in private, Mr. Hartright. Get your hat and come out into the garden. We are not likely to be disturbed there[29] at this hour in the morning.”

We were walking across the garden when the gardener passed with a letter in his hand. Marian stopped him.

“Is that letter for me?” she asked.

“No, it’s for Miss Laura,” answered the man, holding out the letter as he spoke. Marian took it from him and looked at the address.

“A strange handwriting,” she said to herself. “Where did you get this?” she continued, addressing the gardener.

“Well, miss,” said the lad, “I just got it from a woman.”

“What woman?”

“An old woman, miss.”

“Oh, an old woman. Any one you knew?”

“No, I have never met her before.”

“Which way did she go?”

“That gate,” said the under-gardener, turning towards the south.

“Curious,” said Miss Halcombe; handing the letter back to the lad, “take it to the house, and give it to one of the servants. And now, Mr. Hartright, if you have no objection, let us walk this way.”

She led me across the lawn, along the same path by which I had followed her on the day after my arrival at Limmeridge. She then brought me to the summer house – the same summer house where I had first seen Laura. We went inside and sat down. I waited, wondering what she would say.

“What I have to say to you I can say here.”

With those words she entered the summer-house, took one of the chairs at the little round table inside, and signed to me to take the other.

“Mr. Hartright,” she said, “As your friend, I am going to tell you, at once, that I have discovered your secret – without help or hint, mind, from any one else. Mr. Hartright, I know that you’re in love with Laura. I don’t even blame you and you’ve done nothing wrong. Shake hands – I have given you pain; I am going to give you more, but there is no help for it – shake hands with your friend, Marian Halcombe, first.”

I tried to look at her when she took my hand, but my eyes were dim. I tried to thank her, but my voice failed me.

“Listen to me,” she said. “There’s something I must tell you – something which will cause you great pain. You must leave Limmeridge House, Mr. Hartright, before more harm is done. It is my duty to say that to you.”

I felt terribly saddened by her words.

“I know I’m only a poor art teacher,” I began.

“You must leave us, not because you are a teacher of drawing.”

She waited a moment, turned her face full on me, and reaching across the table, laid her hand firmly on my arm.

“Not because you are a teacher of drawing,” she repeated, “but because Laura Fairlie is engaged to be married. Her future husband is coming here on Monday with his lawyer. Our family lawyer, Mr. Gilmore, is coming here too. The two lawyers are going to draw up the marriage settlement between Laura and her husband. Once they have arranged this, a date for the wedding can be fixed.”

The last word went like a bullet to my heart. I never moved and never spoke. Hopes! Betrothed, or not betrothed, she was equally far from me. Would other men have remembered that in my place? Not if they had loved her as I did.

The pang passed, and nothing but the dull numbing pain of it remained. I felt Miss Halcombe’s hand again, tightening its hold on my arm – I raised my head and looked at her. Her large black eyes were rooted on me, watching the white change on my face, which I felt, and which she saw.

“Crush it![30]” she said. “Here, where you first saw her, crush it! Don’t shrink under it like a woman. Tear it out; trample it under foot like a man! Are you yourself again?[31]”

“Enough myself, Miss Halcombe, to ask your pardon and hers. Enough myself to be guided by your advice, and to prove my gratitude in that way, if I can prove it.”

“It is an engagement of honour, not of love; her father sanctioned it on his deathbed, two years ago. Till you came here she was in the position of hundreds of other women, who marry men without love, and who learn to love them (when they don’t learn to hate!) after marriage, instead of before. Your absence and time will help us all three.”

“Let me go today,” I said bitterly. “The sooner the better.[32] But what reason shall I give to Mr Fairlie as to why I’m going?”

“No, not today,” she replied. “You must wait till tomorrow to explain tell Mr. Fairlie the sudden change in your plans. Wait until the post arrives tomorrow. Then tell Mr Fairlie you’ve received a letter from London and that you have to return there at once on urgent business.”

I had just agreed to this plan when we heard footsteps. It was Laura’s maid.

“Oh, Miss Marian,” said the girl. “Please can you come quickly to the house? Miss Laura is very upset by a letter she received this morning.”

“It must be the same letter the gardener brought,” said Marian worriedly.

We hurried back to the house.

“We have arranged all that is necessary, Mr. Hartright,” she said. “We have understood each other, as friends should, and we may go back at once to the house. To tell you the truth, I am worried about Laura.”

Her words felt like arrows shot into my heart. I could hardly move or speak.

“May I know who the gentleman engaged to Miss Fairlie is?” I asked at last.

She answered in a hasty, absent way —

“A gentleman of large property in Hampshire.”

Hampshire! Anne Catherick’s native place. Again, and yet again, the woman in white. There was a fatality in it.

“And his name?” I said, as quietly and indifferently as I could.

“Sir Percival Glyde.[33]”

Sir Percival! I stopped suddenly, and looked at Miss Halcombe.

“Sir Percival Glyde,” she repeated, imagining that I had not heard her former reply.

“Knight, or Baronet?” I asked, with an agitation that I could hide no longer.

She paused for a moment, and then answered, rather coldly —

“Baronet, of course.”

Baronet! Suddenly I was reminded of the woman in white. She had asked me if I knew any baronets and had told me of one who was cruel and wicked. Not a word more was said, on either side, as we walked back to the house. Miss Halcombe hastened immediately to her sister’s room, and I went to my studio.

She was engaged to be married, and her future husband was Sir Percival Glyde. A man of the rank of Baronet, and the owner of property in Hampshire.

There were hundreds of baronets in England, and dozens of landowners in Hampshire. I had not the shadow of a reason for connecting Sir Percival Glyde with the words that had been spoken to me by the woman in white. And yet, I did connect him with them.

I had been engaged with the drawings little more than half an hour, when there was a knock at the door. It opened, on my answering; and, to my surprise, Miss Halcombe entered the room.

Her manner was angry and agitated. She caught up a chair for herself before I could give her one, and sat down in it, close at my side. Marian was holding a letter in her hand and looking extremely angry and upset.

“Mr. Hartright,” she said, “You saw me send the gardener on to the house, with a letter addressed, in a strange handwriting, to Miss Fairlie?”

“Certainly.”

“The letter is an anonymous letter – a vile attempt to injure Sir Percival Glyde in my sister’s estimation.[34] You are the only person in the house who can advise me. Mr. Fairlie, in his state of health and with his horror of difficulties and mysteries of all kinds, is not the right man. The clergyman is a good, weak man, who knows nothing out of the routine of his duties; and our neighbours are just the sort of comfortable acquaintances. I’d like you to read it. Tell me what you think, Mr. Hartright.”

She gave me the letter. It began abruptly, without any preliminary form of address, as follows —

There the extraordinary letter ended, without signature of any sort.

“That is not an illiterate letter,” said Miss Halcombe, “I think it was written by a 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.

I did not answer. While I was speaking, my eyes rested on the last sentence of the letter: “Your mother was my first, my best, my only friend.”

“We must use any chance of tracing the person who has written this,” I said, returning the letter to Miss Halcombe, “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.”

“Sir Percival Glyde is anxious that the marriage 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. Mr. Fairlie has written to London, to the family solicitor,[37] Mr. Gilmore. Mr. Gilmore will arrive tomorrow, and will stay with us a few days. Mr. Gilmore is the old friend of two generations of Fairlies, and we can trust him, as we could trust no one else.”

“One of the paragraphs of the anonymous letter,” I said, “contains some sentences of personal description. Sir Percival Glyde’s name is not mentioned, I know – but does that description at all resemble him?”

“Accurately – even in stating his age to be forty-five – ”

Forty-five; and she was not yet twenty-one! That added to my blind hatred and distrust of him.

“There can be no doubt,” Miss Halcombe continued, “that every peculiarity of his personal appearance is thoroughly well known to the writer of the letter.”

“Even a cough that he is troubled with is mentioned, if I remember right?”

“Yes, and mentioned correctly.”

I felt the blood rush into my cheeks.

“But,” she said, “not a whisper, Mr. Hartright, has ever reached me, or my family, against Sir Percival.”

I opened the door for her in silence, and followed her out. She had not convinced me.

“We must find out more about the woman who gave this letter to the gardener,” said Marian. “Come on.”

We found the gardener at work as usual – but he couldn’t give us any more information to help us. The woman who had given him the letter had been wearing a long dark-blue coat and a scarf which covered her hair. She hadn’t spoken a word to him. After giving him the letter, she had hurried away in the direction of the village. That was all the gardener could tell us.

The village lay southward of the house. So to the village we went next.

We then went to the village and spent several hours asking people there if they had seen a strange woman that day, but nobody had. Three of the villagers did certainly assure us that they had seen the woman, but they were quite unable to describe her.

The course of our useless investigations brought us to the end of the village at which the schools established by Mrs. Fairlie were situated.

We entered the playground enclosure, and walked by the schoolroom window to get round to the door, which was situated at the back of the building. I stopped for a moment at the window and looked in.

The schoolmaster was sitting at his high desk, with his back to me. The pupils were all gathered together in front of him, with one exception. The one exception was a sturdy white-headed boy, standing apart from all the rest on a stool in a corner.

“Now, boys,” said the voice, “mind what I tell you.[38] If I hear another word spoken about ghosts in this school, it will be the worse for all of you. There are no such things as ghosts, and therefore any boy who believes in ghosts believes in what can’t possibly be; and a boy who belongsto Limmeridge School, and believes in what can’t possibly be must be punished accordingly. Jacob[39] has been punished, not because he said he saw a ghost last night, but because he is too impudent and too obstinate to listen to reason, and because he persists in saying he saw the ghost after I have told him that no such thing can possibly be.”

Marian and I looked at each other in astonishment.

“Go home all of you to dinner,” said the schoolmaster, “except Jacob. Jacob must stop where he is; and the ghost may bring him his dinner, if the ghost pleases.”

We asked him if he had seen any strangers in the village that morning, but he shook his head.

“That wicked boy has been frightening the whole school, Miss Halcombe, by declaring that he saw a ghost yesterday evening,” answered the master; “and he still persists in his absurd story, in spite of all that I can say to him.”

“You foolish boy,” said Marian, “why don’t you beg Mr. Dempster’s pardon, and hold your tongue about the ghost?”

“Eh! – but I saw a ghost yesterday evening,” persisted Jacob, with a stare of terror and a burst of tears.

“Nonsense! You saw nothing of the kind. Ghost indeed! Don’t tell lies,” said Marian angrily. “There are no such things as ghosts.”

“I beg your pardon, Miss Halcombe,” interposed the schoolmaster, “but I think you had better not question the boy.”

She turned with an air of defiance to little Jacob, and began to question him directly. “Come!” she said, “I want to know all about this. You naughty boy, when did you see the ghost?”

“Yesterday. It was just where a ghost ought to be – in the churchyard. Near the grave with the tall white cross,” replied Jacob.

“Oh! you saw it yesterday evening, in the twilight? And what was it like?”

“All in white – as a ghost should be,” answered the ghost-seer, with a confidence beyond his years.

Marian turned pale and looked me eagerly in the face.

“The woman in white!” she said. “And the grave with the tall white cross is my mother’s grave. What does she want with that? I go at once to the churchyard. Perhaps we can learn something more there.”

As soon as we were alone again, Miss Halcombe asked me if I had formed any opinion on what I had heard.

“A very strong opinion,” I answered; “the boy’s story, as I believe, has a foundation in fact.”

“You shall see the grave.”

“Miss Halcombe, what has happened in the schoolroom encourages me to continue the investigation.”

“Why does it encourage you?”

“Miss Halcombe, I believe, at this moment, that the fancied ghost in the churchyard, and the writer of the anonymous letter, are one and the same person.[40]”

She stopped, turned pale, and looked me eagerly in the face.

“What person?”

“The schoolmaster unconsciously told you.[41] When he spoke of the figure that the boy saw in the churchyard he called it ‘a woman in white.’”

“Not Anne Catherick?”

“Yes, Anne Catherick.”

She put her hand through my arm and leaned on it heavily.

“Mr. Hartright,” she said, “I will show you the grave, and then go back at once to the house. I had better not leave Laura too long alone. I had better go back and sit with her.”

We were close to the churchyard when she spoke. The church was a small building of grey stone, and was situated in a peaceful valley. The graves lay behind the church and rose a little way up the hillside.

There was a low stone wall all around the graves, and in one corner of the churchyard there was a group of trees, and among them was a tall white marble cross. Marian pointed to it.

“That cross marks my mother’s grave, I need go no farther with you,” said Miss Halcombe, pointing to the grave. “You will let me know if you find anything to confirm the idea you have just mentioned to me. Let us meet again at the house.”

She left me. I descended at once to the churchyard, and crossed the stile which led directly to Mrs. Fairlie’s grave. I looked attentively at the cross, and at the square block of marble below it, on which the inscription was cut. Then I noticed something strange. One half of the cross and the stone beneath had been marked and made dirty by the weather. But the other half was bright and clear as if somebody had cleaned the marble very recently. I looked closer, and saw that it had been cleaned – recently cleaned, in a downward direction from top to bottom.

The sun was beginning to go down and a cold wind started to blow. Dark storm clouds were moving quickly. In the far distance I could hear the noise of the sea. What a wild and lonely place this was.

Who had begun the cleansing of the marble, and who had left it unfinished? I found a hiding place among the trees and began to wait. I waited for about half an hour. The sun had just set when suddenly I saw a figure enter the churchyard and approach the grave hurriedly.

The figure was that of a woman. She was wearing a long coat of a dark-blue colour, but I could see a bit of the dress she wore underneath her coat. My heart began to beat fast as I noticed the colour – white.

The woman approached the grave and stood looking at it for a long time. Then she kissed the cross and took out a cloth from under her coat. She wet the cloth in the stream and started to clean the marble.

She was so busy with what she was doing that she didn’t hear me approach her. When I was within a few feet of her, I stopped.

She could sense that someone was behind her and stopped cleaning the marble, turning round slowly. When she saw me, she gave a faint cry of terror.

“Don’t be frightened,” I said. “Surely you remember me?”

I stopped while I spoke – then advanced a few steps gently – then stopped again – and so approached by little and little till I was close to her.

“You remember me?” I said. “We met very late, and I helped you to find the way to London. Surely you have not forgotten that?”

“You are very kind to me,” she murmured.

“I acted as your friend then, and I want to be your friend now. Please don’t be afraid.”

She stopped. She continued to look at me with a face full of fear. There was no doubt that it was the same strange woman – the woman I had met once.

“How did you come here?” she asked.

“Do you remember me telling you that I was going to Cumberland? Well, since we last met, I have been staying all the time at Limmeridge House.”

The woman’s sad pale face brightened for a moment.

“At Limmeridge House! Ah, how happy you must be there,” she said.

I looked at her. She smiled and I saw again the extraordinary likeness between her and Laura Fairlie. I had seen Anne Catherick’s likeness in Miss Fairlie. I now saw Miss Fairlie’s likeness in Anne Catherick. The great difference was that Laura’s face was full of joy and happiness, while this woman’s face was sad and frightened. What could it mean?

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.

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.

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[48]”

“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,[49]” 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.[50]

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[51] 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,[52] visited me. He was a fat smiling man who pretended to be very friendly.

“And how is good Mr. Gilmore?[53]” 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.[54]

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![55]” 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.[56] 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,[57]” 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.

LIMMERIDGE HOUSE, Nov. 8.

This morning Mr. Gilmore left us. When Mr Gilmore had returned to London after his meeting with Sir Percival Glyde at Limmeridge House, I became more and more anxious about Laura. His interview with Laura had evidently grieved and surprised him more than he liked to confess. I hesitate about Sir Percival, in the face of the plainest proofs. I hesitate even in speaking to Laura. On this very morning I doubted, with my hand on the door, whether I should ask her the questions I had come to put, or not.

When I went into her room I found her walking up and down in great impatience. She looked flushed and excited, and she came forward at once, and spoke to me before I could open my lips.

“I wanted you,” she said. “Come and sit down on the sofa with me. Marian! I can bear this no longer – I must and will end it.[58]”

There was too much colour in her cheeks, too much energy in her manner. The little book of Hartright’s drawings was in one of her hands.

“Tell me quietly, my darling, what you wish to do,” I said.

“Mr. Gilmore was very kind and good to me, Marian, and I am ashamed to say I can’t control myself. I must have courage enough to end it. Courage, dear, to tell the truth.”

She put her arms round my neck, and rested her head quietly on my bosom. I couldn’t bear to see how sad she had become.

“To tell Sir Percival Glyde the truth with my own lips,” she answered, “and to let him release me, if he will, not because I ask him, but because he knows all.”

“What do you mean, Laura, by ‘all’?”

“Can I tell him that, when the engagement was made for me by my father, with my own consent? I should have kept my promise.”

My poor Laura was in love with Walter Hartright, I knew that. She didn’t want to marry Sir Percival but I also knew very well that she wouldn’t break her promise to her dead father. That was why she was insisting on going ahead with the wedding, even if it made her unhappy.

“Don’t be angry with me, Marian,” she said.

I was afraid of crying if I spoke.

“I have thought of this, love, for many days,” she went on, twining and twisting my hair, “I have thought of it very seriously. Let me speak to him tomorrow – in your presence, Marian. I will say nothing that is wrong, nothing that you or I need be ashamed of! Let him act towards me as he will.”

She sighed, and put her head back in its old position on my bosom. I told her that I would do as she wished.

At dinner she joined us again. In the evening she went to the piano, choosing new music of the dexterous, florid kind. The lovely old melodies of Mozart, which poor Hartright was so fond of, she has never played since he left.

I went in, as usual, through the door between our two bedrooms, to bid Laura good-night before she went to sleep. I saw the little book of Hartright’s drawings half hidden under her pillow, just in the place where she used to hide her favourite toys when she was a child. I could not find it in my heart to say anything, but I pointed to the book and shook my head.

“Laura,” I said with great sorrow in my heart. “You must forget Walter Hartright now. You’re going to marry Sir Percival. You must try and think of your new life with him.”

“You’re right, dear Marian,” she replied. “I must say goodbye to this little book for ever.”

She then cut off a piece of her lovely golden hair, placed it in the book and gave it to me.

“If Walter ever asks you about me, tell him I’m well and never say I’m unhappy. If I die, promise you’ll give him this little book with my hair in it. And say, Marian – oh, say for me what I can never say for myself – that I loved him.”

She threw her arms round my neck and began to cry.

9th.

The next day a letter arrived for me from Walter, begging me lo help him. He said he wanted to find some work far away from England which would take him to new scenes and new people, so that he could try and forget the past and Laura.

He has neither seen nor heard anything of Anne Catherick. But he has been perpetually watched[59] and followed by strange men ever since he returned to London. This has frightened me, because it looks as if his one fixed idea about Laura was becoming too much for his mind. I will write immediately to some of my mother’s old friends in London, they held high positions in society and would be able to find Walter some work.

As the clock on the mantelpiece struck eleven Sir Percival knocked at the door and came in. There was suppressed anxiety and agitation in every line of his face. He sat down opposite to us at the table, and Laura remained by me. I looked attentively at them both, and he was the palest of the two.

He said a few words. There was just one moment of dead silence before Laura addressed him.

“I wish to speak to you, Sir Percival,” she said, “My sister is here, because her presence helps me and gives me confidence. I am sure you will be kind enough to understand me.”

Sir Percival bowed. She looked at him, and he looked at her.

“I have not forgotten,” she said, “that you asked my father’s permission before you honoured me with a proposal of marriage. I was guided by my father, because I had always found him the truest of all advisers, the best and fondest of all protectors and friends. I have lost him now – I have only his memory to love, but my faith in that dear dead friend has never been shaken. Sir Percival, you have always treated me with the same delicacy and the same forbearance. You have deserved my trust, and, what is of far more importance in my estimation, you have deserved my father’s trust. You have given me no excuse, even if I had wanted to find one, for asking to be released from my pledge. The breaking of our engagement must be entirely your wish and your act, Sir Percival – not mine.”

“My act?” he said. “What reason can there be on my side for withdrawing?”

“A reason that it is very hard to tell you,” she answered. “There is a change in me, Sir Percival – a change which is serious enough.”

His face turned so pale again that even his lips lost their colour. He raised the arm which lay on the table, turned a little away in his chair, and supported his head on his hand.

“What change?” he asked.

She sighed heavily.

“I have heard,” she said, “and I believe it, that the fondest and truest of all affections is the affection which a woman ought to bear to her husband.[60] Will you pardon me, Sir Percival, if I say that I don’t bear it?”

A few tears gathered in her eyes, and dropped over her cheeks slowly as she paused and waited for his answer. He did not utter a word.

“Your trust is sacred to me,” he said, “and you must keep your promise.”

With those words he rose from his chair, and advanced a few steps towards the place where she was sitting.

“I must submit, Marian, as well as I can,” she said. “My new life has its hard duties, and one of them begins today.”

As she spoke she went to a side-table near the window, on which her sketching materials were placed, gathered them together carefully, and put them in a drawer of her cabinet. She locked the drawer and brought the key to me.

“Oh, Laura! Laura!” I said, not angrily, – with nothing but sorrow in my voice, and nothing but sorrow in my heart.

10th.

Sir Percival had left us to return to his own house. I wrote a short letter to Mr. Gilmore in London, informing him that the marriage was definitely going ahead.

“I have decided,” said Laura; “And it is too late to go back.”

I found Mr. Fairlie greatly relieved. Mr. Fairlie stretched out his lazy legs, and said, “Dear Marian! How I envy you and your nervous system! You and Laura have been troubling me greatly. Don’t bang the door!”

“My uncle is right,” said Laura. “I have caused trouble and anxiety enough to you, and to all about me. Let me cause no more, Marian – let Sir Percival decide. I have broken with my old life. The evil day will not come. No, Marian! Once again my uncle is right. I have caused trouble enough and anxiety enough, and I will cause no more.”

12th.

Sir Percival put some questions to me at breakfast about Laura. While we were talking she herself came down and joined us. When breakfast was over he had an opportunity of saying a few words to her privately. They were not more than two or three minutes together, and on their separating she left the room, while Sir Percival came to me. He said he wanted to fix the time for the marriage at Laura’s own will and pleasure. But he wishes to be married before the end of the year. My very fingers burn as I write it!

15th.

Except Laura, I never was more anxious about any one than I am now about Walter. I received a letter from him, thanking me. That poor fellow, in the warmest terms, thanked me for helping him, and said that one of my mother’s friends had offered him a place on a private expedition. The expedition was going to make excavations among the ruined cities of Central America. His ship was due to sail on 21 December and he expected to be away from England for about eighteen months. I decided not to say anything to Laura about this. From what Walter said in his letter, the expedition was going to be dangerous. If I told her, it would only upset her more. So Water Hartright has left England.

16th.

I suggested to Laura that we visit some old friends in Yorkshire as I thought the change of air would do her good. She agreed and we spent a happy week there. It was useless to go back to Limmeridge till there was an absolute necessity for our return.

25th

Sad news yesterday – ominous news to-day. Sir Percival Glyde has written to Mr. Fairlie, and Mr. Fairlie has written to Laura and me, to recall us to Limmeridge immediately.

What can this mean? Has the day for the marriage been fixed in our absence?

November 27th.

As soon as I got back to Limmeridge, I went to Mr. Fairlie’s room. He informed me that he had had a letter from Sir Percival Glyde. The marriage is fixed for the twenty-second of December.

“Please, dear Marian, tell Laura to get ready for the wedding,” said Mr Fairlie. “I’m afraid I can’t because, as you know, my nerves are very delicate. You’re very lucky that your nerves are so strong. Thank you so much, Marian, and please don’t bang the door on your way out!”

I went immediately to find Laura. When I told her the news, her face turned very pale and she began to tremble. She cried out,

“Not so soon, Marian, oh, not so soon!”

“Very well,” I said. “I’m going to tell your uncle and Sir Percival that they can’t have everything their own way.”

I was just going out of the door when Laura stopped me.

“No, Marian, too late,” she said faintly, “Too late! What’s the use? I’ve caused enough trouble and anxiety to everyone. I don’t want to cause any more. Tell my uncle I agree to the date. It makes no difference to me.”

Laura sighed bitterly.

“Are you going to my uncle’s room?” she asked. “Will you say that I consent to whatever arrangement he may think best?”

I went out. My heart felt as if it would break when I heard her words. I went back to Mr Fairlie, feeling angry and upset. I dashed into Mr. Fairlie’s room – called to him as harshly as possible, “Laura consents to the twenty-second” – and dashed out again without waiting for a word of answer. After that I banged the door as loudly as possible and went downstairs, feeling a little better. I hope Mr. Fairlie’s nervous system would be damaged for the rest of the day.

29th.

The preparations for the marriage have begun. The dressmaker has come to receive her orders. Although Laura tried hard to be interested in her wedding dress, I could see that she wasn’t. How excited she would be, I thought sadly, if she was going to marry poor Hartright, how differently she would have behaved!

30th.

We hear every day from Sir Percival. A separation between Laura and me is inevitable. It will be a longer separation, in the event of their going abroad, than it would be in the event of their remaining in London. In a month she will be his Laura instead of mine! His Laura!

December 1st.

A sad, sad day – a day that I don’t want to describe. Sir Percival proposed the wedding tour. He plans to take Laura to Italy for six months. In June they were all going to come back in Sir Percival’s home, Blackwater House. They will go to Italy, and I, with Sir Percival’s permission, will meet them and stay with them when they return to England. I was certainly very grateful that I could still be close to Laura.

18th.

Feeling weary and depressed this morning, I left Laura, and went out alone. I was excessively surprised to see Sir Percival approaching me from the direction of the farm. He was walking rapidly, swinging his stick, his head erect as usual, and his shooting jacket flying open in the wind. When we met he did not wait for me to ask any questions – he told me at once that he had been to the farm to inquire if Mr. or Mrs. Todd had received any news of Anne Catherick.

“You found, of course, that they had heard nothing?” I said.

“Nothing whatever,” he replied. “I begin to be seriously afraid that we have lost her. Do you happen to know,” he continued, looking me in the face very attentively “if the artist – Mr. Hartright – can give me any further information?”

“He has neither heard of her, nor seen her, since he left Cumberland,” I answered.

“Very sad,” said Sir Percival, speaking like a man who was disappointed. But, at the same time, he looked relieved. Why was Sir Percival so keen to find Anne Catherick on the day before his wedding, I wondered? It must be because he was really worried about her safety and wanted to help her.

19th.

Sir Percival began to talk of the English society in Rome to which Laura was to be introduced. He ran over the names of several friends whom he expected to meet abroad this winter. They were all English, as well as I can remember, with one exception. The one exception was Count Fosco.[61]

I am becoming anxious to know the Count. He is the most intimate friend of Laura’s husband, and he excites my strongest interest. Neither Laura nor I have ever seen him. I wonder if he will ever come to England? I wonder if I shall like him?

20th.

I hate Sir Percival! I consider him to be ill-tempered and disagreeable. Last night the cards for the married couple were sent home. Laura opened the packet and saw her future name in print for the first time. Sir Percival looked over her shoulder at the new card which had already transformed Miss Fairlie into Lady Glyde – smiled, and whispered something in her ear. I don’t know what it was – Laura has refused to tell me – but I saw her face turn to a deadly whiteness. In three words, I hate him.

THE TWENTY-SECOND OF DECEMBER.

Seven o’clock. A wild morning. She has just risen – better and calmer, now that the time has come,[62] than she was yesterday.

Ten o’clock. She is dressed. We have kissed each other – we have promised each other not to lose courage. How can I write such folly! The marriage is a certainty. In less than half an hour we start for the church. The weather is terrible – wild and stormy.

Eleven o’clock. Up to the last moment, I had been hoping against hope that something would happen to stop the wedding. But nothing did. It is all over. They are married.

Three o’clock. They are gone! I am blind with crying – I can write no more —

BLACKWATER PARK, HAMPSHIRE[63]

June 11th, 1850.

Six months to look back on[64] – six long, lonely months since Laura and I last saw each other!

How many days have I still to wait? Only one! Tomorrow, the twelfth, the travellers return to England. I can hardly realise my own happiness – I can hardly believe that the next four-and-twenty hours will complete the last day of separation between Laura and me.

She and her husband have been in Italy all the winter, and afterwards in the Tyrol.[65] They come back, accompanied by Count Fosco and his wife, who have engaged to stay at Blackwater Park for the summer months.

Meanwhile, here I am, established at Blackwater Park, “the ancient and interesting seat” (as the county history informs me) “of Sir Percival Glyde, Bart.,” and the future abiding-place of plain Marian Halcombe, spinster, now’s sitting with a cup of tea by her side.

I left Limmeridge yesterday, having received Laura’s delightful letter from Paris the day before. I was impatient to see Laura’s dear face again – the past six months had passed so slowly I had received several letters from her, but it was quite impossible to tell whether she was any happier. She hardly mentioned Sir Percival or whether he treated her kindly. Instead she wrote about the wonderful cities she had visited – Florence, Rome and Venice. As for me, I am ready to be happy anywhere in her society.

No, I am not half sleepy enough. Sleepy, did I say? I feel as if I should never close my eyes again. I can’t read – I can’t fix my attention on books.

I had received one short letter from Walter Hartright, saying that the expedition had landed safely in Central America. There had been no more news or information about Catherick, and her companion, Mrs. Clements – it seemed they had completely disappeared. Whether they are in the country or out of it, whether they are living or dead, no one knows. Even Sir Percival’s solicitor has lost all hope, and has ordered stop the useless search.

As for Mr. Fairlie, he was relieved to have the house clear of us women.

Does Laura’s husband treat her kindly? Is she happier now than she was when I parted with her on the wedding-day? All my letters have contained these two inquiries, put more or less directly, now in one form, and now in another, and all have remained without reply. She informs me, over and over again, that she is perfectly well. She rarely mentions the name of her husband in her letters. She maintains the strange silence on the subject of her husband’s character and conduct.

Twelve o’clock has struck, and I have just come back to close these pages, after looking out at my open window.

It is a still, sultry, moonless night. The stars are dull and few. I hear the croaking of frogs. I wonder how Blackwater Park will look in the daytime? I don’t like it by night.

12th.

A day of investigations and discoveries. In the morning the housekeeper, a kind and friendly lady called Mrs Michelson, showed me over the house. The main part of the house was very old, and full of dark gloomy corridors with ugly family pictures of Sir Percival’s ancestors.

There are too many trees at Blackwater. The house is stifled by them.

After lunch I decided to explore the grounds outside. The house was surrounded by trees – in my opinion, far too many trees – all young and planted closely together so that they shut the house and garden in. It was so different from the wide open spaces of Limmeridge House which I was used to.

There was a path leading down through the trees and I followed it. After some time, the path opened out on to a small beach beside a lake. This was Blackwater Lake, which gave the house its name. The water by the beach was clear and still, but on the other side the trees came right down to the edge of the lake and their shadows made it look black and poisonous. It was a gloomy place.

An old wooden boathouse stood at the side of the beach. On approaching it, I found that there were a few chairs and a small table inside.

I had been in the boathouse for only a few minutes when I heard a sad kind of noise, as of an animal in great pain. It was coining from under the seat and when I looked down, I saw a poor little dog there – a black and white spaniel. On looking closer, I noticed that one of its sides was covered in blood. It had been shot.

I lifted the poor dog in my arms as gently as I could, and as fast as possible, went back to the house.

Finding no one in the hall I went up to my own sitting-room, made a bed for the dog with one of my old shawls, and rang the bell. The largest and fattest of all possible house-maids answered it. She smiled.

“What do you see there to laugh at?” I asked, as angrily as if she had been a servant of my own. “Do you know whose dog it is?”

“No, miss, that I certainly don’t.” She looked down at the spaniel’s injured side – and pointing to the wound with a chuckle of satisfaction, said, “That’s Baxter’s[66] doings, that is.”

“Baxter?” I said. “Who is the brute you call Baxter?”

The girl grinned again more cheerfully than ever. “Bless you, miss! Baxter’s the keeper, and when he finds strange dogs hunting about, he takes and shoots them.”

Seeing that it was quite useless to expect any help, I told her to request the housekeeper’s attendance. As the door closed on her she said to herself softly, “It’s Baxter’s doings and Baxter’s duty – that’s what it is.”

The housekeeper, a person of some education and intelligence, brought upstairs with her some milk and some warm water. She saw the dog on the floor and changed colour.

“Why, Lord bless me,” cried the housekeeper, “that must be Mrs. Catherick’s dog!”

“Whose?” I asked, in the astonishment.

“Mrs. Catherick’s. You seem to know Mrs. Catherick, Miss Halcombe?”

“Not personally, but I have heard of her. Does she live here? Has she had any news of her daughter?”

“No, Miss Halcombe, she came here to ask for news of her daughter, Anne.”

“When?”

“Only yesterday. Someone had told her they had seen a young woman of Anne’s description in this neighbourhood, but she couldn’t find out any more. Mrs. Catherick certainly brought this poor little dog with her when she came. I suppose the dog must have wandered off and got lost. Where did you find it, Miss Halcombe?”

“In the old shed that looks out on the lake.”

“Ah, yes, poor little thing![67] If you can moisten its lips with the milk, Miss Halcombe, I will wash the hair from the wound. I am very much afraid it is too late to do any good. However, we can but try.”

Mrs. Catherick! The name still rang in my ears.

“Did you say that Mrs. Catherick lived anywhere in this neighbourhood?” I asked.

“Oh dear, no,” said the housekeeper. “She lives at Welmingham,[68] quite at the other end of the county – five-and-twenty miles off, at least.”

“I suppose you have known Mrs. Catherick for some years?”

“On the contrary, Miss Halcombe, I never saw her before she came here yesterday. I had heard of her, of course, because I had heard of Sir Percival’s kindness in putting her daughter under medical care. Mrs. Catherick is rather a strange person in her manners.”

“I am rather interested about Mrs. Catherick,” I went on, continuing the conversation as long as possible. I was still feeling astonished about Mrs Catherick’s visit. I wanted to gain as much information as I could about her.

“Did she stay for any length of time?”

“Yes,” said the housekeeper, “she stayed for some time. Mrs. Catherick said to me, at parting, that there was no need to tell Sir Percival of her coming here. Don’t you think that was rather strange?”

I did indeed. Sir Percival had certainly given me the impression, in our conversation at Limmeridge House, that he and Mrs Catherick knew each other well. Why would she not want him to know of her visit? It didn’t make sense.

“Did she talk much about her daughter?” I asked.

“Very little,” replied the housekeeper. “She talked of Sir Percival, and asked many questions about where he had been travelling, and what sort of lady his new wife was. Ah, dear! I thought how it would end. Look, Miss Halcombe, the dog is dead!”

Eight o’clock. I have just returned from dining downstairs. The poor little dog! I wish my first day at Blackwater Park had not been associated with death, though it is only the death of a stray animal.

Welmingham – I see, Welmingham is the name of the place where Mrs. Catherick lives. I don’t understand her wishing to conceal her visit to this place from Sir Percival’s knowledge. What would Walter Hartright have said in this emergency? Poor, dear Hartright! I had kept the short note from Mrs Catherick which she had written in answer to my letter enquiring about Anne. One of these days, I thought, I would go over to Welmingham with the note. I would introduce myself to Mrs. Catherick and have a chat with her. I have questions which need answers, and one of them was why she wanted her visit to Blackwater Park kept secret from Sir Percival Glyde.

Moreover, was it possible that Anne was still in the neighbourhood after all?

Surely I heard something. Yes! I hear the horses’ feet – I hear the rolling wheels —

June 15th.

Sir Percival and Laura, accompanied by Count Fosco, returned to Blackwater Park. I have found her changed. I cannot absolutely say that she is less beautiful than she used to be – I can only say that she is less beautiful to me.

To my sorrow, I find great changes in Laura, or Lady Glyde as she now is. She is still beautiful, and still as loving and kind as ever, but her face has lost its happy innocent look, and there is much sadness in her eyes. I miss something when I look at her.

“Whenever you and I are together, Marian,” she said, “we shall both be happier and easier with one another, if we accept my married life for what it is. I want to be happy, now I have got you back again, and I want you to be so happy too – ” She broke off abruptly, and looked round the room, my own sitting-room, in which we were talking.

“Ah!” she cried, clapping her hands with a bright smile of recognition, “another old friend found already! Your bookcase, Marian – your dear little old wood bookcase – how glad I am you brought it with you from Limmeridge! And the horrid heavy man’s umbrella, that you always would walk out with when it rained! Oh, Marian! Promise you will never marry, and leave me – unless you are very fond of your husband.”

She crossed my hands on my lap, and laid her face on them. “Have you been writing many letters, and receiving many letters lately?” she asked. I understood what the question meant.

“Have you heard from him?” she went on, and I could see from the expression on her face that she was still in love with Walter Hartright.

“Is he well and happy? Has he recovered himself – and forgotten me?”

I did not know what to answer. Whenever I tried to ask her questions about her married life, she would stop me, and changing the subject. “Dear Marian,” she said, “I don’t want to make you unhappy by idling you about things which will upset you. We’re together, and let’s just be grateful for that.”

Let me turn, now, from her to her travelling companions. Her husband must engage my attention first. What have I observed in Sir Percival, since his return, to improve my opinion of him?

I can hardly say.

As for Sir Percival Glyde, I found that he too had changed over the past few months. When he had visited us at Limmeridge House, before he married Laura, he had been very charming to all of us – to Laura, to myself, to Mr. Fairlie and to Mr. Gilmore. But he had got what he wanted and married Laura, and there was no need for him to be charming any more. His manner in me was no longer polite, but cool and rude. He was often in a bad temper, and little things would annoy him.

The two guests – the Count and Countess Fosco – come next in my catalogue. The Count looks like a man who could tame anything. If he had married a tigress,[69] instead of a woman, he would have tamed the tigress. If he had married me, I should have made his cigarettes, as his wife does – I should have held my tongue when he looked at me, as she holds hers.

This man has interested me, in two short days has attracted me, has forced me to like him. It’s a mystery. For example, he is immensely fat. Before this time I have always especially disliked fat men. But the Count is a very interesting man who can talk in a fascinating way about a great variety of subjects. But not only can he talk, he also knows how to listen, especially to women. He has a gift of making a woman feel that she is the most special person in the world.

Count Fosco is Italian by birth, but he has lived in England for a long time and speaks English perfectly. I had never supposed it possible that any foreigner could have spoken English as he speaks it. There are times when it is almost impossible to detect, by his accent that he is not a countryman of our own. I have never yet heard him use a wrong expression, or hesitate for a moment in his choice of a word.

He has many colourful and expensive shirts and waistcoats. Moreover, Count Fosco loves small animals and birds and has a number of pet white mice which travel everywhere with him in a special cage. Some of his animals he has left on the Continent, but he has brought with him to this house a cockatoo, two canary-birds,[70] and a whole family of white mice. Sometimes he would let them out of the cage and then they would run all over his huge fat body and sit in pairs on his shoulders.

I can see already that he means to live on excellent terms[71] with all of us during the period of his sojourn in this place. He has evidently discovered that Laura secretly dislikes him – but he has also found out that she is extravagantly fond of flowers. Whenever she wants a flower he has got one to give her. His management of the Countess (in public) is a sight to see.[72] He bows to her, he addresses her as “my angel,” he kisses her hand when she gives him his cigarettes.

His method of recommending himself to me is entirely different. He flatters my vanity by talking to me as seriously as if I was a man. Yes! He can manage me[73] as he manages his wife and Laura, as he manages Sir Percival himself, every hour in the day. “My good Percival! how I like your rough English humour!” – “My good Percival! how I enjoy your solid English sense!” It was obvious too that the Count had a very strong influence over his friend, Sir Percival. Sir Percival wasn’t as clever as the Count and clearly he was afraid of him. I too was afraid of the Count. I knew that whatever happened, I mustn’t make an enemy of him. He would be a far more dangerous enemy than Sir Percival. I was afraid of his eyes – they were cold and clear and shone with an extraordinary power. When I looked into them, I felt that he could make me do anything he wanted.

How much I seem to have written about Count Fosco! Is this because I like him, or because I am afraid of him? Who knows?

June 16th.

A visitor has arrived – quite unknown to Laura and to me, and apparently quite unexpected by Sir Percival.

We were sitting having lunch when a servant entered the dining room.

“Mr. Merriman has just come, Sir Percival,” said the servant, “and wishes to see you immediately”.

Sir Percival started, and looked at the man with an expression of angry alarm.

“Mr. Merriman!” he cried.

“Yes, Sir Percival – Mr. Merriman, from London.”

“Where is he?”

“In the library, Sir Percival.”

He left the table, and hurried out of the room without saying a word to any of us.

“Who is Mr. Merriman?” asked Laura, appealing to me. “What does his visit here mean?”

“I have not the least idea,” was all I could say in reply.

The Count turned round to us.

“Mr. Merriman is Sir Percival’s solicitor,” he said quietly.

Sir Percival’s solicitor. And his visit here means that something has happened. He brings unexpected news for Sir Percival – news that is either very good or very bad, but certainly not ordinary.

Laura and I sat silent at the table for a quarter of an hour or more, wondering uneasily what had happened, and waiting for Sir Percival’s return. There were no signs of his return, and we rose to leave the room.

June 16th.

I have a few lines more to add to this day’s entry before I go to bed tonight. About two hours after Sir Percival rose from the luncheon-table to receive his solicitor, Mr. Merriman, in the library, I left my room alone to take a walk. Just as I was at the end of the landing the library door opened and the two gentlemen came out. Although they spoke to each other in guarded tones,[74] their words reached my ears.

“Everything depends on your wife, Sir Percival,” Mr. Merriman was saying seriously. “If she signs the document, you can get hold of her money now. If not, then there will be serious problems because the debt you owe is almost due.”

“You quite understand, Sir Percival,” the lawyer went on. “Lady Glyde is to sign her name in the presence of a witness – or of two witnesses, if you wish to be particularly careful – and is then to put her finger on the seal. If not – “

“What do you mean by ‘if not’?” asked Sir Percival angrily. “If the thing must be done it SHALL be done. I promise you that, Merriman.”

“Just so, Sir Percival – just so. Sir Percival, you will let me know as soon as the arrangement is complete? and you will not forget the caution I recommended – “

I understood everything very clearly. Sir Percival was going to try and obtain Laura’s twenty thousand pounds to clear his debts. In order to do so he needed Laura’s signature to show that she gave her permission for him to use her money. I crept back upstairs to Laura’s room at once to tell her what I’d heard. To my surprise, she didn’t seem upset.

“That’s just what I thought,” she said. “Sir Percival hasn’t got enough money of his own and he can’t wait until I’m dead. He wants me to sign my money over to him now.”

“You will sign nothing, Laura, without first looking at it?”

“Certainly not, Marian. I promise. I’ll do nothing which I might regret one day. Don’t worry.”

On leaving the house we directed our steps to the nearest shade. The rest of the day and evening passed quietly enough. The Count and I played at chess. For the first two games he politely even allowed me to conquer him.

June 17th.

A day of events. Sir Percival was as silent at breakfast as he had been the evening before.

After breakfast Laura and I got ready to go out for a walk.

“Where are you going?” asked Sir Percival at once.

“We were all thinking of going to the lake this morning,” said Laura. “But if you have any other arrangement to propose – ”

“No, no,” he answered hastily. “My arrangement can wait. All going to the lake, eh? A good idea. Let’s have an idle morning – I’ll be one of the party.[75] It’s such a beautiful morning for a walk.”

The Count and his wife joined us at that moment.

“With your kind permission,” said the Count, “I will take my small family here – my poor little pretty mice! My dear mice don’t want to be left alone in the house. There are dogs here and I don’t want them to be frightened.”

The morning was windy and cloudy.

“Some people call that picturesque,” said Sir Percival. “I call it a blot on a gentleman’s property. Look at the lake! It is not four feet deep anywhere. My bailiff[76] (a superstitious idiot) says he is quite sure the lake has a curse on it, like the Dead Sea.[77] What do you think, Fosco? It looks just the place for a murder, doesn’t it?”

“My good Percival,” said the Count. “The water is too shallow to hide the body, and there is sand everywhere to print off the murderer’s footsteps. It is the worst place for a murder. If a fool was going to commit a murder, your lake is the first place he would choose for it. If a wise man was going to commit a murder, your lake is the last place he would choose for it.”

Laura looked at the Count with her dislike for him. He was so busy with his mice that he did not notice her.

“I am sorry to hear the lake-view connected with anything so horrible as the idea of murder,” she said. “And if Count Fosco must divide murderers into classes, I think he has been very unfortunate in his choice of expressions.[78] One cannot describe them as wise men. I have always heard that truly wise men are truly good men, and have a horror of crime.”

“My dear lady,” said the Count, “That’s true! The fool’s crime is the crime that is found out, and the wise man’s crime is the crime that is not found out.”

“Ha! Crimes cause their own detection!,[79]” sneered Sir Percival. “What infernal humbug!”

“I believe it to be true,” said Laura quietly.

Sir Percival burst out laughing.

We all walked down to the lake and sat down to rest in the boathouse. The Count, who had been carrying his mice in their cage, opened the door so that they could come out and run over him as usual. Sir Percival didn’t sit down, but stood nervously at the door, looking out across the lake.

Suddenly Count Fosco gave a cry.

“One of my dear little mice has got lost!” he said. “There should be five of them, and I can see only four.”

“There it is, under the seat,” I said.

“Thank you, my dear Miss Halcombe.”

The Count got down on his knees and took the little animal up in his hand. Then he suddenly stopped and looked at the ground in front of him. When he rose to his feet again, his hand was shaking and he said in a whisper,

“Percival! Come here and look at this!”

“What’s the matter now?” Sir Percival asked, lounging carelessly into the boathouse.

“Do you see nothing there?” said the Count, catching him nervously by the collar with one hand, and pointing with the other to the place near which he had found the mouse.

“I see plenty of dry sand,” answered Sir Percival, “and a spot of dirt in the middle of it.”

“Not dirt,” whispered the Count. “Blood.”

Laura was near enough to hear the last word, softly as he whispered it. She turned to me with a look of terror.

“Nonsense, my dear,” I said. “There is no need to be alarmed. It is only the blood of a poor little stray dog.”

Everybody was astonished.

“How do you know that?” asked Sir Percival, speaking first.

“I found the dog here, dying, on the day when you all returned from abroad,” I replied. “The poor creature had been shot by your keeper.”

“Whose dog was it?” inquired Sir Percival. “Not one of mine?”

“Did you try to save the poor thing?” asked Laura earnestly. “Surely you tried to save it, Marian?”

“Yes,” I said, “the housekeeper and I both did our best – but the dog was mortally wounded, and he died under our hands.”

“Whose dog was it?” persisted Sir Percival, repeating his question a little irritably. “One of mine?”

“No, not one of yours.”

“Whose then? Did the housekeeper know?”

I hesitated. I remembered that Mrs. Gatherick hadn’t wanted Sir Percival to find out about her visit to Blackwater Park, but I had to give him an answer.

“Yes,” I said. “The housekeeper knew. She told me it was Mrs. Catherick’s dog.”

“How came the housekeeper to know it was Mrs. Catherick’s dog?” he asked, fixing his eyes on mine with a frowning interest and attention, which half angered, half startled me.

“She knew it,” I said quietly, “because Mrs. Catherick brought the dog with her.”

“Brought it with her? Where did she bring it with her?”

“To this house.”

“What the devil did Mrs. Catherick want at this house?”

The manner in which he put the question was even more offensive than the language in which he expressed it. I turned away silently. At that moment Count Fosco stepped forward and put his hand on Sir Percival’s shoulder.

Just as I moved the Count’s hand was laid on his shoulder, and the Count’s voice interposed to quiet him.

“My dear Percival! – gently – gently!”

Sir Percival looked round in his angriest manner. The Count only smiled.

“Gently, my good friend – gently!”

Sir Percival hesitated, and, to my great surprise, taking a deep breath, offered me an apology.

“I beg your pardon, Miss Halcombe,” he said. “I am afraid I am a little irritable. But I should like to know what Mrs. Catherick could possibly want here. When did she come? Was the housekeeper the only person who saw her?”

“The only person,” I answered, “so far as I know.[80]”

The Count interposed again.

“In that case why not question the housekeeper?” he said. “ Why don’t you go and ask the housekeeper these questions, not Miss Halcombe?”

“Quite right!” said Sir Percival. “Of course the house-keeper is the first person to question.” With those words he instantly left us to return to the house.

We all entered the house. As we crossed the hall Sir Percival came out from the library to meet us. He looked hurried and pale and anxious – but he was in his most polite mood when he spoke to us.

“I am sorry to say I am obliged to leave you,” he began, “I shall be back tomorrow – but before I go I should like that little business formality to be settled. Laura, will you come into the library? It won’t take a minute – a mere formality. Miss Halcombe, may I trouble you also? Please, Miss Halcombe, and Fosco, I need you to act as witnesses to Laura’s signature – nothing more. Come in at once and get it over.”

We all followed Sir Percival into the library and sat down round the table. He then opened a cupboard and took out a document which he put in front of Laura. He placed it on the table, opened the last fold only, and kept his hand on the rest. Laura couldn’t read it all. Then he handed her a pen and pointed to the place where he wanted her to sign. Laura and I looked at each other. Her face was pale, but she showed no fear.

Sir Percival dipped a pen in ink, and handed it to his wife. “Sign your name there,” he said, pointing to the place. “You and Fosco are to sign afterwards, Miss Halcombe, opposite those two lines. Come here, Fosco!”

The Count threw away his cigarette, and joined us at the table. Laura, who was on the other side of her husband, with the pen in her hand, looked at him.

“Sign there,” he repeated, turning suddenly on Laura.

“What is it I am to sign? Please explain to me, Sir Percival, what this document is which you wish me to sign,” she asked quietly.

“I have no time to explain,” he answered. “My horse is waiting outside, and I must go directly. Besides, if I had time, you wouldn’t understand. It is a formal document. Come! Come! Sign your name, and let us have done as soon as possible.”

“I must know what I am signing, Sir Percival, before I write my name.”

“Nonsense! What have women to do with business? I tell you again, you can’t understand it.”

“At any rate,[81] let me try to understand it. Whenever Mr. Gilmore had any business for me to do, he always explained it first, and I always understood him.”

“He was your servant, and was obliged to explain. I am your husband, and am not obliged. How much longer do you mean to keep me here? I tell you again, there is no time for reading anything. Once for all, will you sign or will you not?”

She still had the pen in her hand, but she made no approach to signing her name with it. She did not move.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “I want to help, but I can’t sign anything unless I know what it is.”

“Speak out!” he cried. “You distrust me!”

Sir Percival stepped forward, looking so angry that I thought for a moment he was going to hit Laura. But Count Fosco saved the situation.

“My dear Percival,” he said, “Control your temper. Lady Glyde is right.”

“Right! A wife right in distrusting her husband! Come back and sign!” cried Sir Percival from the other side of the table.

“Shall I?” Laura asked in my ear; “I will, if you tell me.”

“No,” I answered. “The right and the truth are with you – sign nothing, unless you have read it first.”

“Come back and sign!” he reiterated, in his loudest and angriest tones.

“Percival!” said the Count. “I remember that I am in the presence of ladies. Be good enough, if you please, to remember it too. She needs to know why she is signing the document.”

They both looked at each other.

“I don’t want to offend anybody,” said Sir Percival, “but I have told her this is merely a formal document – and what more can she want? Once more, Lady Glyde, and for the last time, will you sign or will you not?”

I heard the Count whisper under his breath to Sir Percival, “You idiot!”

Laura walked before me to the door.

“One moment!” interposed the Count before Sir Percival could speak again – “one moment, Lady Glyde, I implore you!”

“Don’t make an enemy of the Count!” I whispered. “Whatever you do, don’t make an enemy of the Count!”

“May I make a suggestion?” said Fosco. “Percival, you’re in a hurry now – you have to go. Let this matter wait until your return tomorrow.”

“You are taking a tone with me that I don’t like,” said Sir Percival. “A tone I won’t bear from any man.”

“I am advising you for your good,” returned the Count, with a smile of quiet contempt. “Give yourself time – give Lady Glyde time. Have you forgotten that your horses are waiting at the door? My tone surprises you – ha? How many doses of good advice have I given you in my time? More than you can count. Have I ever been wrong? Never. The matter of the signature can wait till tomorrow.”

Sir Percival hesitated and looked at his watch. He needed Laura’s signature, but he was also anxious to start his journey.

“It is easy to argue me down,[82]” he said, “when I have no time to answer you. I will take your advice, Fosco – not because I want it, or believe in it, but because I can’t stop here any longer.”

He paused, and looked round darkly at his wife. “If you don’t give me your signature when I come back tomorrow!”

He took his hat and gloves off the table. “Remember tomorrow!” he said to his wife, and went out.

We heard the wheels of the carriage as Sir Percival drove off. He was going at full speed. Why was he in such a hurry?

“Where has he gone to, Marian?” whispered Laura. “Everything he does these days seems to frighten me.”

“I’m sure he’s gone to visit Mrs. Catherick,” I said. “He was very angry that she came here. But I don’t know why.”

Laura sighed bitterly.

“We must do what we can to help ourselves,” I said. “Let us do all in our power for the best.”

June 17th.

When the dinner hour brought us together again, Count Fosco was in his usual excellent spirits. Laura and I listened to him with much attention. Women can resist a man’s love, a man’s fame, a man’s personal appearance, and a man’s money, but they cannot resist a man’s tongue when he knows how to talk to them.

After dinner, Laura suggested going out for a walk. Laura and I went out together alone.

“Which way shall we go?” I asked

“Towards the lake, Marian, if you like,” she answered.

The air was still and heavy. We walked through the shadowy park in silence. When we got to the boathouse we were very glad to sit down and rest inside. A white fog hung low over the lake. The silence was horrible. No rustling of the leaves – no bird’s note in the wood. Even the croaking of the frogs had ceased tonight. The silence all around was horrible – there was no movement of the trees.

“It is very desolate and gloomy. But we can be more alone here than anywhere else. I promised, Marian, to tell you the truth about my married life,” she began. “I was silent, as you know, for your sake – and perhaps a little for my own sake as well. Oh, Marian, I’m so unhappy!”

Laura then began to tell me about her marriage, and her relationship with Sir Percival Glyde. She told me many things that made my heart very sad and heavy within me, as I realised how cruelly he treated her. One thing was very clear to me – Sir Percival had never loved Laura, but had married her for her money, and her money alone.

I also felt the most terrible sense of guilt. I was the person responsible for separating Laura from Walter Hartright, the man who loved her. I had encouraged him to leave England, to go far away to a dangerous place from which he might never return. I was responsible for wasting two young lives – Laura’s and Walter’s – and I had done all this so that she should keep her promise to Sir Percival Glyde, a man who didn’t love her and who was cruel to her.

“It is late,” I heard her whisper. She shook my arm and repeated, “Marian! it will be dark. We are far from the house,” she whispered. “Let us go back.”

She stopped suddenly, and turned her face from me towards the entrance of the boathouse.

“Marian!” she said, trembling violently. “Do you see nothing? Look!”

“Where?”

“Down there, below us.”

She pointed. My eyes followed her hand, and I saw it too.

A figure was walking along by the side of the lake, but whether of man or woman, it was impossible to tell. It moved silently and disappeared into the fog.

“Was it a man or a woman?” asked Laura in a whisper.

“I am not certain.”

“Which do you think?”

“It looked like a woman.”

“I was afraid it was a man in a long cloak.”

“It may be a man. In this dim light it is not possible to be certain.”

“Wait, Marian! I’m frightened – I don’t see the path.”

“There’s no need to be frightened,” I replied. “It’s probably only someone from the village out walking late. Come on, let’s go.”

It was difficult to find the path back to the house in the darkness. All the way back, we had a very strange feeling that someone or something was following us. At one time we thought we heard footsteps, but on turning round we couldn’t see anything because of the fog. I gave Laura my arm, and we walked as fast as we could on our way back.

“I am half dead with fear,” said Laura. “Who was it?”

“We will try to guess tomorrow,” I replied.

At home, I sent Laura upstairs immediately, I went immediately to the library. Count Fosco was sitting by the fire smoking and reading calmly, his cravat across his knees, and his shirt collar wide open. And there sat Madame Fosco, like a quiet child, on a stool by his side, making cigarettes. Neither husband nor wife could, by any possibility, have been out late that evening. The servants and the housekeeper too were all in their rooms.

June 18th.

Laura told me that she had lost a brooch which I had given her for a wedding present. She said she was sure she had dropped it in the boathouse, and was going to look for it there.

I knew that Sir Percival was expected back that afternoon, and that he would immediately try to force Laura to sign the document again. I was extremely worried about this, and went to my room to try to work out what we should do.

The day was hot and I wasn’t feeling very well, so I lay down on my bed and soon fell asleep. I had very strange and disturbing dreams, all about Walter Hartright. Suddenly I was woken by a hand on my shoulder. It was Laura, on her knees by my bed. Her face was full of a wild excitement and her eyes were shining. I looked at her, astonished.

“What has happened?” I asked. “What has frightened you?”

She looked round at the half-open door, put her lips close to my ear, and answered in a whisper —

“Marian! – the figure at the lake – the footsteps last night – I’ve just seen her! I’ve just spoken to her!”

“Who, for Heaven’s sake?”

“Anne Catherick.”

I was so astonished that I couldn’t speak. I could only stand rooted to the floor, looking at her in breathless silence.

“I have seen Anne Catherick! I have spoken to Anne Catherick!” she repeated as if I had not heard her. “Oh, Marian, I have such things to tell you! Come away – we may be interrupted here – come at once into my room.”

She caught me by the hand, and led me through the library, to the end room on the ground floor. She pushed me in before her, locked the door, and drew the curtains that hung over the inside.

Laura drew me to the nearest seat, a sofa in the middle of the room. “Look!” she said, “look here!” – and pointed to the bosom of her dress.

I saw, for the first time, that the lost brooch was pinned in its place again.

“Where did you find your brooch?” The first words I could say to her were the words which put that question at that important moment.

“She found it, Marian.”

“Where?”

“On the floor of the boathouse. Oh, how shall I begin – how shall I tell you about it! She talked to me so strangely – she looked so fearfully ill – she left me so suddenly!”

“Speak low,” I said. “Begin at the beginning, Laura. Tell me, word for word, what passed between that woman and you. Where did you first see her?”

“At the boathouse, Marian. I went out, as you know, to find my brooch, and I walked along the path through the plantation, looking down on the ground carefully at every step. In that way I got on, after a long time, to the boat-house, and as soon as I was inside it, I went on my knees. I was still searching with my back to the doorway, when I heard a soft, strange voice behind me say, ‘Miss Fairlie.’”

“Miss Fairlie!”

“Yes, my old name – the dear, familiar name. The voice was too kind and gentle to frighten anybody. There, looking at me from the doorway, stood a woman, whose face I never remembered to have seen before – ”

“How was she dressed?”

“She had a pretty white dress on. Very strange, was it not? Before I could say anything to soothe her, she held out one of her hands, and I saw my brooch in it. I was so pleased and so grateful, that I went quite close to her to say what I really felt. ‘Let me pin your brooch on for you, now I have found it.’ Her request was so unexpected, Marian!”

“Your dear mother would have let me,” she said. “I knew her well, when you and I were children.”

“You knew my mother?” I said. “Was it very long ago? Have I ever seen you before?”

Her hands were busy fastening the brooch.

“I knew you,” she said, “but you don’t remember me. Pretty, clever Miss Fairlie, and poor Anne Catherick were nearer to each other then than they are now!’”

“Did you remember her, Laura, when she told you her name?”

“Yes, I remembered your asking me about Anne Catherick at Limmeridge.”

“As I looked at her, I had the strangest feeling. It came to me suddenly that she and I were very like each other. Her face was much thinner and paler than mine, but she looked just as I would look after a long illness.

“Why did you call me Miss Fairlie?” I asked her. “I’m Lady Glyde now.”

“Because I love the name of Fairlie and hate the name of Glyde,” she said. “I tried to save you from marrying that devil. I did my best to prevent you from making a terrible mistake. I wrote you that letter but I didn’t do enough. I should have talked to you in person, but I was too afraid.” “She then hid her face in her hands and started to cry. It was terrible to see her and hear her.

“I wanted to speak to you last night,” she said. “I followed you back to the house.”

“What do you want to tell me?” I asked her gently.

“Listen,” she said. “I know a secret about your cruel husband, which if ever it is found out will destroy him. It’s a terrible secret – dark and deep. My mother knows it too. That’s why he shut me up in the Asylum for mad people, where nobody would believe me. But I’ve escaped, and he’s afraid of me. I’ll tell you his secret, so then he’ll be afraid of you too, and he’ll have no more power over you.”

“The secret, Anne,” I whispered to her – “Tell me the secret!”

She hid her face again in the end of her poor worn shawl. It was dreadful to see her, and dreadful to hear her. She caught hold of my arm, and looked at me with wild frightened eyes. ‘Not now,’ she said, ‘we are not alone – we are watched. I must go. Come here tomorrow at this time – by yourself. Be sure to come here by yourself!’ She pushed me roughly into the boathouse again, and I saw her no more.”

“Oh, Laura, Laura, another chance lost! If I had only been near you she should not have escaped us.”

“Did you call after her?”

“How could I? I was too terrified to move or speak.”

“But when you did move – when you came out?”

“I ran back here, to tell you what had happened.”

“Did you see any one, or hear any one there?”

“No.”

I waited for a moment to consider.

“Are you quite sure you have told me everything? Every word that was said?” I inquired.

“I think so,” she answered. “Marian, tell me, pray tell me, what you think about it! I don’t know what to think, or what to do next.”

“You must do this, my love: you must carefully keep the appointment at the boathouse tomorrow. You will not be alone. I will follow you at a safe distance. Nobody will see me. Anne Catherick has escaped Walter Hartright, and has escaped you. Whatever happens, she shall not escape me.”

“You believe,” said Laura, “in this secret that my husband is afraid of?”

“Yes, Laura, I believe there is a secret. And I think Sir Percival is frightened. He knows that if anyone finds out, it will destroy him.”

I said no more, and got up to leave the room.

June 19th.

I was extremely anxious to know where Count Fosco had been that afternoon – could he have been anywhere near the boathouse? Could he have been the person listening to Laura and Anne’s conversation? Or had Anne just imagined she heard someone?

Count Fosco wasn’t in the house, so I went out into the grounds. I was walking down the path which led to the lake when suddenly the Count appeared in front of me, coming from the opposite direction. I was so shocked by his unexpected appearance that at first I couldn’t speak.

“You look surprised to see me, Miss Halcombe,” he said. “It was such a lovely morning that I decided to go for a walk.”

Immediately I became very suspicious. Count Fosco never took any exercise and certainly never went for walks.

“Are you going back to the house?” he went on, taking hold of my arm. “Do let me come with you. It’s such a very great pleasure to have your company.”

As we came within sight of the house, we saw Sir Percival’s horse and carriage standing outside. He had just returned and came forward to meet us, still in a bad temper.

“There you are!” he said angrily. “Where the devil is everyone? Where is my wife? Tell her to come down at once.”

“Now just a moment, me dear Percival,” said Count Fosco quietly. He dropped my arm, took Sir Percival’s and led him inside. “I want to have five minutes’ conversation with you, about a serious matter of business that very much concerns you.”

I went upstairs to tell Laura that her husband had returned, and would soon be insisting once again that she sign the document. We were sitting together when someone knocked softly at the door. It was Count Fosco, smiling.

“Dear ladies, I bring you good news,” he said. “News that I’m sure will be a great relief to you. I’ve persuaded Percival to change his mind. There’s no need for you to sign the document now.” He then went out, closing the door.

Laura and I looked at each other in astonishment.

“What can this mean?” Laura asked. “I thought Sir Percival wanted my money.”

“Maybe Count Fosco has another plan,” was all I could say.

It was raining heavily. Laura and I had agreed that she should go to the boathouse after lunch to meet Anne Catherick, and I should follow her a few minutes later. We didn’t want to frighten Anne by arriving together.

Sir Percival went out shortly after breakfast. He had his coat and high boots on, but he didn’t tell anyone where he was going. He had still not returned by lunchtime.

Laura left the lunch table as we had planned, and I waited for a short while then followed her. I walked quickly through the trees. When I reached the boathouse, I stopped and listened, but to my surprise I couldn’t hear anything. I went to the door and looked inside. There was nobody there!

My heart began to beat violently. What could have happened?

“Laura!” I called. “Laura!” But only silence answered me.

I went back to the house. The first person I met was the housekeeper.

“Do you know,” I asked, “whether Lady Glyde has come in from her walk or not?”

“My lady came in a little while ago with Sir Percival,” answered the housekeeper. “I am afraid, Miss Halcombe, something very distressing has happened.”

My heart sank within me. “You don’t mean an accident?” I said faintly.

“No, no – thank God, no accident. But my lady ran upstairs to her own room in tears. And Sir Percival seemed very angry.”

I hurried upstairs at once to Laura’s room. Laura was sitting alone at the far end of the room, her arms resting on a table, and her face hidden in her hands. She started up with a cry of delight when she saw me.

“What happened, Laura? Did you see Anne?’

“No,” she answered. “Anne didn’t come to the boathouse. Someone was watching us.”

“So Anne was right,” I said. “Someone did see you with her yesterday. I think that Count Fosco-”

“Don’t speak of him,” cried Laura. “The Count is the vilest creature! The Count is a miserable spy! Anne Catherick was right. There was a third person watching us in the plantation yesterday, and that third person – ”

“Are you sure it was the Count?”

“I am absolutely certain. He was Sir Percival’s spy – he was Sir Percival’s informer – he set Sir Percival watching and waiting, all the morning through, for Anne Catherick and for me.”

“Is Anne found? Did you see her at the lake?”

“No. When I got to the boathouse no one was there.”

“Yes? Yes?”

“I went in and sat waiting for a few minutes. But I got up again, to walk about a little. As I passed out I saw some marks on the sand, close under the front of the boathouse. I discovered a word written in large letters on the sand. The word was – LOOK.

I scraped away the sand on the surface, and I found a piece of paper hidden beneath, which had writing on it. The writing was signed with Anne Catherick’s initials.

“Where is it?”

“Sir Percival has taken it from me.”

“Can you remember what the writing was? Do you think you can repeat it to me?”

“Yes, I can, Marian. It was very short: “A tall, stout old man saw us. I had to run to save myself. He was not quick enough on his feet to follow me, and he lost me among the trees. I dare not risk coming back here today at the same time. I write this, and hide it in the sand, at six in the morning, to tell you so. When we speak next of your wicked husband’s secret we must speak safely, or not at all. Try to have patience. I promise you shall see me again and that soon. – A. C.”

“Did you try to hide the letter?”

“I tried, but Sir Percival stopped me. He said, ‘You saw Anne Catherick in secret yesterday, and you have got her letter in your hand at this moment. I have not caught her yet, but I have caught you. Give me the letter.’ He took me by the arm, and led me out of the boathouse. Then he clasped his hand fast round my arm, and whispered to me, ‘What did Anne Catherick say to you yesterday?’”

“Did you tell him?”

“I was alone with him, Marian – his cruel hand was bruising my arm – what could I do?”

“Is the mark on your arm still? Let me see it.”

“Why do you want to see it?”

“I want to see it, Laura, because our endurance must end, and our resistance must begin today. That mark is a weapon to strike him with. Let me see it now!”

“Oh, Marian, don’t look so – don’t talk so! It doesn’t hurt me now!”

“Let me see it!”

She showed me the marks. I saw the most terrible bruises on Laura’s soft pale arm. Inside I felt a white-cold anger. How I hated her husband!

“He kept asking what Anne had said to me, and where she was,” said Laura. “He didn’t believe me when I told him I didn’t know, and dragged me back to the house. Oh, Marian, what will happen to us? If only we could leave this house for ever!”

June 19th.

That night I was sitting alone in my room. For ten minutes or more I sat idle, with the pen in my hand, thinking over the events of the last twelve hours.

I opened the door which led from my bedroom into my sitting-room, and pulled it to again. My sitting-room window was wide open, and I leaned out to look at the night.

It was dark and quiet. Neither moon nor stars were visible. There was a smell like rain in the still, heavy air, and I put my hand out of window. No. The rain was only threatening, it had not come yet.

Just as I was turning away from the window to go back to the bedroom, I smelt the odour of tobacco-smoke. The next moment I saw a tiny red spark advancing from the farther end of the house in the darkness. I heard no footsteps, and I could see nothing but the spark. It travelled along in the night, passed the window at which I was standing, and stopped opposite my bedroom window.

Two men met together in the darkness. I knew the red lights were the cigarettes of Sir Percival and Count Fosco. They often went outside in the evening for a short walk, and on their return would sit smoking together outside the library.The Count had come out first, and Sir Percival had afterwards joined him. I waited quietly at the window, certain that they could neither of them see me in the darkness of the room.

“What’s the matter?” I heard Sir Percival say in a low voice. “Why don’t you come in and sit down?”

“I want to see the light out of that window,” replied the Count softly.

“What harm does the light do?”

“It shows she is not in bed yet. She is clever enough to suspect something, and to come downstairs and listen, if she can get the chance. Patience, Percival – patience.”

They slowly moved away. Suddenly I had an idea. I knew that Sir Percival and the Count were having an important conversation – a conversation that probably concerned both Laura’s future and mine. I had to find out what they were saying.

There was a narrow verandah running all the way around the roof of the house, with flower pots arranged on it. If I climbed out of my bedroom window, I could creep along the verandah until I reached the part of it directly above the library. There I could kneel down among the flower pots and listen to the conversation below.

It was a dangerous, desperate plan and I would have to be extremely careful. If I knocked a flower pot off the roof, or made any noise by which I could be discovered, I was afraid to think what Sir Percival would do to me.

I went softly back to my bedroom, put on a long black coat and tied a scarf round my hair. This would make it easier for me to slip along the verandah in the darkness without anyone noticing me.

I locked the door, and then quietly got out of the window, and cautiously set my feet on the roof of the verandah. I had five windows to pass before I could reach the position it was necessary to take up immediately over the library. The first window belonged to a spare room which was empty. The second and third windows belonged to Laura’s room. The fourth window belonged to Sir Percival’s room. The fifth belonged to the Countess’s room. The others, by which it was not necessary for me to pass, were the windows of the Count’s dressing-room, of the bath-room, and of the second empty spare room.

No sound reached my ears. “For Laura’s sake!” I thought to myself, as I took the first step forward on the roof. I passed the dark window of the spare room, I passed the dark windows of Laura’s room (“God bless her and keep her tonight!”). I passed the dark window of Sir Percival’s room. Then I waited a moment, knelt down with my hands to support me, and so crept to my position, under the protection of the low wall.

At last I found myself directly above the library.

“Ouf! how hot it is!” said the Count, sighing.

The sound told me they were going to sit close at the window as usual. The chance was mine![83] The clock struck the quarter to twelve as they settled themselves in their chairs.

Meanwhile, Sir Percival and the Count began talking together. The Count said,

“We are at a serious crisis in our affairs, Percival, and if we want to decide on the future at all, we must decide secretly tonight.”

“Crisis?” repeated Sir Percival. “It’s a worse crisis than you think for, I can tell you.”

“Wait a little,” returned the other coolly. “Let us first see if I am right about the time that is past, before I make any proposal to you for the time that is to come. Now listen, Percival. Let me describe our position, as I understand it, and you shall say if I am right or wrong. You and I both came back to this house from the Continent with our affairs very seriously embarrassed.”

“Cut it short![84] I wanted some thousands and you some hundreds, and without the money we are both ruined. There’s the situation. Go on.”

“Well, Percival, in your own solid English words, you wanted some thousands and I wanted some hundreds, and the only way of getting them was for you to raise the money by the help of your wife. What did I tell you about your wife on our way to England? – and what did I tell you again when we had come here, and when I had seen for myself the sort of woman Miss Halcombe was?”

“How should I know?”

“ You should. I said this. Percival! Percival! You deserve to fail, and you have failed.”

There was a pause. Sir Percival was the first to break the silence again.

“Yes, yes; it’s easy enough to grumble at me. Say what is to be done – that’s a little harder. What do you propose if I leave it all to you?”

“So, the simplest and best way for us to get the money was to obtain your wife’s signature on a document which would sign over some of her fortune for your immediate use. But because of your bad temper, you failed to do so. A few questions, Percival, to begin with. You have no money?”

“A few hundreds, when I want as many thousands.”

“What have you actually got with your wife at the present moment?”

“Nothing but the interest[85] of her twenty thousand pounds – barely enough to pay our daily expenses.”

“What do you expect from your wife?”

“Three thousand a year when her uncle dies.”

“And what sort of a man is this uncle? Old?”

“No – neither old nor young. He’s a maudlin, selfish fool, and bores everybody about the state of his health.”

“Men of that sort, Percival, live long. Is there nothing more that comes to you from your wife?”

“Nothing.”

“Absolutely nothing?”

“Absolutely nothing – except in case of her death.”

“Aha! in the case of her death.”

There was another pause. The Count moved from the verandah outside.

“Well, Percival,” he said, “and in the case of Lady Glyde’s death, what do you get then?”

“If she leaves no children – ”

“Yes?”

“Why, then I get her twenty thousand pounds.”

“Paid down?[86]“

“Paid down.”

They were silent once more.

“Percival! Do you love your wife?”

“Fosco! Why do you ask such a question?’

“You won’t answer me? Well, then, let us say your wife dies before the summer is out… In that case, you would gain twenty thousand pounds. And you want money, at once. In your position the gain is certain.”

“Are you serious, Fosco?”

“Quite serious. You would gain twenty thousand pounds and both your money difficulties and mine would be at an end. It’s worth thinking about seriously, my dear Percival. Think about it.”

“I have thought about it,” said Sir Percival slowly. “Believe me. But there is another difficulty.” He stopped and was silent as if he didn’t want to go on.

“Shall I help you?” suggested the Count. “Shall I give this private difficulty of yours a name? What if I call it – Anne Catherick?”

“Maybe, Fosco…”

“You have had a secret from me, Percival. There is a skeleton in your cupboard here at Blackwater Park. I don’t understand who this woman is and why you’re so afraid of her.”

“If it doesn’t concern you, you needn’t be curious about it, need you?”

“So! so! This secret of yours… Do you ask me, as your old friend, to respect your secret?”

“Yes – that’s just what I do ask,” replied Sir Percival.

The Count was too nervous to listen to him.

“Well, then,” said the Count, “I’m afraid I can’t help you if I don’t know what the problem is.”

“You must help me, Fosco!” There was a desperate note in Sir Percival’s voice and he rose to his feet, knocking over his chair. “The truth is that Anne Catherick knows a terrible secret about me – a secret which, if anybody else found it out, would be the end of me. That’s why I shut her up in the Asylum, so that nobody would listen to her. Her mother knows the secret too, but she won’t say anything to anyone – she’s too deeply involved in the matter herself.

And now Anne Catherick has escaped from the Asylum and is somewhere near here. I had done my best to find Anne Catherick, and failed. Fosco! I’m a lost man if I don’t find her.”

“Ha! Is it so serious as that?”

The Count had taken the lamp from the inner part of the room to see his friend clearly by the light of it.

“Yes!” he said. “Your face speaks the truth this time. Serious, indeed – as serious as the money matters themselves.”

“More serious. As true as I sit here, more serious!”

The light disappeared again and the talk went on.

“I showed you the letter to my wife that Anne Catherick hid in the sand,” Sir Percival continued. “Fosco – she does know the secret.”

“Say as little as possible, Percival, in my presence, of the secret. Does she know it from you?”

“No, from her mother.”

“Two women knows your secret – bad, bad, bad, my friend! Now, Percival, where is the danger of your position at the present moment?”

“Anne Catherick is in this neighbourhood, and in communication with Lady Glyde – there’s the danger. Moreover: my wife was in love with a drawing master before she married me – she’s in love with him now – a vagabond, named Hartright. Who do you think helped Anne Catherick in the beginning? Hartright. Who do you think saw her again in Cumberland? Hartright. Both times he spoke to her alone. Stop! don’t interrupt me. He knows the secret, and she knows the secret. They have information against me.”

“Gently, Percival – gently! Do you believe in the virtue of Lady Glyde?”

“Ha! I believe in her money!”

“Yes, yes, I see. Where is Mr. Hartright?”

“Out of the country. I recommend him not to come back in a hurry.”

“All right, I’ll help you, Percival. But tell me something. When I went to the boathouse, there was a strange woman with your wife, but I couldn’t see her face. I must know how to recognise our invisible Anne. What is she like?”

“Like? Come! I’ll tell you in two words. She looks exactly as my wife would look after a long illness,” replied Sir Percival.

The Count was on his feet in astonishment.

“What!!!” he exclaimed eagerly.

“Fancy my wife, after a bad illness, with a touch of something wrong in her head – and there is Anne Catherick for you,” answered Sir Percival.

“Are they related to each other?”

“Not a bit of it.”

“And yet so like?”

“Yes, so like. What are you laughing about?”

“It’s very strange. All right, now I know what to do.”

There was no answer, and no sound of any kind.

“What are you laughing about?” asked Sir Percival again.

Not another word was spoken. I heard the Count close the library door. It had been raining, raining all the time.

The two men finished their cigarettes, went back into the library and closed the door.

All I wanted to do was to think about the terrible things I had heard. But suddenly I realised that I was wet through and freezing cold. It had been raining hard for some time and I hadn’t even noticed. I made my way slowly and with great difficulty back along the roof to my room, just as a distant clock was striking one o’clock.

June 20th.

I couldn’t sleep all night. I had caught a terrible cold in the cruel rain and when eight o’clock came the next morning, I couldn’t get up. My head was aching badly; sometimes I felt an awful coldness and at other times a burning fever. Oh, the rain, the rain – the cruel rain that chilled me last night!

Nine o’clock. Was it nine struck, or eight? Nine, surely? I am shivering again – shivering, from head to foot, in the summer air. Have I been sitting here asleep? I don’t know what I have been doing.

Oh, my God! Am I going to be ill? Ill, at such a time as this!

My head – I am sadly afraid of my head. I can write, but the lines all run together.[87] I see the words. Laura – I can write Laura, and see I write it. Eight or nine – which was it?

So cold, so cold – oh, that rain last night! – and the strokes of the clock, the strokes I can’t count, keep striking in my head —…

I am asked to write what I know of Miss Halcombe’s illness and of the circumstances under which Lady Glyde left Blackwater Park for London.

Miss Halcombe became ill so unexpectedly. She was walking about her room with a pen in her hand, quite light-headed, in a state of burning fever.

Lady Glyde was the first to come in from her own bedroom. She was so dreadfully alarmed and distressed that she was quite useless. The Count Fosco, and his lady were both very kind. The Countess assisted me to get Miss Halcombe to her bed. Sir Percival sent for the doctor.

Mr. Dawson[89] arrived in less than an hour’s time. He was a respectable elderly man, well known all round the country.

Miss Halcombe passed a very bad night, the fever coming and going, and getting worse towards the morning instead of better. Sir Percival and the Count came in the morning to make their inquiries. Sir Percival appeared much confused. The Count said, “Let us keep the house quiet. Let us not smoke indoors, my friend, now Miss Halcombe is ill. Good-morning, Mrs. Michelson.” Sir Percival was not civil enough. Only the Count had the manners of a true nobleman.

There was no improvement in Miss Halcombe, and the second night was even worse than the first. Mr. Dawson, the doctor, was constant in his attendance. He told us he thought her case was very serious indeed. She lay sick in bed for many days, nursed only by her sister, Lady Glyde, and myself. We took it in turns to sit by her bedside from morning till night. But soon Lady Glyde became ill, too.

The night passed as usual without producing any change for the better in Miss Halcombe. The next day she seemed to improve a little. The day after that the Countess proceeded by the morning train to London.

Count Fosco had to go to London on business as well, and was away for a week. During his absence, Miss Halcombe’s condition didn’t improve. The poor lady did not know any one about her. She seemed to take her friends for enemies. When the Count approached her bedside, her eyes settled on his face with a dreadful stare of terror.

“It is typhus fever,” he said.

“It is not typhus fever,” Mr. Dawson remarked sharply. “I protest, sir. No one has a right to heal here but me.”

The Count interrupted him – not by words, but only by pointing to the bed.

“I entered this room, sir, in the sacred interests of humanity,” said the Count. “I warn you that the fever has turned to typhus, and that your treatment is responsible for this change. We are going to have a new doctor from London.”

Before Mr. Dawson could answer, the door was opened, and we saw a new doctor. He was a younger man than Mr. Dawson, very serious and very decided. Mr. Dawson asked him,

“What is your opinion of the fever?”

“Typhus,” replied the physician. “Typhus fever beyond all doubt.”

In some days the new physician positively assured us that Miss Halcombe was out of danger. “She wants no doctor now – all she requires is careful watching and nursing, and that I see she has.” Those were his own words.

One day I received a message from Sir Percival, saying that he wanted to see me at once in the library. Sir Percival and Count Fosco were sitting together. Sir Percival civilly asked me to take a seat, and then, to my great astonishment, addressed me in these terms —

“I want to speak to you, Mrs. Michelson, about a matter – which I decided about some time ago, and which I was going to mention before Miss Halcombe became ill. As soon as Lady Glyde and Miss Halcombe can travel they must both have change of air. My friends, Count Fosco and the Countess, will leave us before that time to live in the neighbourhood of London, and I have reasons for not opening the house to any more company. I don’t blame you, but my expenses here are a great deal too heavy. In short, I shall sell the horses, and get rid of all the servants at once.”

I listened to him with astonishment.

“Who is to do the cooking, Sir Percival, while you are still staying here?”

“Margaret Porcher[90] can roast and boil – keep her. What do I want with a cook if I don’t mean to give any dinner-parties?”

“The servant you have mentioned is the most stupid servant in the house, Sir Percival.”

“Keep her, I tell you, and have a woman in from the village to do the cleaning and go away again. My weekly expenses must and shall be lowered immediately. Dismiss the whole lazy pack of indoor servants tomorrow, except Porcher. She is as strong as a horse – and we’ll make her work like a horse.”

“But, Sir Percival, I can’t dismiss the servants without giving them a month’s wages in advance.”

Sir Percival gave me a black look. I was afraid he was going to lose his temper.

“Very well, give them each a month’s wages and tell them to go. I will only be here myself for another few weeks.”

“Sir Percival, I have nothing more to say. Your directions shall be attended to.” Pronouncing those words, I bowed my head with the most distant respect, and went out of the room.

Of the whole domestic establishment there now remained only myself, Margaret Porcher, and the gardener. I wished the poor ladies both well again, and I wished myself away from Blackwater Park.

A few days later, when the servants had left, I was again sent for by Sir Percival. Again I found Count Fosco sitting with him.

This time Sir Percival had even more astonishing news for me. Sir Percival mentioned that both the ladies would probably pass the autumn (by invitation of Frederick Fairlie, Esquire) at Limmeridge House, Cumberland. But before they went there, it was his opinion, confirmed by Count Fosco (who here took up the conversation and continued it to the end), that they would benefit by a short residence first in Torquay,[91] a small seaside town on the south-west coast of England. He told me he was thinking of sending Lady Glyde and Miss Halcombe there, as the sea air would do them good. I was to look for suitable accommodation for them.

“But who will take care of Miss Halcombe in my absence?”

“Don’t worry about that,” said Count Fosco. “She’ll be very well looked after. We’ve found an excellent woman in the village, Mrs. Rubelle, who will help Lady Glyde nurse her. In any case, she’s beginning to get better again.”

I didn’t like the sound of this at all. But I had no choice except to do as I was ordered. I left for Torquay that evening.

I was away for three days, during which time I was quite unable to find any suitable accommodation for the two ladies at the price which Sir Percival had told me he would pay. On my return to Blackwater Park, I found that great changes had taken place. Count Fosco had gone to London and Lady Glyde had not been out of her room for two days.

I went upstairs at once to see her. She was very pleased to see me, but she was clearly weak and depressed. She was also anxious about Miss Halcombe, as she had heard no news of her sister for two days.

I assisted Lady Glyde her to dress. When she was ready we both left the room together to go to Miss Halcombe. We were stopped in the passage by Sir Percival.

“Where are you going?” he said to Lady Glyde.

“To Marian’s room,” she answered.

“You will not find her there,” remarked Sir Percival.

“Not find her there!”

“No. She left the house yesterday morning with Fosco and his wife.”

Lady Glyde turned fearfully pale, and leaned back against the wall, looking at her husband in dead silence.

I was so astonished myself that I hardly knew what to say. I asked Sir Percival if he really meant that Miss Halcombe had left Blackwater Park.

“I certainly mean it,” he answered.

“In her state, Sir Percival! Without telling Lady Glyde!”

Before he could reply Lady Glyde recovered herself a little and spoke.

“Impossible!” she cried out in a loud, frightened manner, taking a step or two forward from the wall. “Where was the doctor? Where was Mr. Dawson when Marian went away?”

“Mr. Dawson wasn’t wanted, and wasn’t here,” said Sir Percival. “He left. If you don’t believe she has gone, look for yourself. Open her room door, and all the other room doors if you like.”

She took him at his word, and I followed her. There was no one in Miss Halcombe’s room but Margaret Porcher, who was busy setting it to rights.[92] There was no one in the spare rooms, too. Sir Percival still waited for us in the passage. As we were leaving the last room that we had examined Lady Glyde whispered, “Don’t go, Mrs. Michelson! Don’t leave me, for God’s sake!” Before I could say anything in return she was out again in the passage, speaking to her husband.

“What does it mean, Sir Percival? I insist – I beg and pray you will tell me what it means.”

“It means,” he answered, “that Miss Halcombe was strong enough yesterday morning to sit up and be dressed, and that she insisted on leaving with Fosco to London.”

“To London!”

“Yes – on her way to Limmeridge. With Mrs. Rubelle.”

Lady Glyde turned and appealed to me.

“You saw Miss Halcombe last,” she said. “Tell me plainly, Mrs. Michelson, did you think she looked fit to travel?”

“Not in my opinion, your ladyship.”

Sir Percival instantly turned.

“If she had not been well enough to be moved do you think we should any of us have risked letting her go?”

“Why does Marian go to Limmeridge and leave me here by myself?” said her ladyship, interrupting Sir Percival.

“Because your uncle won’t receive you till he has seen your sister first,” he replied.

Poor Lady Glyde’s eyes filled with tears.

“Marian never left me before,” she said, “without bidding me good-bye.”

Sir Percival left us suddenly.

Lady Glyde went back to her room. Suddenly she stopped in the passage.

“Something has happened to my sister!” she said. “I must follow Marian. I must go where she has gone, I must see that she is alive and well with my own eyes. Come! come down with me to Sir Percival.”

“Why should she not be?” said Sir Percival. “But yes, you can go. I’ll write to Count Fosco today and tell him to expect you by the midday train tomorrow. He’ll meet you at the station in London and take you to his house, where you can be reunited with your sister. You can stay there for a few days and then travel on to Limmeridge House together.”

“There is no necessity for Count Fosco to meet me,” said Lady Glyde. “I would rather not stay in London to sleep.”

“You must. You can’t take the whole journey to Cumberland in one day. You must rest a night in London.”

The next day was fine and sunny. At a quarter to twelve, Lady Glyde was ready to leave. She was waiting downstairs for the horse and carriage, when Sir Percival appeared.

He informed her that he had to go out and wouldn’t be able to go with her to the station. He asked me to go instead, which I was very glad to do. I felt so sorry for Lady Glyde.

Just as he was about to leave the room, Lady Glyde stopped him at the door and put out her hand.

“I shall see you no more,” she said. “This is our parting – our parting, it may be for ever. Will you try to forgive me, Percival, as heartily as I forgive you?”

“I shall come back,” he turned pale and left the room quickly.

The gardener drove us to the station and we arrived just in time for Lady Glyde to catch her train.

“I wish you were coming with me,” she said. “You have been so kind to Marian and myself and I’ll never forget it.”

As the train began to move off, I saw her pale quiet face looking sorrowfully out of the window. She waved her hand, and was gone.

When I returned to Blackwater Park, I went for a walk in the garden. Suddenly I saw a strange woman gathering the flowers. As I approached she heard me, and turned round.

My blood curdled in my veins. The strange woman in the garden was Mrs. Rubelle.

I could neither move nor speak. She came up to me with her flowers in her hand.

“What is the matter, ma’am?” she said quietly.

“You here!” I gasped out. “Not gone to London! Not gone to Cumberland!”

“Certainly not,” she said. “I have never left Blackwater Park.”

I put another question.

“Where is Miss Halcombe?”

Mrs. Rubelle fairly laughed at me this time, and replied in these words —

“Miss Halcombe, ma’am, has not left Blackwater Park either. Here is Sir Percival, ma’am, returned from his ride.”

“Well, Mrs. Michelson,” he said, “you have found it out at last, have you? Miss Halcombe is safe in one of the bedrooms at this moment. If you don’t believe me, come and see her for yourself.”

He led the way to the oldest part of the house. When I went into the room Miss Halcombe was asleep. I looked at her anxiously, as she lay in the dismal, high, old-fashioned bed. The room was dreary, and dusty, and dark, but the window was opened to let in the fresh air.

“Sir Percival,” I said, “you have deceived me and you have deceived your wife cruelly. I don’t know why you’ve done this, but I wish to resign from your service immediately.”

“Very well,” replied Sir Percival, “but if you go now, there will be nobody left to look after Miss Halcombe. Mrs. Rubelle is leaving now and I’m leaving tonight.”

As a human being, I knew I couldn’t leave Miss Halcombe alone. I knew I had to stay with her until she was better.

That night I saw Sir Percival leave. He jumped on his horse and rode off, his face pale as a ghost in the moonlight.

That was the last time I ever saw Sir Percival Glyde. My own part of this sad family story is now drawing to an end.

I open a new page. A life suddenly changed – its hopes and fears, its struggles, its interests, and its sacrifices all turned at once and for ever into a new direction. My whole life had been changed and turned in a new direction, and could begin again.

I left my narrative in the quiet shadow of Limmeridge church – I resume it, one week later, in the stir and turmoil[96] of a London street. The street is in a poor neighbourhood. The ground floor of one of the houses in it is occupied by a small shop. On the upper floor I live, with a room to work in, a room to sleep in. On the lower floor, two women live, who are described as my sisters. I get my bread by drawing for cheap newspapers and magazines. I am an obscure, unnoticed man, without any friend to help me. Marian Halcombe is my eldest sister.

That is our situation. In the eye of reason and of law,[97] “Laura, Lady Glyde,” lay buried with her mother in Limmeridge churchyard. The daughter of Philip Fairlie and the wife of Percival Glyde might still exist for her sister, might still exist for me, but to all the world besides she was dead. Dead to her uncle, who had renounced her; dead to the servants of the house, who had failed to recognise her; socially, legally – dead. And yet alive! Alive in poverty and in hiding. It was of the greatest importance for us to remain in hiding, and for this purpose we pretended that we were a brother and two sisters. We took different names from our own, and lived as quietly as we could.

The story of Marian and the story of Laura must come next. The story of Marian begins where the narrative of the housekeeper at Blackwater Park left off.

Mrs. Michelson told Marian that her sister, Lady Glyde, had gone to London to stay in Count Fosco’s house, and that Sir Percival had also left Blackwater Park, and nobody knew if he would return. Then a letter arrived from Madame Fosco announcing Lady Glyde’s sudden death in Count Fosco’s house. It seemed very strange. Marian was not able to travel for more than three weeks afterwards. At the end of that time she proceeded to London accompanied by the housekeeper who had become a good friend. They parted there.

Marian went straight away to see the family lawyer, Mr Gilmore. She told him that she was very suspicious of the circumstances in which Laura had died, and she wanted him to find out more about her death and what exactly she had died of. So Mr. Gilmore went to Count Fosco’s home, where he found the Count very friendly and helpful. He questioned the Count, the cook and the doctor who had seen Laura. Finally he came back to tell Marian that Laura had died from natural causes – a heart problem. He could find nothing suspicious about her death.

Miss Halcombe had returned to Limmeridge House to see her uncle, and had there collected all the additional information which she was able to obtain. The Count had suggested that Laura’s body be brought back to the churchyard in Limmeridge and placed in her mother’s grave, and Mr. Fairlie had agreed to this. Count Fosco himself had attended the funeral at Limmeridge, which took place on the 30th of July. Sir Percival Glyde was still travelling abroad.

Marian learnt that Anne Catherick had been traced and recovered in the neighbourhood of Blackwater Park. She had been taken back to the Asylum in north London from which she escaped. Miss Halcombe decided to visit the Asylum.

The next day she proceeded to the Asylum, which was situated not far from London on the northern side of the town.

The proprietor of the Asylum had no objections to her seeing Anne Catherick. He informed Miss Halcombe that Anne Catherick had been brought back to him with the necessary order and certificates by Count Fosco on the twenty-seventh of July.

The proprietor told Marian that Anne was at that moment out walking with a nurse in the garden.

In the garden two women were slowly walking. The proprietor pointed to them and said, “There is Anne Catherick.” With those words he left Marian to return to the duties of the house.

When Anne Catherick got nearer, she looked up at Marian. Then she rushed towards Marian and threw herself into her arms. In that moment Miss Halcombe recognised her sister – recognised the dead-alive.

When Marian had recovered a little from the shock, she began to think quickly. She knew she had to get Laura out of the Asylum as quickly as possible. There was no time for questions – there was only time to act. If she tried to do it by legal means, by explaining to the proprietor that a mistake had been made, it would take too long. Miss Halcombe turned to the nurse, placed all the gold she then had in her pocket (three sovereigns) in the nurse’s hands, and asked when and where she could speak to her alone.

When Miss Halcombe had got back to London, she had determined to effect Lady Glyde’s escape privately,[98] by means of the nurse.

She had seven hundred pounds in a bank. That was the price of her sister’s liberty.

Then she returned to the Asylum. She showed the nurse the money and told her she would give it to her if she helped Laura escape. At last the nurse agreed. Miss Halcombe waited more than an hour and a half. At the end of that time the nurse came quickly round the corner of the wall holding Lady Glyde by the arm. The moment they met Miss Halcombe put the bank-notes into her hand, and the sisters were united again.

They caught the afternoon train, and arrived at Limmeridge, without accident or difficulty of any kind, that night.

During their journey they were alone in the carriage, and Miss Halcombe tried to ask her what had happened, but Laura’s memory was confused and very weak, and she could remember very little.

On the arrival of the train at the platform Lady Glyde found Count Fosco waiting for her. Her first question referred to Miss Halcombe. The Count informed her that Miss Halcombe had not yet gone to Cumberland.

Lady Glyde next inquired whether her sister was then staying in the Count’s house. The Count declared he was then taking her to see Miss Halcombe. Laura doesn’t know London very well, and it was quite impossible for her to recognise any of the streets which we drove through. At last they stopped in a small street behind a square.

They entered the house, and went upstairs to a back room, either on the first or second floor. The luggage was carefully brought in. The Count assured her that Miss Halcombe was in the house. He then went away and left her by herself in the room. Then the Count returned to explain that Miss Halcombe was then taking rest, and could not be disturbed for a little while.

She asked anxiously how long the meeting between her sister and herself was to be still delayed. A sudden faintness overcame her, and she was obliged to ask for a glass of water. The Count called from the door for water, and for a bottle of smelling-salts.[99] The water had so strange a taste that it increased her faintness, and she hastily took the bottle of salts from Count Fosco, and smelt at it. Her head became giddy on the instant. At this point in her sad story there was a total blank. She was unable to say how, or when, or in what company she left the house to which Count Fosco had brought her.

She woke up in the Asylum. Here she first heard herself called by Anne Catherick’s name, her own eyes informed her that she had Anne Catherick’s clothes on. The nurse had said, “Look at your own name on your own clothes, and don’t worry us all any more about being Lady Glyde. She’s dead and buried, and you’re alive and hearty. Do look at your clothes now!”

What happened? After Sir Percival and Count Fosco had found Anne Catherick again, Count Fosco must have brought her to London and kept her in his house. She was very ill and he knew she would die. After her death, he must have brought her clothes with him when he met Laura, and when Laura fell asleep, put them on her. Meanwhile, he took Laura’s clothes and dressed Anne Catherick’s body in them.

Arriving at Limmeridge late on the evening of the fifteenth, Miss Halcombe brought Laura Mr. Fairlie. But Laura’s uncle refused to recognise her. He kept insisting that Laura was really Anne Catherick pretending to be Laura. He angrily reminded Marian how much Laura and Anne Catherick looked like each other. He insisted that he didn’t recognise her, and said that Laura lay buried in the churchyard at Limmeridge. Finally he said that if we didn’t go away at once, he would call the police, as all he wanted was to be left alone in peace and quiet. None of servants recognised Laura for sure. The sad truth was that her looks had changed so much because of her terrible experiences that she didn’t look at all like the happy girl whom they had known before. She looked pale and thin, and just a shadow of her old self. Marian remembered how Sir Percival had told Count Fosco that Anne Catherick looked exactly like Laura after a long illness.

So it was dangerous to stay longer at Limmeridge House, if nobody was going to give us any help or support. So Marian decided to leave Limmeridge at once, and the safest place for them was London. They had passed the hill above the churchyard, when Lady Glyde insisted on turning back to look her last at her mother’s grave. She did not move.I believe in my soul that the hand of God was pointing their way back to them!

This was the story of the past – the story so far as we knew it then.

Anne Catherick had lived in Count Fosco’s house as Lady Glyde – and Lady Glyde had taken the dead woman’s place in the Asylum. It had all been managed very cleverly, so that nobody – Count Fosco’s cook, the doctor who saw Anne, the owner of the Asylum or the nurses there – had been in any way suspicious. We three had to hide from Count Fosco and Sir Percival Glyde. The crime had brought them thirty thousand pounds – twenty thousand to one, ten thousand to the other through his wife. Now that Laura had escaped from the Asylum, they would do everything in their power to pursue her, and if they found her, they would take her away from us. We were all in great danger from them, but especially Laura.

We lived as quietly as we could, therefore, in this poor crowded part of London, taking no notice of anybody and hoping that we too were unnoticed. Every day I went out to work while Marian and Laura stayed at home, and never opened the door to anyone. We could live cheaply by the daily work of my hands, and could save every farthing we possessed to forward the purpose, the righteous purpose, of redressing an infamous wrong.[100]

Marian Halcombe and I put together what we possessed. Together we made up between us more than four hundred pounds. I deposited this little fortune in a bank. The house-work was doing by Marian Halcombe. “Don’t doubt my courage, Walter,” she pleaded, “It’s my weakness that cries, not me.” Marian looked after the house and did all the work herself, so no strangers had to come there.

Laura was ill and did not remember many things. We helped her mind slowly, we took her out between us to walk on fine days, in a quiet old City square, where there was nothing to confuse or alarm her, we amused her in the evenings with children’s games at cards, with read her books full of prints.

“You are not tired of me yet?” Laura said. “You are not going away because you are tired of me? I will try to do better – I will try to get well. Are you as fond of me, Walter, as you used to be, now I am so pale and thin, and so slow in learning to draw? I’m so unhappy!”

“What are you thinking of, Laura? Tell me, my darling – try and tell me what it is. Try to tell me why you are not happy.”

“I am so useless – I am such a burden on both of you,” she answered, with a hopeless sigh. “You work and get money, Walter, and Marian helps you. Why is there nothing I can do?”

She spoke like a child, she showed me her thoughts. I told her that she was dearer to me now than she had ever been in the past times.

“Try to get well again,” I said, “try to get well again, for Marian’s sake and for mine.”

“I shall soon be back, my darling – soon be back to see how you are getting on.”

As I opened the door, I met Marian.

“I shall be back in a few hours,” I said, “ But if anything happens – ”

“What can happen?” she interposed quickly. “Tell me, Walter, if there is any danger, and I shall know how to meet it.”

“The only danger,” I replied, “is that Sir Percival Glyde may know about Laura’s escape.”

She laid her hand on my shoulder and looked at me in anxious silence. I saw she understood the serious risk that threatened us. More than anything else, I wanted to punish Sir Percival Glyde for what he had done to Laura, the woman I loved. I wanted to punish Count Fosco too, but it was Sir Percival whom I hated the most.

I was deciding on a plan of action. Anne Catherick had told me that she knew a deep dark secret about Sir Percival which would destroy him if anyone found it out. We knew that this secret existed, but we had failed to learn the details of it from Anne. However, Anne had told Laura there was one other person who knew it – her mother, Mrs. Catherick. I therefore made up my mind to go and visit Mrs. Catherick.

The housekeeper at Blackwater Park had told Marian that she lived in the village of Welmingham,[101] about twenty miles away from Sir Percival’s house, so I took the train there.

Marian followed me downstairs to the street door.

“If strange things happen to you on this journey,” she whispered, as we stood together in the passage. “If you and Sir Percival meet – ”

“What makes you think we shall meet?” I asked.

“I don’t know – I have fears and fancies. Laugh at them, Walter, if you like – but, for God’s sake, keep your temper if you come in contact with that man!”

“Never fear, Marian!”

With those words we parted. I walked briskly to the station. The train left me at Welmingham early in the afternoon. I inquired my way to the quarter of the town in which Mrs. Catherick lived, and on reaching it found myself in a square of small houses, one story high. I walked at once to the door of Number Thirteen – the number of Mrs. Catherick’s house – and knocked.

The door was opened by a melancholy middle-aged woman servant. I gave her my card, and asked if I could see Mrs. Catherick.

“Say, if you please, that my business relates to Mrs. Catherick’s daughter,” I said.

The servant begged me, with a look of gloomy amazement, to walk in.

I entered a little room. On the largest table, in the middle of the room, stood a smart Bible, placed exactly in the centre on a red and yellow mat, and there sat an elderly woman, wearing a black dress. She had square cheeks, a long, firm chin, and thick, sensual, colourless lips. This was Mrs. Catherick.

“You have come to speak to me about my daughter,” she said, before I could utter a word on my side. “What do you want to say?”

The tone of her voice was very hard. I noticed the expression on her face. It was very hard and cold. She pointed to a chair, and looked me all over attentively, from head to foot, as I sat down in it.

“My name is Walter Hartright,” I replied, “You are aware, that your daughter has been lost?”

“I am perfectly aware of it.”

“Have you heard about her death?”

“Have you come here to tell me she is dead?”

“I have.”

“Why?”

“Why?” I repeated. “Do you ask why I come here to tell you of your daughter’s death?”

“Yes. What interest have you in me, or in her? How do you know anything about my daughter?”

“I met her on the night when she escaped from the Asylum, and I assisted her in reaching a place of safety.”

“You did very wrong.”

“I am sorry to hear her mother say so.”

“Her mother does say so. How do you know she is dead?”

“I can’t say how I know it – but I do know it.”

“Then, I ask you again, why did you come?”

“I came,” I said, “because I thought Anne Catherick’s mother might have some interest in knowing whether she was alive or dead.”

“Just so,” said Mrs. Catherick. “Had you no other motive?”

I hesitated.

“If you have no other motive,” she went on, “I have only to thank you for your visit, and to say that I will not detain you here any longer. I wish you good morning”.

“I have another motive in coming here,” I said.

“Ah! I thought so,” remarked Mrs. Catherick.

“Your daughter’s death – ”

“What did she die of?”

“Of disease of the heart.”

“Yes, her heart was very weak.. Go on.”

“Two men have played a part in your daughter’s death,” I said, “and have used it to bring harm to another person, a lady whom I love dearly. The name of one of them is Sir Percival Glyde.”

“Indeed!”

I looked attentively to see if she flinched at the sudden mention of that name. Not a muscle of her face stirred, her face remained as cold and expressionless as a stone.

“Mrs. Catherick,” I said, “I am determined to bring Sir Percival Glyde to account for the wickedness he has committed. There are certain events in Sir Percival’s past life which it is necessary for my purpose. You know them – and for that reason I come to you.”

“What events do you mean?”

“Events that occurred at Old Welmingham when your husband was parish-clerk at that place, and before the time when your daughter was born.”

“Ah! I begin to understand it all now,” she said. “You have something against Sir Percival Glyde, and I must help you. I must tell you this, that, and the other about Sir Percival and myself, must I? Yes, indeed? I’ll tell you nothing. Ha! Ha! It’s none of your business.”

She stopped for a moment, and she laughed to herself – a hard, harsh, angry laugh.

“Crush him for yourself,” she said; “then come back here, and see what I say to you.”

She spoke those words quickly.

“You won’t trust me?” I said.

“No.”

“You are afraid?”

“Do I look as if I was?”

“You are afraid of Sir Percival Glyde?”

“Am I?”

“Sir Percival has a high position in the world,” I said; “it would be no wonder if you were afraid of him. Sir Percival is a powerful man, a baronet, the possessor of a fine estate, the descendant of a great family —”

She surprised me by beginning to laugh.

“Yes,” she repeated, in tones of the bitterest, steadiest contempt. “A baronet, the possessor of a fine estate, the descendant of a great family. Yes, indeed! A great family – especially by the mother’s side.”

“I am not here to dispute with you about family questions,” I said. “I know nothing of Sir Percival’s mother – ”

“And you know as little of Sir Percival himself,” she interposed sharply.

“But I know some things about him,” I rejoined. “and I suspect many more.”

“What do you suspect?”

“I’ll tell you what I don’t suspect. I don’t suspect him of being Anne’s father.”

She started to her feet.

“How dare you talk to me about Anne’s father! How dare you say who was her father, or who wasn’t!” she broke out, her voice trembling with passion.

“The secret between you and Sir Percival is not that secret,” I persisted. “The mystery which darkens Sir Percival’s life was not born with your daughter’s birth, and has not died with your daughter’s death.”

“Go!” she said, and pointed sternly to the door.

“Do you still refuse to trust me?” I asked.

“I do refuse,” she said.

“Do you still tell me to go?”

“Yes. Go – and never come back.”

I walked to the door, waited a moment before I opened it, and turned round to look at her again.

“I may have news to bring you of Sir Percival which you don’t expect,” I said, “and in that case I shall come back.”

“There is no news of Sir Percival that I don’t expect, except – ”

She stopped, her pale face darkened.

“Except the news of his death,” she said, sitting down again.

As I opened the door of the room to go out, she looked round at me quickly. The cruel smile slowly widened her lips. I left the house, feeling that Mrs. Catherick had helped me, in spite of herself.[102] “A great family – especially by the mother’s side.” What do these words mean? I decided to go to the church near Blackwater Park and look at the book that contains the records of all the marriages that have taken place in the district. I had a new clue and a new direction to follow. I wanted to look at the entry that records the marriage of Sir Percival Glyde’s parents.

The morning was cloudy and lowering, but no rain fell. I took the train to Blackwater Park and walked to the vestry of Old Welmingham church.

When I left the station the winter evening was beginning to close in.

It was a walk of rather more than two miles. On the highest point stood the church – an ancient building with a clumsy square tower in front.

I walked on away from the church till I reached one of the houses. The clerk’s abode was a cottage at some little distance off. The clerk was indoors, and was just putting on his coat.

“It’s well you came so early, sir,” said the old man, when I had mentioned the object of my visit. He took his keys down while he was talking from a hook behind the fireplace, and locked his cottage door behind us.

“Nobody at home to keep house for me,” said the clerk, “My wife’s in the churchyard there, and my children are all married. You’re from London, I suppose, sir? I’ve been in London twenty-five years ago. What’s the news there now, if you please?”

Chattering on in this way, he led me back to the vestry. “I’m obliged to bring you this way, sir,” he said, “This is a very bad lock. Ah, it’s a sort of lost corner, this place. Not like London – is it, sir?”

After some twisting and turning of the key, the heavy lock yielded, and he opened the door. The vestry was a dim, melancholy old room, with a low ceiling. The atmosphere of the place was heavy. But my anxiety to examine the register was very strong.

“Ay, ay, the marriage-register, to be sure,” said the clerk, taking a little bunch of keys from his pocket. “Which year, sir?”

I knew Sir Percival’s age – about forty-five – so I could work out the approximate date when his parents got married.

“I want to begin with the year eighteen hundred and four,” I said.

“Which way after that, sir?” asked the clerk. “Forwards to our time or backwards away from us?”

“Backwards from eighteen hundred and four.”

The clerk brought me the book. I started with the year 1803. There, in September of that year, I found the entry which recorded his parents’ marriage. It was at the bottom of a page. I looked carefully at the entry. It showed the marriage of Sir Felix Glyde[103] to a lady called Cecilia Jane Elster. The information about his wife was the usual information given in such cases. She was described as “Cecilia Jane Elster, of Park-View Cottages, Knowlesbury, only daughter of the late Patrick Elster, Esq., formerly of Bath.[104]”

All the other entries on the page had been written very clearly, in large handwriting. But this one was different. The entry appeared in tiny handwriting, in a tiny space right at the bottom of the page. It was almost as if someone had added it to the book later.

What was I to do next? I might inquire about “Miss Elster of Knowlesbury”.

“Have you found what you wanted, sir?” said the clerk, as I closed the register-book.

“Yes,” I replied, “but I have some inquiries still to make. I suppose the clergyman who worked here in the year eighteen hundred and three is no longer alive?”

“No, no, sir, he was dead three or four years before I came here,” said my old friend.

“Where did your former master live?” I asked.

“At Knowlesbury,[105] sir.

Our vestry-clerk,[106] old Mr. Wansborough[107] lived at Knowlesbury, and young Mr. Wansborough lives there too.”

“You said just now he was vestry-clerk, like his father before him. I am not quite sure that I know what a vestry-clerk is.”

“Don’t you indeed, sir?! Every parish church, you know, has a vestry-clerk and a parish-clerk.[108] The parish-clerk is a man like me. The vestry-clerk is a sort of a lawyer. For example, he copies all the documents.”

My heart gave a great leap.

“Then young Mr. Wansborough is a lawyer, I suppose?”

“Of course he is, sir! A lawyer in High Street,[109] Knowlesbury.”

“How far is it to Knowlesbury from this place?”

“Quite far, sir,” said the clerk, “About five miles, I can tell you!”

It was still early. There was plenty of time for a walk to Knowlesbury and back again to Welmingham.

“Thank you kindly, sir,” said the clerk, as I slipped some coins into his hand. “Are you really going to walk all the way to Knowlesbury and back? Well! you’re strong on your legs! There’s the road, you can’t miss it. Wish you good-morning, sir, and thank you kindly once more.”

We parted.

Mr. Wansborough was in his office when I inquired for him. He was a jovial, red-faced, easy-looking man. He had heard of his father’s copy of the register, but had not even seen it himself. A clerk was sent to bring the volume. It was of exactly the same size as the volume in the vestry. I took it, my hands were trembling.

I turned to the month of September, eighteen hundred and three. I found the marriage of the man whose Christian name was the same as my own. I found the double register of the marriages of the two brothers. And between these entries, at the bottom of the page?

Nothing! Nothing about the marriage of Sir Felix Glyde and Cecilia Jane Elster in the register of the church! I looked again – I was afraid to believe the evidence of my own eyes. No! Not a doubt. The marriage was not there. The entries on the copy occupied exactly the same places on the page as the entries in the original. The last entry on one page recorded the marriage of the man with my Christian name. Below it there was a blank space. That space told the whole story!

I learnt Sir Percival’s secret. If he was the child of a couple who never married, then Sir Percival Glyde wasn’t Sir Percival Glyde at all. He wasn’t a baronet and had no legal rights to Blackwater Park. It could all be taken from him. Moreover, this forgery was a serious crime and I knew that the punishment was very severe. He could be sent to prison for a very long time. No wonder he didn’t want to be found out!

I handed the book back to the clerk, and thanked him. I considered for a minute. I resolved to return to the church, to apply again to the clerk, and to take the necessary extract from the register. My one anxiety was the anxiety to get back to Old Welmingham.

It was just getting dark, when I got back to the church. A small misty rain was falling. I came to the path which ran by the clerk’s cottage and saw a light in his window. I went up the path to the front door, intending to ask the clerk for the key to the vestry.

Before I could knock at the door it was suddenly opened, and a man came running out with a lighted lantern in his hand. He stopped and held it up at the sight of me. We both started as we saw each other. He looked suspicious and confused – and his first words, when he spoke, were quite strange.

“Where are the keys?” he asked. “Have you taken them?”

“What keys?” I repeated. “I have just come from Knowlesbury. What keys do you mean?”

“The keys of the vestry. Oh! What shall I do? The keys are gone! Do you hear?” cried the old man, “The keys are gone!”

“How? When? Who can have taken them?”

“I don’t know,” said the clerk. “I’ve only just got back. I had a long day’s work this morning – I locked the door and shut the window down – it’s open now, the window’s open. Look! Somebody has got in there and taken the keys.”

“Get another light,” I said, “and let us both go to the vestry together. Quick! Quick!”

I hurried him. I walked out, down the garden path, into the lane. Before I had advanced ten paces a man approached me. I could not see his face.

“I beg your pardon, Sir Percival – ” he began.

I stopped him before he could say more.

“I am not Sir Percival,” I said.

The man drew back directly.

“I thought it was my master,” he muttered, in a confused, doubtful way.

“You expected to meet your master here?”

“I was told to wait in the lane.”

I looked back at the cottage and saw the clerk coming out, with the lantern lighted once more. The church was not visible, even by daytime, until the end of the lane was reached. Suddenly a boy came to us.

“I say, mister,” said the boy, pulling at the clerk’s coat, “There is somebody in the church. I heard him lock the door, and strike a light with a match.”

The clerk trembled and leaned against me heavily.[110]

“Come! come!” I said. “We are not too late. We will catch the man, whoever he is. Keep the lantern, and follow me as fast as you can.”

I knew why Sir Percival was in the church – he wanted to steal or destroy the book which contained his forgery, so that I could not use it as proof of his crime.

We turned the corner at the top of the path and saw the church before us. But then we had a terrible shock. There was a very bright light shining from inside the vestry. It shone out with dazzling brightness against the murky, starless sky. I hurried through the churchyard to the door.

As we got near, we could smell a strange smell on the night air – it was smoke! The light inside the vestry was getting brighter and brighter, and at the same time we heard a crackling noise. The vestry was on fire!

I heard the key worked violently in the lock – I heard a man’s voice behind the door, screaming for help.

The servant who had followed me dropped to his knees. “Oh, my God!” he said, “It’s Sir Percival!”

“He is dead!” said the old man. “He has broken the lock.”

I rushed to the door. I completely forgot that Sir Percival was my enemy and all the wicked things he had done. I remembered nothing but the horror of his situation.

“Try the other door!” I shouted. “Try the door into the church! The lock’s broken. You’re a dead man if you waste another moment on it.”

We could hear no sound from within.

Hardly knowing what I did, I seized the servant and pushed him against the vestry wall. “Stop!” I said, “And hold by the stones. I am going to climb over you to the roof – I am going to break the skylight, and give him some air!”

The man trembled from head to foot. I got on his back, seized the parapet with both hands, and was instantly on the roof. I broke the window. I couldn’t see Sir Percival. The fire leaped out like a wild beast from its lair. I crouched on the roof and climbed down.

At last the door fell in with a crash, but we were prevented from going inside by a sheet of living flames.

“Where is he?” whispered the servant, staring at the flames.

“He’s dust and ashes,[111]” said the clerk. “And the books are dust and ashes – and oh, sirs! The church will be dust and ashes soon.”

Those were the only two who spoke. When they were silent again, nothing stirred in the stillness but the crackle of the flames.

At that moment the fire engine[112] arrived at last. The firemen ran to the vestry and directed water inside. I stood useless and helpless – looking, looking, looking into the burning room. I saw the fire slowly conquered.

A man’s body, blackened and burned, was found lying face down on the floor of the vestry.

“Where is the gentleman who tried to save him?” said the fireman.

I was unable to speak to him. I was faint, and silent, and helpless.

“Do you know him, sir? Can you identify him, sir?”

My eyes dropped slowly. So, for the first and last time, I saw him.

“No, I have never seen the man before,” I said.

But a voice behind me spoke. It was Sir Percival’s servant.

“That’s my master,” he said. “That’s Sir Percival Glyde.”

The next day there was an official enquiry into what had taken place in the vestry of the church – what Sir Percival was doing there and how he had met his death.

The clerk told the court how his keys had disappeared from his house. The enquiry came to the conclusion that Sir Percival had locked himself in the vestry, not knowing that the lock was broken and it would be very difficult to get out again. The fire in the vestry had started by accident. Maybe he knocked his lantern over, which contained a lot of oil and so would quickly start a fire. Moreover, there were many dry materials in the vestry – papers and old boxes – which would burn quickly and cause a fire to spread easily.

But the enquiry couldn’t find a reason for Sir Percival being in the vestry or why he had locked himself in there. Everything in the vestry had been burned with him, including the book of marriage records and other important documents.

I knew very well what Sir Percival had been doing in the vestry, but I wasn’t going to say anything. He was looking for the book of marriage records, intending either to steal it or to tear out the page with the false marriage entry. While he was looking for it, he locked the door so that nobody would disturb him. He was probably in a great hurry and knocked over his lantern in the darkness by accident.

The enquiry reached the conclusion that the cause of Sir Percival Glyde’s death was death by sudden accident.

I returned to the hotel at Welmingham, weakened and depressed by all that I had gone through. On my way to the hotel I passed the end of the square in which Mrs. Catherick lived. I did not visit her. No. I did not want to see her at all.

Some hours later, while I was resting in the coffee-room, a letter was placed in my hands by the waiter. It was addressed to me by name. He said that a woman had given it to him. She had said nothing, and she had gone away very quickly.

I opened the letter. It was neither dated nor signed. But before I had read the first sentence, however, I knew who my correspondent was – Mrs. Catherick.

The letter ran as follows – I copy it exactly, word for word: —

Sir, – You have not come back, as you said you would. No matter – I know the news, and I write to tell you so. Thank you, sir, I owe something to the man who has done this.

How can I pay my debt? If I was a young woman still I might say, “Come, put your arm round my waist, and kiss me, if you like.” But I am an old woman now. Well! I can satisfy your curiosity, and pay my debt in that way.

You wanted to know who my daughter’s father was but you couldn’t guess the truth. During the summer of 1826, I was a maid in service at a large house belonging to a gentleman. He had a very good friend who came to stay with him. That friend had a house in the north of England, near a village called Limmeridge.

In those days I was a pretty girl, and I soon caught his eye. He was one of the most handsome and best men in England. We had a relationship, and after he left I found I was going to have a child.

Soon I married a local man. When my baby was born – a little girl – everyone, including my husband, thought that the child was his and nobody asked any questions about it. Unfortunately, she was very weak in the head. I never told my friend about his daughter because I knew he was already married.

You were a little boy, I suppose, in the year twenty-seven? I was a handsome young woman at that time, living at Old Welmingham. I had a fool for a husband. I had a job cleaning the church there. I had also the honour of being acquainted with a certain gentleman (never mind whom). I shall not call him by his name. Why should I? It was not his own. He never had a name.

He admired me, and he made me presents. No woman can resist admiration and presents. Naturally he wanted something in return – all men do. And what do you think was the something? The merest trifle. Nothing but the key of the vestry, and the key of the press inside it. Of course he lied when I asked him why he wished me to get him the keys in that private way. But I liked my presents, and I wanted more. So I got him the keys, and I watched him, without his own knowledge. Once, twice, four times I watched him, and the fourth time I found him out. I knew he had added something to the marriages in the register on his own account.

He had only recently come back to England. He had been born and brought up abroad, but his parents had both died suddenly, and he had returned. His father and mother had always lived as man and wife – nobody could imagine that they had not been married. His father could not marry his mother because she was married already! She used to be a wife of a cruel man who left her one day, and she ran away.

So he wrote something in the registry. Nobody could say his father and mother had not been married after that, if a question was ever raised about his right to the name and the estate.

I didn’t know that forgery was a serious crime so I accepted his presents. And by doing so, I made myself an accomplice to his crime. Now if I told anyone about him, I would be in terrible trouble as well. So I kept quiet for many years, and went on accepting his presents.

One day, without any warning to me to expect him, he came to my house. Seeing my daughter in the room with me he ordered her away. They neither of them liked each other.

“Leave us,” he said, looking at her over his shoulder. She looked back over her shoulder and waited.

“Do you hear?” he roared out, “Leave the room!”

“Speak to me civilly,” said she, getting red in the face.

“Turn the idiot out,[113]” cried he.

The word ‘idiot’ upset her in a moment.

“Beg my pardon, directly,” said she, “or I’ll make it the worse for you. I know your secret. I can ruin you for life if I choose to open my lips.”

He sat speechless. No! I am too respectable a woman to mention what he said when he recovered himself. It ended like this: he insisted on taking her to the Asylum.

I tried to set things right. I told him that she had merely repeated, like a parrot, the words she had heard me say. I explained that she knew nothing – that she only wanted to threaten him, but he did not want to listen to me. What was I to do? I was helpless.

Have I satisfied your curiosity? There is really nothing else I have to tell you about myself or my daughter.

No names are mentioned here, nor is any signature attached to these lines. If you are interested, my hour for tea is half-past five, and my buttered toast waits for nobody.”

My first impulse, after reading Mrs. Catherick’s letter, was to destroy it. It disgusted me very much. The secret has been solved. The information communicated to me, confirms the conclusions at which I had already arrived.

The shocking truth was that Laura and Anne had had the same father. That was why they looked so like each other – they were half-sisters. Half an hour later I was speeding back to London by the express train.

Both Laura and Marian came to the door to let me in. It was wonderful to be all together again. “You look worn and weary, Walter,” said Marian.

Later, after Laura was in bed, I told Marian the whole story of how Sir Percival had met his death, and the information I had learned from Mrs. Catherick about Anne’s father.

“Not many weeks have passed, Marian,” I answered, “since my interview with a lawyer. When he and I parted, the last words I said to him about Laura were these: ‘Her uncle’s house shall open to receive her, in the presence of every soul who followed the false funeral to the grave; the lie that records her death shall be publicly erased from the tombstone by the authority of the head of the family, and the two men who have wronged her shall answer for their crime to me.’ One of those men is beyond mortal reach. The other remains, and my resolution remains. But, Marian, I am not rash enough to measure myself against such a man as the Count before I am well prepared for him. I have learnt patience – I can wait my time.”

We decided that it would be best for Laura not to know any of the details of this until she was stronger; we would tell her only that her husband was dead.

I loved Laura just as much as ever, but I hesitated to ask her to become my wife. She was so friendless, so helpless. Every day Laura was becoming brighter, and it gave me enormous pleasure to see how much better she was. She sometimes looked and spoke just like the Laura of old times, the happy girl whom I had first met at Limmeridge House.

Four months elapsed. April came – the month of spring – the month of change. One day the door opened, and Laura came in alone. So she had entered the breakfast-room at Limmeridge House on the morning when we parted. Slowly, in sorrow and in hesitation, she had once approached me. Now she came with the haste of happiness in her feet, with the light of happiness radiant in her face. I understood that she recovered.

“My darling!” she whispered, “We may love each other now.”

Her head nestled on my bosom. “Oh,” she said, “I am so happy at last!”

Ten days later we were happier still. We were married.

I was the happiest person in the world, but I didn’t forget about the Count. The first necessity was to know something of him. The true story of his life was a mystery to me.

I returned to Marian’s journal at Blackwater Park. At my request she read to me passages which referred to the Count.

To whom could I apply to know something more of the Count’s history and of the man himself than I knew now?

Naturally, to a countryman of his own, on whom I could rely. The first man whom I thought of was also the only Italian with whom I was acquainted – my friend, Professor Pesca.[114] The professor was a true friend of mine.

I invited the professor to go with me to the theatre. I knew that Fosco was a great opera admirer. The opera was good, but the most important thing was that we met Fosco himself there. I directed Pesca’s attention to him.

“Do you know that man?” I asked.

“Which man, my friend?”

“The tall, fat man, standing there, with his face towards us.”

Pesca raised himself on tiptoe, and looked at the Count.

“No,” said the Professor. “The big fat man is a stranger to me. Is he famous?”

“His name is Count Fosco. Do you know that name?”

“Not I, Walter. Neither the name nor the man is known to me.”

“Are you quite sure you don’t recognise him? Look again – look carefully. I will tell you why I am so anxious about it when we leave the theatre. “

“No,” he said, “I have never seen that big fat man before in all my life.”

As he spoke the Count looked downwards. The eyes of the two Italians met.

Yes, Pesca did not know the Count. But the Count knew Pesca! Knew him, and – more surprising still – feared him as well!

The Count turned round, slipped past the persons, and disappeared in the middle passage.

“Come home,” I said; “come home, Pesca. I must speak to you in private – I must speak directly.”

I walked on rapidly without answering.

“My friend, what can I do?” cried the Professor, piteously appealing to me with both hands. “How can I help you, Walter, when I don’t know the man?”

“He knows you – he is afraid of you – he has left the theatre to escape you. Pesca! there must be a reason for this. Look back into your own life before you came to England. You left Italy, as you have told me yourself, for political reasons. You have never mentioned those reasons to me.”

To my surprise, these words, harmless as they appeared to me, produced the same astounding effect on Pesca which the sight of Pesca had produced on the Count. “Walter!” he said. “You don’t know what you ask.”

He spoke in a whisper.

“Forgive me, if I have pained you,” I replied. “Remember the cruel wrong my wife has suffered at Count Fosco’s hands. I spoke in her interests, Pesca – I ask you again to forgive me – I can say no more.”

I rose to go. He stopped me before I reached the door.

“Wait,” he said. “You have shaken me from head to foot. You don’t know how I left my country, and why I left my country. Let me think, if I can.”

I returned to my chair. He walked up and down the room, talking to himself in his own language.

“Tell me, Walter,” he said, “is there no other way to get to that man but through me?”

“There is no other way,” I answered.

He opened the door of the room and looked out cautiously into the passage, closed it once more, and came back.

“Walter,” he said, “one day you helped me a lot. Now, I think, it’s my turn. Listen. You have heard, Walter, of the political societies that are hidden in every great city on the continent of Europe? To one of those societies I belonged in Italy – and belong still in England. When I came to this country, I came by the direction of my chief. I emigrated – I have waited – I wait still. All I do is to put my life in your hands. If what I say to you now is ever known, I am a dead man.”

He whispered the next words in my ear. I keep the secret which he thus communicated. I’ll call the society to which he belonged “The Brotherhood.” Pesca showed me the mark of the Brotherhood on his arm.

“The object of the Brotherhood,” Pesca went on, “is the destruction of tyranny and the assertion of the rights of the people. The members are not known to one another. There is a president in Italy; there are presidents abroad. Each of these has his secretary. The presidents and the secretaries know the members, but the members, among themselves, are all strangers. We are warned, if we betray the Brotherhood, we will die. Sometimes the death is delayed – sometimes it follows close on the treachery. A man who has been false to the Brotherhood is discovered sooner or later by the chiefs who know him – presidents or secretaries. And a man discovered by the chiefs is dead. No human laws can protect him. If the man you pointed out at the Opera knows me, he is so altered, or so disguised, that I do not know him. I never saw him, I never heard the name he goes by. But if he is afraid of me, he has done something wrong. I say no more, Walter.”

He dropped into a chair, and turning away from me, hid his face in his hands. I gently opened the door so as not to disturb him, and spoke my few parting words in low tones.

I looked at my watch – it was ten o’clock. The Count’s escape from us, that evening, was beyond all question. The mark of the Brotherhood was on his arm – I was certain of it; and the betrayal of the Brotherhood was on his conscience – I had seen it in his recognition of Pesca.

It was easy to understand why that recognition had not been mutual. A man of the Count’s character would never risk. The shaven face might have been covered by a beard in Pesca’s time – his dark brown hair might be a wig – his name was evidently a false one.

The Count believed himself, in spite of the change in his appearance, to have been recognised by Pesca, and to be therefore in danger of his life. So I decided to visit him.

I wrote a letter to Pesca. I wrote as follows —

I signed and dated these lines, enclosed them in an envelope, and sealed it up. On the outside I wrote this direction: “Keep the enclosure unopened[115] until nine o’clock tomorrow morning. If you do not hear from me, or see me, before that time, break the seal when the clock strikes, and read the contents.”

I added my initials, and protected the whole by enclosing it in a second sealed envelope, addressed to Pesca. Then I sent it.

Soon I received the answer. It contained these two sentences in Pesca’s handwriting —

“Your letter is received. If I don’t see you before the time you mention, I will break the seal when the clock strikes.”

I placed the paper in my pocket, and made for the door. Marian met me on the threshold, and pushed me back into the room. She held me by both hands.

“I see!” she said, in a low eager whisper. “You are trying the last chance tonight.”

“Yes, the last chance and the best,” I whispered back.

“Not alone! Oh, Walter, for God’s sake, not alone! Let me go with you. Don’t refuse me because I’m only a woman. I must go! I will go! I’ll wait outside in the cab!”

“If you want to help me,” I said, “Stop here and sleep in my wife’s room tonight. Come, Marian, show that you have the courage to wait till I come back.”

I was out of the room in a moment. “Forest Road, St. John’s Wood,” I called to the driver. Not a minute to lose.

We left the streets, and crossed St. John’s Wood Road. Just as a church clock in the distance struck the quarter past, we turned into the Forest Road. I stopped the driver a little away from the Count’s house, paid and dismissed him, and walked on to the door.

“Be so good as to take that to your master,” I gave my card to the maid-servant. In another moment I was inside the Count’s house.

The servant led me to the room. I entered it, and found myself face to face with the Count.

He was in his evening dress. Books and papers were scattered about the room. On a table, at one side of the door, which contained his white mice. The canaries and the cockatoo were probably in some other room.

“You come here on business, sir?” he said.

“I am fortunate in finding you here tonight,” I said. “You seem to be taking a journey?”

“Is your business connected with my journey?”

“In some degree.”

“In what degree? Do you know where I am going to?”

“No. I only know why you are leaving London.”

He locked the door, and put the key in his pocket.

“So you know why I am leaving London?” he went on. “Tell me the reason, if you please.” He turned the key, and unlocked the drawer as he spoke.

“I can do better than that,” I replied. I can show you the reason, if you like.”

“How can you show it?”

“Roll up the shirt-sleeve on your left arm,” I said, “and you will see it there.”

He said nothing. But his left hand slowly opened the table-drawer, and softly slipped into it.

My life hung by a thread,[116] and I knew it.

“Wait a little,” I said. “You have got the door locked – you see I don’t move – you see my hands are empty. Wait a little. I have something more to say.”

“You have said enough,” he replied.

“I advise you to read two lines of writing which I have about me,” I rejoined, “before you finally decide that question.”

He nodded his head. I took Pesca’s acknowledgment of the receipt of my letter out of my pocket-book, handed it to him, and returned to my former position in front of the fireplace.

He read the lines aloud: “Your letter is received. If I don’t hear from you before the time you mention, I will break the seal when the clock strikes.”

“I don’t lock up my drawer, Mr. Hartright,” he said, “Come to the point, sir! You want something of me?”

“I do. In the first place, I demand a full confession of the conspiracy, written and signed in my presence by yourself. In the second place, I demand a plain proof of the date at which my wife left Blackwater Park and travelled to London.”

The Count walked to a writing-table near the window, opened his desk, and took from it several pieces of paper and a bundle of pens.

“I shall make this a remarkable document,” he said, looking at me over his shoulder. “Composition is perfectly familiar to me.”

When his letter was finished, I took it and went out to the door. In a quarter of an hour after leaving Forest Road I was at home again.

I never saw the Count again – I never heard more of him or of his wife. Some years after he was killed in Paris. His body was taken out of the Seine.[117] He was buried by Madame Fosco in the cemetery of Pere la Chaise.[118] There was the dreadful end of that life of degraded ability and heartless crime!

I now had in my possession all the papers that I wanted to restore Laura’s good name. With the written evidence I went in the direction of Mr. Gilmore’s office to tell him what I had done.

I took my wife to Limmeridge the next morning to have her publicly received and recognised in her uncle’s house.

I will say nothing of Mr. Gilmore amazement, or of the terms in which he expressed his opinion of my conduct from the first stage of the investigation to the last. It is only necessary to mention that he at once decided on accompanying us to Cumberland.

We started the next morning by the early train. Laura, Marian, Mr. Gilmore, and myself in one carriage. I cannot write of our interview with Mr. Fairlie. “How was I to know that my niece was alive when I was told that she was dead? I would welcome dear Laura with pleasure, if you would only allow me time to recover.”

We walked into the main room where a great crowd of people was waiting to see us. A gasp of surprise went up when Laura walked through the door, looking just the same as she used to in the days before her marriage to Sir Percival Glyde.

Mr. Fairlie rose from his chair, supported on each side by a strong servant holding his arm.

“May I present Mr. Hartright and his wife,” he said to the people. “Please hear what he has to say and don’t make a noise. My nerves are very delicate, you know.”

With these words, Mr. Fairlie sank back down again into his chair. I told the people what had happened – that a terrible mistake had been made and another woman, Anne Catherick, lay dead and buried in the churchyard at Limmeridge and not Laura. I told them about Sir Percival Glyde and the wicked things he had done to obtain Laura’s fortune. After that, I invited all the persons present to follow me to the churchyard, and see the false inscription struck off the tombstone with their own eyes. Not a voice was heard – not a soul moved, till those three words, “Laura, Lady Glyde,” had vanished from sight. It was late in the day before the whole inscription was erased. One line only was afterwards engraved in its place: “Anne Catherick, July 25th, 1850.”

Marian took my hand, and silenced me at the first words.

“After all that we three have suffered together,” she said “there can be no parting between us till the last parting of all. My heart and my happiness, Walter, are with Laura and you. Wait a little till there are children’s voices at your side.”

In the February of the new year our first child was born – a son. Marian was our boy’s godmother,[119] and Pesca and Mr. Gilmore were his godfathers.[120]

The only event in our lives which now remains to be recorded, occurred when our little Walter was six months old.

At that time I was sent to Ireland on business. When I returned to London, to my great surprise, I found our house empty. Laura and Marian and the child had left the house on the day before my return.

A note from my wife, which was given to me by the servant, only increased my surprise, by informing me that they had gone to Limmeridge House. I reached Limmeridge House the same afternoon.

My wife and Marian were both upstairs. They had established themselves in the little room which had been once assigned to me for a studio, when I was employed on Mr. Fairlie’s drawings.

“What’s happened?” I asked. “Does Mr. Fairlie know —?”

Marian told me that Mr. Fairlie was dead. He had been struck by paralysis. Mr. Gilmore had informed them of his death, and had advised them to proceed immediately to Limmeridge House. On her uncle’s death, Limmeridge House now belonged to Laura.

Marian rose and held up my son.

“Do you know who this is, Walter?” she asked, with bright tears of happiness gathering in her eyes.

“I think I can answer,” I replied. “It is my own child.”

“Child!” she exclaimed. “Let me introduce you. Mr. Walter Hartright – the heir of Limmeridge!”

So she spoke. In writing those last words, I have written all. The pen falters in my hand. Marian was the good angel of our lives – let Marian end our Story.

ability – способность

able – способный

abode – жилище; обитель; местопребывание

about – о, об; около

above – над

abroad – за границей; за границу

absence – отсутствие

absent – отсутствующий

absently – отсутствующе

absolute – полный; совершенный; неограниченный

absolutely – безусловно

absorb – поглощать

absurd – нелепый

accent – акцент

accept – принимать

accident – несчастный случай

accidentally – волею несчастного случая

accommodation – жильё

accompany – сопровождать

accomplish – выполнить, делать

accomplishment – завершение; выполнение

accordance – согласие; соответствие

according – соответственно

accordingly – соответственно; следовательно; поэтому

account – счёт

accurately – точно

accustomed – привыкший; приученный

ache – болеть

achievable – достижимый

achieve – достигать; добиваться

achievement – достижение; выполнение

acknowledgement – признание

acquaint – быть знакомым

acquaintance – знакомый

across – через

act – поступок; действовать

action – деятельность; действие; поступок

active – действующий

actually – действительно; в сущности

add – добавлять

additional – добавочный; дополнительный

address – адрес; адресовать, обращаться

admiration – восхищение

admire – восхищаться

admirer – поклонник; обожатель

adorn – украшать

advanced – продвинутый

adventure – приключение

advice – совет

advise – советовать

adviser – советник; консультант

affair – дело

affection – привязанность; любовь

afraid – испуганный

after – после

afternoon – время после полудня

afterward – потом; впоследствии; позже

again – опять

against – против

age – возраст

aggravate – отягчать; усугублять

agitate – волновать; возбуждать

agitation – волнение; возбуждение

ago – тому назад

agree – соглашаться

ahead – впереди

ailment – недомогание; болезнь

air – воздух, ветер; вид

alarm – сигнал

alarmed – тревожный

alike – одинаковый; похожий

alive – живой

all – все, всё

allow – позволять

almost – почти

alone – один, одинокий

along – вдоль

aloud – вслух

already – уже

also – также

alter – изменить(ся)

alternative – альтернатива

although – хотя

always – всегда

amazement – изумление

amiability – дружелюбие; добродушие

amiable – дружелюбный; добродушный

amiably – дружелюбно; добродушно

among – среди; между, из числа; в числе

amuse – забавлять; развлекать

ancestor – предок

ancient – древний; старинный

and – и, а

angel – ангел

angrily – гневно

angry – сердитый

animal – животное

announce – объявлять

annoy – досаждать

anonymous – анонимный

another – другой, ещё один

answer – ответ; отвечать

anxiety – беспокойство; тревога

anxious – озабоченный; беспокоящийся; волнующийся

anxiously – озабоченно

any – какой-либо, какой бы то ни было; любой

anybody – кто-нибудь; кто-либо

anyone – кто-нибудь; кто-либо

anything – что-нибудь; что-либо

anywhere – где-нибудь; где-либо; куда-нибудь; куда-либо

apartment – квартира

apology – извинение

apparently – очевидно; явно

appeal – взывать, обращаться

appealing – умоляющий

appear – показываться, появляться

appearance – вид, наружность, внешность

apply – обращаться, применять

appointment – свидание

approach – приближаться

approval – одобрение

approximate – приблизительный

April – апрель

argue – обсуждать, спорить

arm – рука

around – вокруг

arrange – планировать; устраивать; приводить в порядок

arrangement – соглашение

arrival – прибытие

arrive – прибывать

arrow – стрела

art – умение, мастерство, искусство

artist – художник

as – как

ash – зола; пепел

ashame – стыдить

ask – спрашивать; просить

asleep – спящий

assertion – утверждение; заявление

assign – назначать (на должность)

assist – помогать; содействовать

assistance – помощь; содействие

associate – связывать

assure – уверять; заверять; убеждаться

astonish – удивлять, изумлять

astonishment – удивление

astounding – удивительный; изумительный

asylum – сумасшедший дом

at – у, при

atmosphere – атмосфера

attach – прикреплять; присоединять

attempt – попытка; пытаться

attendance – присутствие; посещение

attention – внимание

attentive – внимательный; заботливый

attentively – внимательно

attract – притягивать, привлекать

authority – власть, власти

autumn – осень

await – ожидать

awake (awoke, awoken) – пробудить, просыпаться

aware – сознающий; осведомлённый

away – прочь

awful – ужасный

babe – ребёнок

back – спина; назад

backwards – назад; задом

bad – плохой

badly – очень; плохо

bag – мешок; сумка

bald – лысый

balustrade – балюстрада

bang – удар; стук; стучать

bank – банк

bank-note – банкнот(a)

bare – голый

barely – едва; лишь; c трудом

bath-room – ванная (комната)

be (was / were, been) – быть

beach – пляж

bear (bore, borne) – нести, выносить

beard – борода

beardless – безбородый

beast – животное

beastly – ужасный; противный

beat (beat, beaten) – бить

beautiful – красивый

beauty – красота

because – потому что

become (became, become) – становиться

bed – кровать

bedroom – спальня

bedside – кровать, ложе

before – раньше, прежде; перед

beg – просить

begin (began, begun) – начинать

beginning – начало

behave – вести себя

behind – позади, сзади

believe – верить; полагать, считать

bell – колокольчик

belong – принадлежать

below – внизу; вниз

bend (bent, bent) – поворот; нагибать

beneath – вниз; ниже

benefit – выгода; польза

beside – рядом; около

besides – кроме того

best – лучше всего; лучший

betray – предавать

betrayal – предательство; измена

betrothed – обручённый; помолвленный

better – лучше

between – между

beyond – за, за пределы

bid (bade, bidden) – предлагать

big – большой

billiard – бильярд

bind (bound, bound) – связывать, перетягивать

bird – птица

birth – рождение

birthday – день рождения

bit – кусок, кусочек; чуть-чуть

bitter – горький

bitterly – горько

black – чёрный

blacken – делать чёрным, тёмным; чернить

blame – осуждать, винить

blank – пустой; чистый

bless – благословлять; благодарить

blind – слепой; ослеплять

block – блок

blood – кровь

blot – пятно

blow (blew, blown) – дуть

blue – синий

boat – лодка

boat – кататься на лодке

body – тело

boil – кипение; кипятить(ся); варить(ся)

book – книга

bookcase – книжный шкаф

boot – ботинок, башмак; сапог

bore – утомлять

born – рождённый

bosom – грудь

both – оба

bottle – бутылка

bottom – дно

bow – кланяться

box – ящик, коробка

boy – мальчик

bread – хлеб

break (broke, broken) – ломать

breakfast – завтрак

breath – дыхание

breathe – дышать

breathless – запыхавшийся; задыхающийся

brief – краткий; лаконичный

briefly – кратко; сжато

bright – светлый, яркий

brighten – прояснять(ся); освещать

brightness – яркость

bring (brought, brought) – приносить

briskly – живо

broad – широкий

brooch – брошь

brother – брат

brotherhood – братство

brown – коричневый

bruise – синяк, кровоподтёк; ссадина

brush – чистить

brute – животное

build (built, built) – строить

building – здание

bullet – пуля

bunch – гроздь

bundle – куча

burden – ноша

burn – жечь

burst (burst, burst) – взрываться

bury – хоронить

busy – занятый

but – но

butter – масло; смазывать маслом

by – посредством, около, у

cab – кэб

cabinet – шкаф с выдвижными ящиками

cage – клетка

call – звать, называть

calm – спокойный

calmly – спокойно

can (could) – мочь

candle – свеча

card – карта, карточка

care – заботиться

careful – осторожный

carefully – осторожно; внимательно

carelessly – неосторожно; невнимательно

carpet – ковёр

carriage – повозка

carry – нести

carve – вырезать

case – случай, дело; контейнер, чемодан

catalogue – каталог

catch (caught, caught) – ловить

cause – причина; быть причиной; вызывать (что-л.)

caution – осторожность

cautiously – осторожно

cease – прекращать

ceiling – потолок

cemetery – кладбище

central – центральный

centre – центр

ceremony – обряд; церемония

certain – определённый, несомненный

certainly – несомненно, наверняка

certificate – свидетельство

chain – цепь

chair – стул

chamber – спальня; комната

chance – случай

chancery – петля; ловушка

change – менять

character – характер

charming – очаровательный

chat – дружеский разговор; болтовня; болтать

cheap – дешёвый

cheaply – дёшево

check – проверять

cheek – щека

cheer – подбодрять

cheerfully – бодро, весело

chess – шахматы

chief – главный

child – ребёнок

children – дети (pl от child)

chill – охлаждать

chin – подбородок

choice – выбор

choose (chose, chosen) – выбирать

chord – аккорд

Christian – христианский

chuckle – смешок; хихикать

church – церковь

churchyard – церковное кладбище

cigarette – сигарета

circular – круглый; округлый

circumstance – обстоятельство

city – город

civil – вежливый; воспитанный

civilly – вежливо; учтиво

claim – требовать, претендовать; заявлять права (на что-л.)

clap – хлопать

clasp – сжимать

class – класс

clean – чистый; чистить

cleanse – очищать

clear – ясный; прояснять

clearly – ясно

clench – захватывать; зажимать; сжимать

clergyman – священник

clerk – церковный служащий

clever – умный

cleverly – умно

client – клиент

climb – влезать

cling (clung, clung) – хватать(ся)

cloak – плащ

clock – часы

close – закрывать

closely – вблизи

cloth – тряпка

clothes – одежда

cloud – облако

cloudy – облачный

clue – ключ

clump – группа (деревьев, кустов)

clumsy – неуклюжий; неповоротливый

coal – уголь

coast – морской берег; побережье

coat – пальто

cockatoo – какаду (попугай)

coffee – кофе

coin – монета

cold – холодный

coldly – холодно

coldness – холодность

collar – воротник

collect – собирать

collection – коллекция

colour – цвет

colourful – красочный; яркий

colourless – бесцветный

come (came, come) – приходить

comfortable – удобный, уютный

commit – совершать

common – обычный

communicate – сообщать

communication – коммуникация; связь

companion – товарищ

company – общество

compassion – жалость; сочувствие

compel – заставлять; принуждать

competent – компетентный; знающий

complete – полный, целый

completely – полностью

complexion – цвет лица

compliment – комплимент

compose – составлять; сочинять

composition – сочинительство

conceal – скрывать, прятать

concentrate – сосредоточивать(ся)

concern – заботить, беспокоить

concerned – заинтересованный

conclusion – заключение; вывод

condition – условие; состояние

conduct – поведение; вести

confess – признаваться; сознаваться

confession – признание (вины, ошибки); исповедь

confidence – уверенность, самонадеянность

confirm – подтверждать

confuse – спутывать; смущать

confusion – смятение; замешательство; беспорядок; путаница, неразбериха

connect – соединять; связывать

conquer – побеждать

conscience – совесть

conscious – сознающий

consent – соглашаться, разрешать

consider – рассматривать, считать

considerate – внимательный; деликатный; тактичный

consideration – рассмотрение; обсуждение

conspiracy – конспирация

constant – постоянный

constantly – постоянно; непрерывно

constrained – вынужденный; принуждённый

constraint – усилие; принуждение

consult – советоваться

contact – контакт; связь; контактировать

contain – содержать

contempt – презрение

continent – континент, материк

continue – продолжать(ся)

contradictory – противоречивый

contrary – противоположный

control – контроль; контролировать

convenience – удобство

conversation – разговор, беседа

convey – выражать

convince – убеждать

cook – повар; готовить еду

cool – прохладный

coolly – спокойно

copy – копия

cordial – искренний; радушный

corner – угол

correctly – правильно; верно

correspondence – переписка

correspondent – лицо, с которым ведётся переписка

corridor – коридор

cottage – домик

cough – кашель, кашлять

could – мог (past от can)

count – граф

countess – графиня

country – страна; деревня

countryman – соотечественник; земляк

countryside – сельская местность

couple – пара

courage – храбрость, смелость, мужество

course – ход, течение

court – суд

courteous – вежливый, учтивый

cover – покрывать

crabbed – неразборчивый (почерк)

crackle – потрескивание; треск; хруст

crash – разбивать

cravat – (широкий) галстук; шейный платок

creature – существо

creep (crept, crept) – ползать

crime – преступление; злодеяние

crisis – кризис

croak – квакать

cross – крест; пересекать

crouch – присесть

crowd – толпа; скапливаться

cruel – жестокий

cruelly – жестоко

crumb – крошка

crush – давить; мять

cup – чашка

cupboard – шкаф с полками, буфет

curdle – свёртываться (о крови)

curiosity – любопытство

curious – любопытный

curiously – с любопытством

curse – проклятие; проклинать

curtain – занавеска, штора

customary – обычный; привычный

cut (cut, cut) – резать

daily – ежедневно

dairymaid – молочница

dam – дамба, плотина

danger – опасность

dangerous – опасный

dare – отваживаться; сметь

dark – тёмный; темнота

darken – затемнять

darkly – мрачно; злобно

darkness – темнота

dash – кидать(ся)

date – дата; датировать

daughter – дочь

day – день

daytime – день

dazzling – ослепительный

dead – мёртвый

deadly – смертельный; смертоносный

deal – количество

dear – милый, дорогой

dearly – очень; чрезвычайно

death – смерть

debt – долг

deceive – обманывать

December – декабрь

decide – решать

declare – объявлять

decline – отклонять

deed – действие, поступок

deep – глубокий

defeat – поражение

defect – дефект; изъян

defiance – демонстративное неповиновение

definitely – определённо, точно

degrade – приходить в упадок; деградировать

degree – степень

delay – задержка, отсрочка, промедление

delicacy – утончённость, тонкость

delicate – изысканный

delight – радость; доставлять наслаждение

delightful – восхитительный, очаровательный

delightfully – восхитительно, прелестно

demand – требовать

dense – густой

departure – отъезд, отправление

depend – зависеть

deposit – класть, положить

depressed – подавленный, унылый

derange – спутывать; приводить в беспорядок

descendant – потомок

describe – описывать

description – описание

desert – оставлять, покидать

deserve – заслуживать

desire – желать

desk – письменный стол

desolate – заброшенный; разрушенный

despair – отчаяние

desperate – безнадёжный, отчаянный, безрассудный

destroy – разрушать; разбивать; истреблять; уничтожать

destruction – разрушение; уничтожение

detail – подробность, деталь

detain – задерживать, арестовывать; содержать под стражей

detect – находить; замечать

detection – обнаружение; расследование

determine – определять, устанавливать

devil – чёрт, дьявол

devote – посвящать

dexterous – ловкий, проворный; сообразительный; умелый

diary – дневник

die – умирать

difference – разница

different – различный

differently – различно

difficult – трудный

difficulty – трудность

dim – тусклый

dine – обедать

dinner – обед; ужин

direct – направлять

direction – направление

directly – прямо

director – дирижёр

dirt – грязь

dirty – грязный

disappear – исчезать; пропадать

disappoint – разочаровывать

disclose – раскрывать, показывать

discover – находить; открывать; обнаруживать

discovery – открытие; разоблачение

discreditable – компрометирующий; позорящий

discuss – обсуждать

disease – болезнь

disgust – отвращение; внушать отвращение

dislike – неприязнь; антипатия; испытывать неприязнь

dismal – мрачный, унылый, гнетущий

dismiss – распускать, увольнять

dispute – разногласие

distance – расстояние

distant – отдалённый

distress – огорчение; горе

district – район

distrust – недоверие; не доверять

distrustful – недоверчивый

disturb – беспокоить, мешать

divide – делить

dive – нырять

do (did, done) – делать

doctor – врач, доктор

document – документ

dog – собака

domestic – домашний

door – дверь

doorway – дверной проём

dose – доза

double – двойной

doubly – вдвойне

doubt – сомнение; сомневаться

doubtful – сомнительный

doubtfully – сомнительно

down – внизу, вниз

downstairs – вниз по лестнице

downward – вниз

dozen – дюжина

drag – тащить, волочить

draw (drew, drawn) – рисовать; тащить

drawer – выдвижной ящик

drawing – рисунок

dreadful – ужасный

dreadfully – ужаснo

dream – мечта, сон; сниться

dreary – мрачный, унылый

dress – платье; одеваться

dressmaker – портниха

drink (drank, drunk) – пить; напиток

drive (drove, driven) – везти, тащить

driver – водитель

drop – капля; падать

drown – тонуть; топить

dry – сухой

due to – благодаря, из-за

dull – тусклый, скучный

during – в течение; во время

dust – пыль

dusty – пыльный

duty – долг, обязанность

each – каждый

eagerly – поспешно

ear – ухо

early – ранний; рано

earnestly – серьёзно

earnestness – серьёзность; убеждённость

earth – земля

easily – легко

easy – лёгкий

edge – грань; край

education – образование; обучение

effect – результат

eight – восемь

eighteen – восемнадцать

eighth – восьмой

either – любой; тот или другой

either… or – или… или

elapse – проходить

elderly – пожилой

elegant – элегантный, изящный

eleven – одиннадцать

else – другой

elsewhere – куда-либо; где-либо

embarrassed – смущённый; сбитый с толку

emergency – чрезвычайные обстоятельства, критическое положение

emigrate – переселяться, эмигрировать

eminent – выдающийся, знаменитый

employ – нанимать

emptiness – пустота

empty – пустой; опустошать

enclose – окружать, огораживать

enclosure – (в письме и т. п.) приложение, вложение

encourage – ободрять, поощрять;

end – конец; заканчивать

endurance – выносливость

enemy – враг

energy – энергия

engaged – помолвленный, обручёный

engagement – помолвка

England – Англия

English – английский, англичанин

engrave – гравировать

enjoy – наслаждаться

enormous – громадный, огромный

enough – достаточно

enquire – осведомляться

enquiry – вопрос

enter – входить

enthusiasm – восторг, увлечённость; энтузиазм

enthusiastic – восторженный; полный энтузиазма

entirely – полностью

entrance – вход

entry – запись

envelope – конверт

envy – завидовать

epoch – эпоха; период

equally – в равной степени; одинаково

erase – стирать

erect – прямой

escape – убежать, выбраться

especially – особенно

Esquire – эсквайр

establish – основывать, учреждать

establishment – здание

estate – поместье, земельное владение

estimation – оценка

etching – гравюра; офорт

even – даже

evening – вечер

event – событие

ever – когда-либо; всегда; с тех пор, как

every – каждый, всякий

everybody – каждый, всякий

everyone – каждый; всякий; все

everything – всё

everywhere – везде

evidence – доказательство

evidently – очевидно, ясно

evil – зло; злой

exactly – точно

examine – осматривать

example – пример

excavation – раскопки

excellent – отличный

except – кроме

exception – исключение

excessively – чрезмерно

excited – возбуждённый

excitement – возбуждение

exclaim – восклицать

excuse – извинение, оправдание; извинять

exercise – упражнение

exist – существовать

expect – ждать, ожидать

expedition – экспедиция

expenses – расходы, издержки

expensive – дорогостоящий, дорогой

experience – опыт

experienced – опытный, знающий

explain – объяснять

explanation – объяснение

explore – исследовать; изучать

express – выражать

expression – выражение

extract – извлечение; вытаскивать, вытягивать

extraordinary – чрезвычайный, необычайный, выдающийся

extravagantly – экстравагантно

extremely – крайне

eye – глаз

face – лицо; стоять лицом к лицу

fact – факт

faculty – способность

fail – не удаваться

faint – падать в обморок

faintly – слабо

faintness – бледность

fair – прекрасный, красивый; справедливый

fairly – легонько

faith – вера

faithful – верный

fall (fell, fallen) – падать

false – ложный

falter – спотыкаться, колебаться

fame – слава; репутация

familiar – обычный, привычный

familiarity – фамильярность

family – семья

famous – знаменитый

fanciful – капризный; прихотливый, причудливый

fancy – воображение; воображать, считать

far – далёкий; далеко

farewell – прощание

farm – ферма

farmer – фермер

farmhouse – фермерский дом

farther – более отдалённый; дальнейший; дальше, далее

fascinate – завораживать

fast – быстрый; быстро

fasten – запирать; завязать, закрыть

fat – толстый

fatality – бедствие

father – отец

favour – благосклонность; расположение

favourite – любимый

fear – страх; бояться

fearfully – страшно, ужасно

February – февраль

feel (felt, felt) – чувствовать

feeling – ощущение, чувство

fellow – парень

fever – жар; высокая температура

few – немногие; немного; мало

fifteen – пятнадцать

fifth – пятый

fifty – пятьдесят

figure – фигура, тело; решать, представлять

fill – наполнять

final – последний

finally – наконец

find (found, found) – находить

fine – хороший, прекрасный

finger – палец

finish – заканчивать

fire – огонь; воспламенять

fireman – пожарный

fireplace – камин, очаг

firm – крепкий

firmly – крепко, твёрдо

first – сначала; первый; в первый раз

fit – годиться, соответствовать

five – пять

fix – закреплять; исправлять; поправлять

flame – пламя

flaming – пылающий, горящий

flatter – льстить

flighty – ветреный, взбалмошный, капризный

flinch – вздрагивать

floor – пол (в доме)

flower – цветок; цвести

flush – краснеть

fly (flew, flown) – летать

fold – складывать

follow – следовать

following – следующий

folly – безрассудство; причуда, каприз

fond – любящий (что-л.)

fool – дурак; одурачивать

foolish – глупый

foot – стопа, ступня

footstep – след

for – для, за; потому что

forbearance – воздержанность, терпеливость, терпение

force – сила; заставлять

forehead – лоб

foreigner – иностранец

forest – лес

forgery – подделка, подлог

forget (forgot, forgotten) – забывать

forgive (forgave, forgiven) – прощать

form – форма, вид; образовывать

formal – официальный

formality – формальность

former – предшествующий

formerly – прежде, раньше

fortnight – две недели

fortunate – счастливый, удачный

fortune – удача, счастье

forty – сорок

forward – вперёд; направлять

foundation – основание

four – четыре

fourth – четвёртый

fragrance – аромат

free – свободный; освобождать

freezing – морозящий

fresh – свежий

Friday – пятница

friend – друг, подруга

friendless – одинокий

friendly – дружеский

frighten – пугать; устрашать

frightened – испуган; устрашён

frog – лягушка

from – из, от

frown – хмуриться

frozen – замёрзший, застывший

full – полный

funeral – похороны

furniture – мебель

further – далее, дальше

future – будущее

gaily – весело

gain – приобретать

game – игра

gap – пролом

garden – сад

gardener – садовник

garment – одеяние; одежда

gasp – задыхаться

gate – ворота

gather – собираться

general – общий

generation – поколение

gentle – мягкий, тихий, деликатный

gentleman – джентльмен

gentlemen – джентльмены

gently – мягко, нежно, осторожно

get (got, got) – доставать; получать; добираться

ghastly – страшный, кошмарный, ужасный

ghost – привидение; дух

giddy – головокружительный

gift – дар

girl – девочка, девушка

give (gave, given) – давать

glad – довольный

glance – взглянуть

glass – стакан, стекло

gleam – блестеть

gloomy – мрачный; гнетущий; хмурый; унылый

glove – перчатка

glow – свет, сияние

go (went, gone) – идти

God – бог

gold – золото

golden – золотой

good – хороший, добрый

good-bye – до свидания!; прощайте

gown – платье

graceful – грациозный; изящный

gracefully – грациозно; изящно

grass – трава

grateful – благодарный

gratitude – благодарность

grave – могила

great – великий

greatly – очень, сильно, значительно

grey – серый

grieve – горевать; огорчать

grin – усмехаться

ground – земля

group – группа

grow (grew, grown) – расти

grumble – ворчать, жаловаться

guard – охранять

guess – полагать, угадывать

guest – гость

guide – проводник; вести

guilt – вина

guilty – виновный

guinea – гинея

gulf – пропасть, бездна

hair – волосы

half – половина

halfway – (лежащий) на полпути

hall – зал

hand – рука; протягивать

hang (hanged, hung) – висеть

happen – случаться; происходить

happily – счастливо

happiness – счастье

happy – счастливый

hard – трудный, тяжёлый; трудно, тяжело

hardly – едва (ли)

harm – вред, ущерб; вредить; причинять вред; обижать

harmless – безвредный; безопасный

harsh – грубый, резкий

hasten – торопиться, спешить

hastily – поспешно; торопливо

hat – шляпа

hate – ненависть; ненавидеть

hatred – ненависть

head – голова

heal – излечивать

health – здоровье

heap – куча; наваливать в кучу

hear (heard, heard) – слышать

heart – сердце

heartily – сердечно, искренне

heartless – бессердечный

hearty – сердечный

heat – жара

heaven – небо, небеса

heavily – тяжёло

heavy – тяжёлый

hedge – изгородь

heel – пятка; каблук

heir – наследник

help – помогать

helpful – полезный

helpless – беспомощный, бессильный

helplessly – беспомощно, бессильно

here – здесь, сюда

herself – себя

hesitate – медлить, колебаться

hesitation – промедление

hide (hid, hidden) – прятать, прятаться

high – высокий; высоко

himself – себя

hint – намёк; намекать

hire – нанимать

history – история

hit (hit, hit) – ударять, бить

hold (held, held) – держать

hole – дыра; яма

home – дом; домой

honour – честь; почитать

hook – крюк

hope – надежда; надеяться

hopefully – с надеждой

hopeless – безнадёжный

horrible – ужасный

horrid – ужасный

horror – ужас

horse – лошадь

hot – горячий, жаркий

hotel – отель, гостиница

hour – час

house – дом

housekeeper – домохозяйка

how – как

however – однако

huge – огромный, громадный

human – человек

humanity – человечество

humbug – обманщик

humour – настроениe

hundred – сто

hunt – охотиться

hurriedly – поспешно

hurry – спешка, поспешность; спешить

husband – муж

ice – лёд

idea – идея; мысль

idiot – идиот, дурак

idle – праздный, ленивый

if – если; ли

ignorance – невежество, невежественность

ill – больной

illness – болезнь

image – образ, имидж

imagine – воображать, представлять

immediate – немедленный, мгновенный

immediately – немедленно, тотчас

immensely – слишком, необычайно

impatience – нетерпение

impatient – нетерпеливый

implore – умолять

importance – важность

important – важный

impossible – невозможно

impression – впечатление

impressive – внушительный, впечатляющий, сильный

improbable – неправдоподобный

improve – улучшать

improvement – улучшение

impudent – дерзкий

impulse – импульс

inattentive – невнимательный

inch – дюйм

include – включать

income – доход, приход

increase – увеличиваться, возрастать

indeed – действительно; в самом деле; вот именно

independent – независимый

Indian – индеец

indifferently – безразлично; равнодушно

indignation – негодование, возмущение

indoor – в доме

inevitable – неизбежный, неминуемый

infernal – адский

influence – влияние, воздействие

inform – информировать; сообщать

information – информация; сведения

inhabitant – житель

initial – инициал

injure – ранить

ink – чернила

inner – внутренний; скрытый

innocent – невинный

inquire – спрашивать

inscription – надпись

inside – внутрь; внутри

insist – настаивать

inspection – осмотр

instant – мгновение

instantly – немедленно

instead – взамен, вместо

instruction – инструкция, указание

intellect – интеллект, ум

intelligence – интеллект, ум

intelligent – умный, сообразительный

intend – намереваться

intently – умышленно

interest – интерес; интересовать

interpose – вмешиваться

interrupt – прерывать

interview – деловая встреча; собеседование; интервью

intimate – закадычный; близкий

intolerable – невыносимый

introduce – представить(ся)

introduction – введение

invalid – больной, инвалид

investigation – расследование, следствие

invisible – невидимый

invitation – приглашение

invite – приглашать

involve – вовлекать

inward(s) – внутрь

irritable – раздражительный

irritably – раздражительно

irritate – раздражать

Italian – итальянский; итальянец

Italy – Италия

jacket – куртка

jaw – челюсть

job – работа

join – соединять; присоединяться

joke – шутка

journal – журнал

journey – путешествие; путешествовать

joy – радость

July – июль

jump – прыгать

junction – соединение

June – июнь

just – точно, как раз

keen – острый; пронизывающий

keep (kept, kept) – держать

keeper – сторож

key – ключ

kill – убивать

kind – добрый, любезный; сорт, вид

kindly – любезно

kindness – доброта

kiss – поцелуй; целовать

knee – колено

kneel – становиться на колени

knock – стук; стучать, ударять

knocking – стук

know (knew, known) – знать

knowledge – знание

labour – труд

lace – кружево

lad – парень

ladder – лестница

lady – леди

lair – логовище

lake – озеро

lamp – лампа

land – приземлиться

landowner – землевладелец

lane – дорожка, тропинка

language – язык, речь

lantern – фонарь

lap – колено

lapse – упасть

large – большой

last – последний

late – поздно; поздний

lately – недавно

later – позже

latter – последний; недавний

laugh – смех; смеяться

law – закон

lawn – газон

lawyer – юрист; адвокат

lay (laid, laid) – класть

lazy – ленивый

lead (led, led) – вести

lean – прислоняться, облокачиваться

leap (leaped, leapt) – прыгать

learn (learned, learnt) – изучать

least – наименьший

leave (left, left) – оставлять, уходить

leg – нога

legal – законный

leisure – досуг

length – длина

less – меньший; меньше

let (let, let) – позволять

letter – письмо

liberty – свобода

library – библиотека

lie (lay, lain) – лежать

life – жизнь

lift – поднимать

light – свет; лёгкий, светлый; зажигать

lightly – легко

like – как; любить, нравиться

likely – вероятно; скорее всего

line – линия

linger – медлить

link – связь; связывать

lip – губа

listen – слушать

little – маленький; мало

live – жить

lively – живой

living – живой

local – местный

lock – замо́к; запирать на замок

lofty – высокий; возвышенный

lonely – одинокий; уединённый

long – долгий, длинный

look – смотреть; выглядеть

lord – господин

lose (lost, lost) – терять

loud – громкий

loudly – громко

lovable – милый, приятный, обаятельный

love – любовь; любить

lovely – красивый, прекрасный; прелестный, миловидный

low – низкий, тихий

lower – нижний; понижать

loyal – верный, преданный

lucky – удачливый

luggage – багаж

lunch – обед

luncheon – обед; завтрак

luxurious – роскошный

luxury – роскошь

ma am = madam(e) – мадам

mad – сумасшедший

madame – мадам

magazine – журнал

magnificent – великолепный

maid – девушка; служанка

main – главный

maintain – поддерживать

make (made, made) – делать

man – мужчина, человек

manage – справляться

management – управление

manner – способ, манера

mansion – особняк

mantelpiece – каминная доска

many – многие

marble – мрамор

March – март

mark – метка, пятно; отмечать

marmalade – цитрусовый джем

marriage – свадьба

marry – жениться, выходить замуж

masculine – мужской

master – хозяин

match – спичка

material – материал

matter – дело

May – май

may – могу, может

maybe – может быть

meal – еда

mean (meant, meant) – иметь в виду, значить

means – средство, инструмент

meantime – между тем, тем временем

meanwhile – тем временем

measure – мера; измерять

mechanical – механический

mechanically – механически

medical – врачебный, медицинский

meet (met, met) – встречать

melancholy – грусть, печаль

melodrama – мелодрама

melody – мелодия

member – член, участник

memory – память

mental – умственный

mention – упомянуть, замечать

mere – простой

merely – просто

message – сообщение, послание

mice – мыши (pl от mouse)

midday – полдень

middle – середина; средний

mile – миля

milk – молоко

mind – ум; возражать

miniature – миниатюрный

minor – второстепенный; младший

minute – минута

miserable – жалкий, несчастный

miss – мисс; пропустить

mistake (mistook, mistaken) – ошибаться

mister – мистер

mistress – госпожа

misty – туманный

moisten – смачивать; увлажнять(ся)

moment – момент, миг

Monday – понедельник

money – деньги

month – месяц

mood – настроение

moon – луна

moonlight – лунный свет

moor – болото

more – более, больше

moreover – кроме того; сверх того

morning – утро

mortal – смертный

mortally – смертельно

most – наиболее, самый

mother – мама, мать

motive – повод, мотив, побуждение

mount – подниматься

mouse – мышь

moustache – усы

mouth – рот

move – двигать(ся)

movement – движение

much – много, очень

murder – убивать

murderer – убийца

murmur – бормотать

muscle – мышца, мускул

music – музыка

must – долженствовать

mute – немой

mutter – бормотать

mutual – взаимный, обоюдный

myself – себя

mysterious – таинственный, загадочный

mystery – тайна, секрет, загадка

name – имя; называть

narrative – рассказ

narrow – узкий

native – родной

natural – естественный

naturally – естественно

naughty – озорной, капризный

near – рядом

nearly – почти

necessary – необходимый

necessity – неизбежность; необходимость

neck – шея

need – нуждаться

neighbour – сосед

neighborhood – местность, окрестность

neither – ни тот ни другой

nerve – нерв

nervous – нервный

nervously – нервно

nestle – устраиваться поудобнее

never – никогда

new – новый

news – новости

newspaper – газета

next – следующий

nice – милый, красивый

niece – племянница

night – ночь, вечер

nine – девять

nobleman – дворянин

nobody – никто

nod – кивок; кивать

noise – шум

noiselessly – бесшумно

none – никто

nonsense – бессмыслица

normal – нормальный

north – север

northern – северный

nose – нос

note – записка; записывать

nothing – ничто, ничего

notice – замечать

November – ноябрь

now – сейчас, теперь

number – номер; число; считать

nurse – няня; ухаживать

obedient – послушный

object – предмет; возражать

objection – возражение

oblige – обязывать

obscure – неясный; неизвестный

observe – наблюдать, замечать

obstinate – упрямый; настойчивый; упорный

obtain – получать

obvious – очевидный, ясный

occupy – занимать

occur – происходить

odd – странный

odour – запах; аромат

offend – обижать

offensive – оскорбительный

offer – предложение; предлагать

office – контора

official – официальный

often – часто

oil – масло

old – старый

ominous – зловещий

once – (один) раз

one – один

only – только; единственный

open – открытый; открывать

opera – опера

opinion – мнение

opportunity – удобный случай; благоприятная возможность

opposite – противоположный

order – приказ; приказывать

ordinary – простой

original – первоначальный

originally – первоначально

orphan – сирота

other – другой

ought to – следовало бы

ourselves – себя

outside – наружная сторона

overcome (overcame, overcome) – победить, преодолеть

owe – быть должным

own – собственный; владеть

owner – владелец, хозяин

pace – шаг

pack – упаковывать

packet – свёрток

page – страница

pain – боль; болеть

painful – болезненный

paint – рисовать, красить

pair – пара

pale – бледный

pang – острая боль

paper – бумага

paragraph – абзац

paralysis – паралич

paralyze – парализовать

parapet – парапет; перила

pardon – прощение, извинение; прощать

parent – родитель

parish – церковный приход

park – парк

parrot – попугай

part – часть; уходить

particularly – особенно

party – группа, отряд

pass – проходить, проезжать

passage – кусок, часть

passion – страсть

past – прошлый; прошлое; мимо

path – путь

patience – терпение

patient – терпеливый

pause – пауза; делать паузу

pay (paid, paid) – платить

peace – мир

peaceful – мирный

peculiarity – особенность

pen – ручка

pencil – карандаш

people – люди, народ

perfect – совершенный

perfection – совершенство

perfectly – совершенно

perform – выполнить, совершить

perfume – благоухание

perhaps – может быть; возможно; пожалуй

peril – опасность

period – период

permission – разрешение

persist – упорствовать

person – человек

personal – личный

personally – лично

persuade – убеждать

pet – домашнее животное

physician – врач

piano – фортепьяно, рояль; пианино

pick – собирать

picture – картина, портрет

piece – кусок

pierce – прокалывать

pile – куча

pillow – подушка

pin – булавка; протыкать

piteously – жалко; жалобно

place – место, помещать

plain – простой

plan – план; планировать

plant – выращивать

plantation – плантация

platform – платформа

play – пьеса; играть

playground – игровая площадка

plead – защищать

pleasant – приятный

pleasantly – приятно, мило

please – пожалуйста; доставлять удовольствие

pleasure – удовольствие

pledge – обещание; давать обещание

plenty – изобилие; множество

pocket – карман

point – указывать

poisonous – ядовитый

police – полиция

polite – вежливый

politely – вежливо

political – политический

poor – бедный

portrait – портрет

position – положение

positively – положительно

possess – владеть; обладать

possession – владение, обладание

possessor – владелец

possibility – возможность; вероятность

possible – возможно

possibly – возможно; вероятно

post – почта; посылать письмо

postscript – постскриптум

pot – горшок

pound – фунт

poverty – бедность, нищета

power – сила; власть

powerful – могущественный

practice – практика; практиковать

pray – молить

precious – драгоценный

predict – предсказывать

prejudice – предубеждение

preliminary – предварительный

preparation – приготовление

prepare – готовить, приготавливать(ся)

prescription – предписание

presence – присутствие

present – дарить; представлять

president – президент

press – нажимать; надавливать

pretend – притворяться; делать вид

pretty – хорошенький

prevent – предотвращать

price – цена

pride – гордость

print – отпечаток

prison – тюрьма

private – частный, личный

privately – частно, лично

probability – вероятность

probably – вероятно

problem – проблема

proceed – продолжать; исходить

produce – производить

professor – профессор

prominent – заметный

promise – обещать

pronounce – объявлять

proof – доказательство

proper – собственный

property – собственность; имущество

proposal – предложение

propose – предлагать

proprietor – собственник, владелец

protect – охранять, защищать

protection – защита, покровительство

protest – возражать, протестовать

prove – доказывать

provide – обеспечивать; снабжать

public – общественный

publicly – публично

pull – тащить

punish – наказывать

punishment – наказание

pupil – ученик

purpose – цель

pursue – преследовать

push – толкать

put (put, put) – класть

quarrel – ссора; ссориться

quarter – четверть

question – вопрос; спрашивать

quick – быстрый

quickly – быстро

quiet – тихий

quietly – тихо

quite – совсем, вполне

radiant – лучистый

radical – радикал

rag – рвать

rain – дождь

raise – поднимать

rank – ряд, шеренга

rapid – быстрый

rapidly – быстро

rare – редкий

rarely – редко

rather – скорее, вернее

reach – достигать

read (read, read) – читать

readily – с готовностью

ready – готовый

real – настоящий

realise – осознавать, соображать

really – действительно; на самом деле; по-настоящему; точно

reason – причина

recall – вспоминать

receipt – расписка, квитанция

receive – получать

recently – недавно

recognise – узнавать, признавать

recognition – признание

recommend – рекомендовать

record – документ, запись; записывать

recover – выздоравливать

red – красный, рыжий

redress – переодеться

refer – ссылаться

refuse – отказывать, отказываться

register – регистрационная книга; регистрировать

regret – сожаление; сожалеть

reiterate – повторять

rejoice – радоваться

rejoin – присоединяться

relate – иметь отношение

relationship – родство; (взаимо)отношение

relative – родственник

release – освобождать; избавлять

relief – облегчение

relieve – облегчать, успокаивать

rely – полагаться

remain – оставаться

remains – останки

remarkable – удивительный; замечательный

remarkably – удивительно; замечательно

remember – помнить

remind – напоминать

remorse – угрызение совести

remove – убирать, передвигать

renounce – отказываться (от прав и т. п.)

repair – ремонтировать

repeat – повторять

reply – ответ; отвечать

reputation – репутация

request – просьба; просить

require – требовать

rescue – спасать

resemble – походить на; иметь сходство с

reservations – оговорка

reserve – беречь

residence – проживание, пребывание

resign – отказываться

resist – сопротивляться

resistance – сопротивление

resolute – решительный

resolution – решение

resolve – решать

respect – уважение; уважать

respectable – уважаемый

responsibility – ответственность; обязанность

responsible – ответственный

rest – отдых; отдыхать

restore – восстанавливать; возвращать

restrain – сдерживать

result – результат, следствие; следовать

resume – возобновлять

retire – уходить, удаляться

return – возвращение; возвращать(ся)

rich – богатый

rid – избавить

ride (rode, ridden) – поездка; ехать

right – право; правый, правильный

ring (rang, rung) – кольцо; звонить

rise (rose, risen) – поднимать(ся)

risk – риск; рисковать

road – дорога

roar – рычать

roast – жарить(ся)

roll – катить(ся)

roof – крыша

room – комната

root – приковывать (к месту)

rose – роза

rough – грубый

roughly – грубо

round – круглый; вокруг

routine – заведённый порядок, определённый режим

rude – грубый

ruin – разрушать

run (ran, run) – бежать

rush – мчаться, броситься

rustle – шелестеть; шуршать

sacred – священный

sacrifice – приносить в жертву; жертвовать

sad – грустный, печальный

sadden – печалить

sadly – грустно, печально

sadness – грусть, печаль

safe – безопасный; в безопасности

safety – безопасность

salary – зарплата, жалованье

salt – соль; солить

same – тот же (самый)

sand – песок

satisfaction – удовлетворение

satisfactory – удовлетворительный, хороший, приятный

satisfied – довольный

satisfy – удовлетворять

Saturday – суббота

save – спасать

say (said, said) – говорить, сказать

scanty – скудный

scarf – шарф

scatter – разбрасывать

scene – сцена

school – школа

school-master – учитель

schoolroom – класс; классная комната

scrape – скрести

scream – пронзительно кричать, вопить

sea – море

seal – печать; запечатывать

search – искать

seaside – морской берег, побережье

seat – место; сидеть

second – секунда; второй

secret – тайна; тайный

secretary – секретарь

secretly – тайно

see (saw, seen) – видеть

seem – казаться

seize – хватать, схватить

seldom – редко

selfish – эгоистический

sell (sold, sold) – продавать

send (sent, sent) – посылать

sense – чувство; смысл

sensitive – чувствительный

sensual – чувственный

sentence – приговор; выносить приговор

separate – отделять

separation – отделение, разделение

serious – серьёзный

seriously – серьёзно

servant – слуга

serve – служить

service – служба

set (set, set) – размещать, устанавливать

settle – обосновывать, поселять

settlement – поселение

seven – семь

several – некоторые

severe – строгий, суровый

shade – тень

shadow – тень

shadowy – тенистый; неясный; смутный; туманный

shake (shook, shaken) – трясти, трястись

shallow – мелкий

shape – форма

sharp – острый

sharply – резко

shave (shaved, shaven) – брить

shawl – шаль

sheet – лист

shelter – укрыться

shift – перекладывать; передвигать

shine (shone, shone) – светить

ship – корабль

shirt – рубашка; сорочка

shiver – дрожать

shock – толчок, удар; ударять

shoot – стрелять

shop – магазин

short – короткий; низкорослый

shortly – вскоре

shot – выстрел

shoulder – плечо

shout – кричать

show (showed, shown) – показывать

shrink (shrank, shrunk) – ссыхаться; сокращаться

shut (shut, shut) – закрывать

sick – больной

side – сторона

sigh – вздох; вздыхать

sight – взгляд; увидеть

sign – знак; подписывать

signature – подпись

silence – молчание, безмолвие

silent – молчаливый, безмолвный

silently – молча

silk – шёлк

silver – серебро

simple – простой

simply – просто

since – поскольку; с тех пор (как)

sincerely – искренне

single – одинокий

singular – странный; необычный

sink (sank, sunk) – погружаться

sir – сэр, господин

sister – сестра

sit (sat, sat) – сидеть

situate – помещать

situation – обстановка, положение, ситуация

six – шесть

sixty – шестьдесят

size – размер

skeleton – скелет

sketch – рисунок; рисовать

sky – небо

skylight – световой люк; слуховое окно

sleep (slept, slept) – спать

sleepy – сонный; сонливый, вялый

slight – незначительный, лёгкий

slip – просовывать; скользить

slow – медленный

slowly – медленно

small – маленький

smart – остроумный

smell (smelt, smelt) – нюхать; пахнуть

smile – улыбка; улыбаться

smoke – дым; курить

snatch – хватать, схватить

sneer – усмехаться

snow – снег

socially – общественно

society – общество

sofa – диван

soft – мягкий

soften – смягчать

softly – мягко

solicitor – присяжный, поверенный

solid – твёрдый

solitary – одинокий

solve – решать

some – некоторый; какой-то

somebody – кто-то

somehow – как-нибудь

someone – кто-то

something – что-то

sometimes – иногда

somewhere – где-то, где-нибудь, где-либо

son – сын

soon – скоро, вскоре

soothe – успокаивать

sorrow – печаль; печалиться, горевать

sorrowful – печальный

sorrowfully – печально

sorry – жалеющий, сочувствующий

sort – сорт, вид

soul – душа

sound – звук; звучать; крепкий, здоровый

south – юг

southward – на юг

sovereign – соверен

space – пространство; место

spaniel – спаниель (порода собак)

spare – свободный; тратить; щадить

spark – искра, вспышка

speak (spoke, spoken) – говорить

special – особый, особенный, специальный

speechless – безмолвный

speed – скорость

spend (spent, spent) – проводить

spinster – старая дева

spirit – дух

spoil (spoilt, spoiled) – портить

spot – место

spread (spread, spread) – распространять

spring (sprang, sprung) – прыгнуть

spy – шпион

square – квадратный

stable – конюшня

stage – сцена

stagger – шататься

stand (stood, stood) – стоять

star – звезда

stare – взгляд; смотреть в упор

start – начинать; отправляться

startle – тревожить

state – состояние; указывать

station – станция

stay – оставаться; останавливаться

steady – прочный, устойчивый, твёрдый

steal (stole, stolen) – воровать, красть

step – шаг; шагать

sternly – строго; сурово; непреклонно

stick – палка

stifled – сдавленный

stile – стойло

still – (всё) ещё

stir – взбалтывать; смешивать

stone – камень

stop – останавливать

storm – буря, шторм

story – история

stout – отважный

straight – прямой; прямо

strange – странный; незнакомый

strangely – странно

stranger – незнакомец, посторонний

stray – заблюдившийся, бездомный

stream – ручей, река, поток

street – улица

strength – сила

stretch – вытягивать, вытянуть; растягивать

strike (struck, struck) – бить

stroke – гладить

strong – сильный, прочный

struggle – борьба; сражаться

study – изучать; учиться

sturdy – крепкий, сильный

style – стиль, манера

subject – тема, предмет

submit – подчинять

sudden – внезапный

suddenly – внезапно

suffer – испытывать страдания

suggest – предполагать; предлагать

suggestion – предложение

suitable – подходящий

sultry – знойный, душный

sum – сумма

summer – лето

sun – солнце

sunny – солнечный

sunset – заход солнца, закат

superintend – надзирать (за)

superintendence – присмотр

superstitious – суеверный

supper – ужин

support – поддерживать

suppose – предполагать; допускать

suppress – подавлять

sure – уверенный; конечно

surely – надёжно

surface – поверхность

surprise – удивление; удивляться

surprised – удивлённый

surround – окружать, обступать

survive – переживать, выживать

suspect – подозревать

suspicion – подозрение

suspicious – подозрительный

suspiciously – подозрительно

swarthy – смуглый

sweet – сладкий

swing – качаться

system – система

table – стол

take (took, taken) – брать

talk – говорить

tall – высокий

tame – приручать; укрощать

task – задача

taste – вкус; пробовать

tea – чай

teach (taught, taught) – учить, обучать

teacher – учитель, учительница

tear (tore, torn) – слеза; рвать

tell (told, told) – говорить

temper – нрав

ten – десять

tender – нежный

tenderly – нежно

terms – условия

terrace – терраса

terrible – ужасный

terribly – ужасно

terrify – ужасать

terror – ужас

testimony – показания

than – чем

thank – благодарить

thankful – благодарный

theatre – театр

themselves – себя, себе

then – тогда; потом

there – там, туда

therefore – поэтому, следовательно

these – эти

thick – толстый

thin – тонкий

thing – вещь

think (thought, thought) – думать

third – третий

thirteen – тринадцать

thirty – тридцать

thoroughly – подробно, обстоятельно

those – те

thought – мысль

thousand – тысяча

thread – нить

threaten – угрожать

three – три

threshold – порог

through – сквозь, через

throw (threw, thrown) – бросать

thus – следовательно, таким образом

tie – связывать, завязывать

tighten – сжимать; закреплять

till – до; до тех пор пока

time – время; раз

tinkle – звенеть

tiny – крошечный

tiptoe – ходить на цыпочках

tired – уставший

title – титул

toast – гренок, поджаренный хлеб

tobacco – табак

today – сегодня

together – вместе

tomb – могила

tombstone – надгробие

tomorrow – завтра

tone – тон

tongue – язык

tonight – сегодня вечером

too – тоже; слишком

top – вершина

torture – пытка; пытать

total – весь; полный

touch – трогать, дотрагиваться

tour – путешествие

toward(s) – к; по направлению

tower – башня

town – город

toy – игрушка

trace – след; выслеживать

train – поезд

trample – топтать

transform – изменять

treachery – предательство, измена

treat – обращаться, обходиться

treatment – лечение

tree – дерево

tremble – дрожать

trifle – пустяк, мелочь

trim – подстригать

trouble – беда, неприятность; беспокоить

trousers – штаны, брюки

true – истинный

truly – искренне, правдиво

trust – доверять, верить

trusted – верный

truth – правда

try – пытаться

Tuesday – вторник

tune – мелодия

turn – поворачивать(ся)

twice – дважды; вдвое

twilight – сумерки

twine – вить(ся)

twist – крутить

two – два

typhus – сыпной тиф

tyranny – тирания; деспотизм

ugly – некрасивый, уродливый, безобразный

umbrella – зонтик, зонт

unable – неспособный

uncle – дядя

unconsciously – бессознательно

underneath – внизу, ниже

understand (understood, understood) – понимать

uneasily – нелегко

uneasy – встревоженный

unexpected – неожиданный

unexpectedly – неожиданно

unfinished – незаконченный, незавершённый

unfortunate – несчастный, неудачный

unfortunately – к сожалению, к несчастью

unhappily – несчастно

unhappy – несчастный

unite – соединять(ся)

unknown – неизвестный

unless – если (только) не; пока не; разве (только)

unlike – непохожий

unlock – отпирать

unnatural – неестественный, противоестественный

unnecessary – ненужный, лишний

unnoticed – незамеченный

unusually – необычно, необыкновенно

unwilling – несклонный, нерасположенный

upper – верхний

upset – расстроенный

upstairs – наверху, наверх

urgent – срочный, безотлагательный

use – использовать

useful – полезный

useless – бесполезный

usual – обыкновенный, обычный

usually – обыкновеннo, обычнo

utmost – предельный

utter – стонать

utterance – произношение

vagabond – бродяга

valley – долина

valuable – ценный, полезный

vanish – исчезать, пропадать

vanity – тщеславие

variety – разнообразие

vehemently – страстно, яростно

veil – вуаль; закрывать вуалью

vein – вена

velvet – бархат

verandah – веранда

very – очень; тот самый

vessel – сосуд

vestry – ризница

view – вид; поле зрения

vile – гнусный, низкий, мерзкий

village – деревня

violently – неистово, яростно; ожесточённо

virtue – добродетель

visible – видимый

visibly – видимо

vision – видение

visit – посетить

visitor – гость, посетитель

vivid – живой; пылкий

vividly – живо; пылко

voice – голос

volume – том

wage – заработная плата

waist – талия

waistcoat – жилет

wait – ждать

wake (woke, woken) – будить; просыпаться

wall – стена

wander – бродить, странствовать

want – хотеть

warm – тёплый

warmly – тепло

warmth – тепло; теплота

warn – предупреждать

wash – мыть

waste – тратить впустую

watch – смотреть

water – вода

wave – махать

way – путь

weak – слабый

weaken – слабеть, ослабнуть

weakness – слабость

weapon – оружие

wear (wore, worn) – носить одежду

weary – усталый; утомительный

weather – погода

wedding – свадьба

Wednesday – среда

week – неделя

weekend – время с субботы до понедельника

weekly – еженедельный

weep (wept, wept) – плакать

welcome – добро пожаловать!; милости просим!

well – хорошо; ну

west – запад

wet – мокрый, сырой, влажный

whatever – что-либо; всё что ни

wheel – колесо

when – когда

where – где; куда

whether – ли

which – какой, который

while – в то время как

whim – прихоть, каприз

whisper – шёпот; шептать

white – белый

who – кто

whoever – кто бы ни

whole – весь, целый

whom – кого

whose – чей

why – почему

wicked – злой, злобный

wide – широкий

widen – расширять(ся)

wife – жена

wild – дикий

will – хотеть, желать

win (won, won) – побеждать

wind – ветер

window – окно

windy – ветреный

winter – зима

wise – мудрый

wish – желать; желание

withdraw (withdrew, withdrawn) – отнимать

witness – свидетель

woman – женщина

wonder – удивление; удивляться

wonderful – удивительный

wood – лес

word – слово

work – работа; работать

world – мир

worry – беспокоиться

worse – худший

worst – самый плохой

worth – стоящий

worthy – достойный

wound – рана; ранить

wreck – разрушать

wrinkle – морщить лоб

write (wrote, written) – писать

wrong – неправильный

year – год

yellow – жёлтый

yesterday – вчера

yet – пока, однако

yield – уступать, сдаваться

young – молодой

yourself – себя