How can I describe her? How can I separate this moment from all that has happened since then? In a drawing I later made of her she appears as a light, youthful figure wearing a simple white and blue striped dress and a summer hat. Her hair is light brown, almost gold, and she has eyes that are clear and blue, with a look of truth in them. They give her whole face such a charm that it is difficult to notice each individual feature: the delicate, though not perfectly straight, nose; the sweet, sensitive mouth. The life and beauty of her face lies in her eyes.
Such was my impression, but at the same time I felt there was something about her that I could not explain-something that I ought to remember, but could not. In face, I was thinking about this so much that I could hardly answer when she greeted me.
Miss Halcombe, beliving I was shy, quickly said, ‘Look at your perfect student,’ and she pointed at the sketches. ‘She has already started work before your lessons have begun. You must show them to Mr Hartright, Laura, when we go for a drive.’
Miss Fairlie laughed with bright good humour.
‘I hope he will give his true opinion of them and not just say something to please me,’ she said.
‘May I enquire why you say that?’ I asked.
‘Because I shall believe all that you tell me,’ she answered simply.
In those few words she gave me the key to her own trusting, truthful character.
Later we went for our promised drive, but I must confess that I was far more interested in Miss Fairlie’s conversation than her sketches. I soon realized I was behaving more like a guest than a drawing teacher and when I was on my own again I felt uneasy and dissatisfied with myself.
At dinner that evening these feelings soon disappeared, and when the meal was over, we went into a large sitting room with glass doors leading into the garden. Mrs Vesey fell asleep in an armchair and Miss Halcombe sat near a window to look through her mother’s letters. At my request Miss Fairlie played the piano.
How will I ever forget that peaceful picture? The flowers outside, the music of Mosart, Miss Halcombe reading the letters in the dark wall. It was an evening of sights and sounds to remember forever.
Later, When Miss Fairlie had finished playing and had wandered out into the moonlit garden, Miss Halcombe called me.
‘Mr Hartright, will you come here for a minute?
I went over and she showed me a letter.
‘It’s from my mother to her second husband twelve years ago. She mentions a lady from Hampshire called Mrs Catherick, who had come to look after her sick sister living in the village. It seems she brought her only child with her, a little girl called Anne. Who was about a year older than Laura. I was at a school in Paris at the time. My mother, who took a great interest in the village school, says the little girl was slow in learning so she gave her lessons here at the house. She also agve her some of Luara’s white dresses and white hats, saying she looked better in white than any other colour. She says that little Anne Catherick was so grateful, and loed her so much, that one day she kissed her hand and said, “I will always white as long as I live. It will help me to remember you.”’
Miss Halcombe stopped and looked at me
‘Did the woman you met that night you met that night seem young enough to be twenty-two or twenty-three?’
‘Yes, Miss Halcombe, as young as that.’
‘And was she dressed from head to foot, all in white?’
‘All in white’
From where I sat, I could see Miss Fairlie walking in the garden, and the whiteness of her dress in the moonlight suddenly made my heart beat faster.
‘Now listen to what my mother says at the end the letter,’ Miss Halcombe continued. ‘It will surprise you. She says that perhaps the real reason for her liking little Anne Catherick so much was that she looked exactly like—’
Before she could finish, I jumped up. Outside stood Miss Fairlie, a white figure alone in the moonlight. And suddenly I realized what it was that I had been unable to remember – it was the extraordinary likeness between Miss Laura Fairlie and the runaway from the asylum, the woman in white.
‘You see it!’ said Miss Halcombe. ‘Just as my mother saw the likeness between them years ago.’
‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘But very unwillingly. To connect that lonely, friendless woman, even by an accidental likeness, to Fairlie disturbs me very much. I don’t like to think of it. Please call her in from that horrible moonlight!’
‘We won’t say anything about this likeness to Laura,’ she said. ‘It will be a secret between you and me.’ Then she called Miss Fairlie in’ asking her to play the piano again; and so my first. Eventful day at Limmeridge House came to an end.
The days passed, the weeks passed, and summer changed into a golden autumn. A peaceful, happy time, but at last, I had to confess to myself my real feelings for miss Fairlie.
I loved her.
Every day I was near her in that dangerous closeness which exists between teacher and student. Often, as we bent over her sketch-book, our hands and faces almost touched. I breathed the perfume of her hair. I should have put a professional distance between myself and her, as I had always done with my students in the past. But I did not, and it was soon too late.
By the third month of my stay in Cumberland, I was lost in dreams of love and blind to the dangers ahead of me. Then the first warning finally came – from her. In the space of the night, she change towards me. There was a sudden nervous distance, and a kind of sadness, in her attitude. The pain I felt at that moment is beyond description. But I knew then that she had changed because she had suddenly discovered not only my feeling, but her own as well. This change was also reflected in Miss Halcombe, who said nothing unusual to me. This new and awful situation continued for some time until, on a Thursday, near the end of the third month, I was at last rescued by the sensible and courageous Miss Halcombe.
‘Have you got a moment for me?’ she asked after breakfast.
‘Shall we go into the garden?’
We walked to the summer-house and went inside. Miss Halcombe turned to me. ‘Mr Hartright, what I have to say to you I can say here. Now, I know that you are a good man who always acts correctly. Your story about that unhappy woman in London proves that. As your friend, I must tell you that I have discovered your feelings for my sister, Laura. Although you have done nothing wrong, except show weakness, I must tell you to leave Limmeridge House before any harm is done. And there is something else I must tell you, which will also give you pain. Will you shake hands with your friend, Marian Halcombe, first?’
She spoke with such kindness that I shook her hand.
‘You must leave because Laura Fairlie is to be married.’
The last word went like a bullet to my heart. I turned white, I felt cold. With one word all my hopes disappeared.
‘You must put an end to your feelings, here, where you first met her. I will hide nothing from you. She is not marrying for love, but because of a promise she made to her father just before he died. The man she is to marry arrives here next Monday.’
‘Let me go today,’ I said bitterly. ‘The sooner the better.’
‘No, not today. That would look strange. Wait till tomorrow, after the post has arrived. Say to Mr Fairlie that you have received bad news and must return to London.’
‘I will follow your advice, Miss Halcombe,’ I said sadly. ‘But may I ask who the gentleman engaged to Miss Fairlie is?’
‘A rich man from Hampshire.’
Hampshire! Again a connection with Anne Catherick!
‘And his name?’ I asked, as calmly as I could.
‘Sir Percival Glyde.’
Sir! I remembered Anne Catherick’s suspicious question about Baronets, and my voice shook a little as I asked, ‘Is he a Baronet?’
She paused for a moment, then answered, ‘Yes, a Baronet.