Faith Moore (0:00)

Hello and welcome to Storytime for Grown Ups. I'm Faith Moore and this season we're reading the Woman in White by Wilkie Collins. Each episode I'll read a few chapters from the book, pausing from time to time to give brief explanations so it's easier to follow along. It's like an audiobook with built in notes. So brew a pot of tea, find a cozy chair and settle in. It's story time. I have a confession to make, which is that I have been waiting so long to get to the chapter we read last time. I am sorry. So happy that you have now read this chapter too. And the responses are pouring in. I got so many emails this time, which is exactly what I hoped was going to happen. I thought to myself, if I don't get a million what the heck emails, then I'm not doing this podcast, right? Well, it wasn't exactly a million, but there were so many. And you guys, you guys never disappoint. You sent me amazing letters. Because this chapter, I guess it was a couple of chapters. These chapters, they're my favorite. It's not that the story doesn't get better from here. It does. But that moment with Marian on the roof and ending with Fosco writing in the diary, that moment just for me, it just blows the lid off the story and suddenly we're in a whole different ball game. And I'm going to talk a lot about that in the question section today. But I just wanted to tell you, I've been waiting and waiting and finally here we are. And you guys did not disappoint. I love reading these books with you. It's the most amazing thing to feel like you're all out there, you're all anxiously waiting to know what's going to happen. And I get to be a part of that. So thank you. Thank you for being a part of Storytime for Grown Ups. It truly is such a joy to do this podcast and. And it is nothing without you. And this time it just felt even more like we are all in this together. And I really appreciate that. I'm going to do my best in the comment section, the question section, to try to show you that, to bring us all together so that we can all have this experience together. But I just wanted you to know and I wanted to thank you. So welcome, welcome back to Storytime for Grown Ups. You may have noticed this is going to be another long one, but I just felt like I couldn't just kind of rush through the comments today. I really wanted to talk about the chapter from last time. So we're going to do that and then we're going to read the next chapter, which is quite long as well. So sorry if you prefer shorter episodes, this is a long one today. But hopefully you are going to enjoy it because things are getting so good. And I just wanted to say, you know, we've been talking a lot about not reading ahead. And so many of you have written to say you really, really want to read ahead, but you're not going to do it. And I so appreciate that. And some of you have read ahead and you've written to say what an amazing book this is. So that's good to know, right? It keeps being good all the way to the end. But I really do feel that learning to wait, learning to lean into the cliffhanger, to lean into that anxiety and the suspense and that feeling of, oh my gosh, I can't bear it, it's a good thing. I know it feels kind of nerve wracking. I know it's similar to anxiety that you might feel in your day to day life. But really what's happening is that you and I, all of us, are communicating with another mind. That other mind is Wilkie Collins's mind. And what's amazing about literature like this is that he can be dead, long dead, right? And still we can communicate with him in this way. He made us feel that way. He made us feel like, I have got to know what's going to happen next. And that is a beautiful, wonderful thing. And if we just breeze by it, right? If we just flip to the next page and we just keep going and we race through to the end without really kind of thinking about it or sitting with it, or sitting with that feeling of, oh, no, poor Laura, poor Marian. If we don't do that, then we're missing out on an opportunity. The opportunity to be with someone that we will never really truly be with, that we will never really truly talk to or know. But we can know him in this way, really, really intimate way. And he's not here with us. He's gone. He left us this thing. And we feel it so deeply that we're communicating. That's what literature is. It's a communication between the person that wrote it and us. We who read it. Even hundreds of years later, we are communicating. So I'm just really thankful that you are joining me on this journey of slowing down and of waiting. And I really just invite you to enjoy the cliffhanger, to enjoy the suspense. I know it's hard I know it's strange and uncomfortable sometimes, but be with it. Be in communication with Wilkie Collins. What an amazing and magical thing to be able to do. So I hope that you'll stay with us and just wait and not read ahead. But if you do read ahead, that's okay too, because it means you're reading the classics. And that's really what this podcast is all about. So however you're listening, whatever you're doing, I'm really glad that you're here. Two very quick housekeeping things. The first, and I'm super excited about this, the first is there is now Woman in White merch merchandise in our merch store. There's an amazing new design designed by our designer, Cynthia Angulo, about the woman in white. And you can get it on a T shirt or a mug or a tote bag or a phone case or whatever you want. You can get this design on there and it says the Woman in White by Wilkie Collins. It' says Storytime for Grown Ups. And there's a lovely design. I hope that you'll check it out. If you just scroll into the show notes, there's a link to the merch store. And if you click on that link, it'll take you there and you'll see, you'll see all our designs, but there the woman in white will be. And even if you decide not to buy anything, I hope that you'll check it out, but I hope you'll buy something. You know, this may be unique to me, but I actually love to have T shirts or mugs or whatever from books or other media that no one's heard of. I used to have a shirt that just said 24601, which is Jean Valjean's prison number from Les Miserables. Right. So I don't know why, perhaps that's just a really strange quirk of me, but maybe you'll feel that way too. I love to have a T shirt that just is kind of like a little. A little in joke. Like I've read the Woman in White. I think it's cool. And maybe you'll be walking down the street and somebody else will say, hey, oh my gosh, I love that book. Nobody ever reads that book. That's amazing. So of all the book designs, we have book designs for all the books that we've read so far and we'll have more for the books we read in the future. But of all of those, that's the one that I would wear. So maybe that's the one you would Wear, too. Anyway, check it out. I hope you will. And the other housekeeping detail is just to remind you that one week from today, March 27, at 8pm Eastern, is our next tea time over in our online community, the Drawing Room. This podcast is the main room of our house, but in the drawing room we gather together sometimes and chat. And we will be doing that. It's just a chat, a sort of informal chat together. It's voice chat, so it's kind of like a phone call. And we'll talk about the book, but we'll also probably talk about some other things and check in with each other. And it's just a time to get to know each other and I get to talk to you and you get to talk to each other. And it's really fun. If you're interested, there's a link in the show notes for that as well. You just check out the various membership options. You have to be a member of the landed gentry to join us for tea times, but you can also be a house guest and just gain access to the drawing room. So check out those links as well. And also on that same page, if you're not interested in becoming a member but you feel able and willing to support the show financially, that same link can help you. And there's another link that's more specific to the Buy me a coffee page, and you can check that out as well. And I hope that you will. Okay, enough of that. Let's get to the book. So last time, of course, we read Halcomb's narrative, chapters nine and ten, with the postscript, which turned out to be from Count Fosco. Today we're going to be reading Fairleigh's narrative, and I'm not going to tell you yet which Fairleigh it is. You'll just have to get to the chapters and find out. But that's what we're reading today. So let's remind ourselves, if we need a reminder of what happened last time. And then I've got some questions to talk about. So here is the recap. Okay, so this was kind of a long and eventful section, but I'm going to try to be as brief as possible. So where we left off, Marian is in her room preparing to write in her journal when she hears Fosco and Percival talking outside. Mario Percival wants to finally talk to Fosco about the thing that he's been trying to talk to him all day. But Fosco says that he wants to wait until he's sure that Marian is asleep and until he's made sure that she isn't hiding in any of the rooms downstairs waiting to listen to them. So Fosco clearly views Marian as a threat. Marian decides she absolutely has to hear what they're going to talk about because she feels that Laura's safety might be at stake. So she climbs out of the window onto the roof of the veranda and hides on the roof between some flower pots. And she listens Count Fosco and Sir Percival talking in the room below her. She hears Percival and Fosco say that they are both in debt. Percival owes thousands of pounds and Fosco owes hundreds. Fosco feels that if Percival had just controlled his temper, he might have gotten Laura to sign away the money. And also Marian wouldn't have written again to the lawyer, which he somehow knows about. They discuss the various ways that Percival could get at Laura's money. For example, when Mr. Fairlie dies, the Count kind of harps on the idea that Percival will get the most money if Laura is dead. Percival's obviously upset by what Fosco is implying, but Fosco doesn't seem to care. Fosco then asks about Anne Catherick. He doesn't seem to actually know anything about her or the secret that she knows about Percival. Percival believes that Laura knows the secret and also that Walter Hartright knows it. And that when he comes back into the country, he and Laura are going to use it against him somehow. Percival says that he will be utterly ruined if this secret gets out. And Fosco tells Percival to leave it all to him. The money situation and the Anne Catherick situation. And they end their conversation right after that. Marian is horrified by what she's heard, but she's also freezing and soaked through because it's been raining this whole time. So she drags herself back to her room, writes it all down into her journal, and then she becomes very ill. And so her journal trails off and it's clear that she's fallen under the influence of some kind of fever. We are told that her journal becomes illegible at that point. And then there is an addition made in someone else's handwriting, which turns out to be Count Fosco's. So he's found the journal and he knows everything that Marian has heard and tried to do. And he's incredibly complimentary of Marian and seems to truly feel that she is a wonderful woman. But he also clearly won't let that stand in the way of his plans, whatever they are. So Marian is sick and the Count knows everything okay, so I'm going to read you three comments that I got to give you a kind of sense of the flavor of the various emails that I've been getting this time. I told you, I got so many. But these three are a kind of a good indication of sort of where we all are at this point. So the first one comes from Tsivia. I hope I'm saying that right. She says these chapters were very nerve wracking. But to get to the postscript and find it was the Count. Oh no. That was terrifying. But then he wasn't even angry. Or was he? We all know he is 100% capable of hiding his true feelings. So why wouldn't he destroy the diary? Did he change anything in it? Why would he leave it with Marian? And how did it eventually fall into the hands of Mr. Hartright? I've been listening mostly while I nursed my baby at night, but I'm glad it was daylight when I heard this one. I couldn't have fallen back to sleep after this. The next one is from Catelyn. She writes. Holy cow. I have never more wanted to skip ahead to find out how a story ends. My heart stopped at the postscript. Is Ms. Halcombe alive? What is Laura doing? Why, oh why didn't Ms. Halcombe take the diary to Laura and tell her all as soon as she realized she was getting sick? And why does Count F not care if someone finds the diary or his postscript? Ah. And the last one is from Ursula Poli. Ursula writes, Count Fosco is a sociopath. I'm convinced even Percival was initially uncomfortable with the idea of offing his wife. Marian is astute and incredibly intuitive. I bet his plan is to somehow get her out of the picture first. Oh my goodness. I'm beside myself with the end of the chapter right now. Okay, so like I said, this is just a tiny sample of the letters I got this time, but I think it nicely illustrates the general mood in Storytime for Grownups Land right now. As I said, I have been dying to get to this chapter for a while now because I couldn't wait to hear what you're going to say. And this is exactly what I was hoping for. You guys are wonderfully articulate and astute and your letters always reflect that. But I feel like inarticulate shocked noises or potentially like throwing the book or your phone or wherever you're listening, throwing it across the room or something would also be perfectly acceptable responses to the last episode. And the reason it makes sense to be so totally Shocked is that this chapter kind of upends pretty much everything we thought we knew about Marian and Laura's situation and at the same time it dumps them unceremoniously into far greater danger than we really ever anticipated before. So let's take a look at where things stand. So I think the biggest thing we need to address is Fosco and also Fosco and Percival in terms of which one is more dangerous. You know, I said a while ago that I love Fosco and I said at the time that I would explain why later because at the point when I said it, he was just sort of a strange, contradictory, potentially a little bit silly man, you know, with his mice and his waistcoats and his pastries and everything. And until last time he was still a bit that. But we were becoming a bit more suspicious of him since he was clearly spying on Marian and Laura and everything. But we also felt like maybe he was helping them somehow or was going to turn out to be the one that helped them since he did do things that were demonic, demonstrably good for Laura and Marian in the face of things that Percival was doing that were demonstrably bad. But in the chapters that we read last time, Bosco just kind of explodes off the page like we thought we were in a kind of tight little Victorian household drama where the setting and the characters were fairly realistic and the problems were coming from kind of mundane things like money and women's power or lack of it and negligent guardians and lawyers and things like that. It was all very suspenseful and we really wanted to know what was going to happen. But it was essentially realistic. Right. If we've read other Victorian novels, we've recognized lots of things I think, right? The various meals and tea time, the walks through the grounds, the evenings in the drawing room, the ladies playing piano and all of that. Right. Etc. Etc. And we've wondered if Percival is capable of murdering for money. But even that lately has seemed like it wasn't really going to happen. And we've got this secret floating around and Anne Catherick. But again people have secrets and Anne is odd, but so far she hasn't done anything like totally insane. So it's been very tense, very suspenseful, very nerve wracking so far. But all of that has been made up of fairly realistic characters and events. And then suddenly Fosco reveals himself to be like a, like a fairy tale villain or like, like an opera character gatecrashing a modern realistic play. Right. I've been saying that Sir Percival is like a thug and that maybe Fosco is like a mob boss, but Fosco is actually like a mustache twirling villain from an old silent movie or something, you know? Suddenly he's like ripping through the screen of this little Victorian drama and informing everyone that actually this is a melodrama. Actually this is going to be so much worse than you thought. You thought this was going to be bad, but actually it's going to be dastardly, right? You thought things were going to happen, but actually they're going to be deeds, right? And now when we laugh, we must laugh like this. Muahahaha. Right? He's changing the game. And I don't know about you, but. But I love him for it. It's fantastic. Every time I read that postscript in Marian's diary, I laugh out loud. Not because it's funny, but because it's so over the top, it's so insane. And I feel like that's what I love about Fosco. He brings a level of absolute insanity to a story that was already pretty nuts. Because did you notice Percival's reaction when Fosco started hinting at the idea of killing Laura for her money? Here's what he says. This is Percival. He says, don't look at me that way. I won't have it. What with your looks and your questions upon my soul, you make my flesh creep. The notion of killing Laura makes Sir Percival's flesh creep. Sir Percival, right. The man we thought was going to kill Laura on her honeymoon. The man we thought was going to kill her at any number of other times. The man who is violent toward his wife, who does want her to sign over some of her fortune without knowing what she's doing. This man, even a man like this, feels his flesh creep at the thought of murder. This is what Ursula was saying in her letter, right? He was never going to murder Laura. He actually never even thought of it. In fact, until this chapter, no one was even making a plan to commit a crime at all. See, because we know that a crime is going to be committed from the first pages of the book, right? Because we know that and have known it all along. We've assumed that whatever the crime is going to be is something that was planned right from the start, right? We thought that since we knew it right from the start, it must have been in the works right from the start. But now we're seeing that. No, the only thing that has actually happened up until this moment is that Sir Percival married Laura for her money. The money he could get from her as her husband, right? Not as her murderer. And that Laura married him even though she was in love with someone else. That's it. There hasn't been a plan at all. At some point, Sir Percival realized that he would need more money than he was getting from the interest on Laura's £20,000. And he tried to borrow some of the principal amount. Okay, but that's it. It's the kind of thing that might have happened in lots of marriages at the time. Particularly if the wealthy heiress had married a thuggish, ill tempered man who didn't take good care of his expenses. Yes. Sir Percival has a secret that involves Anne Catherick that is such a secret that even Count Fosco didn't know about it and still doesn't actually know what it is. Right? But aside from the fact that he doesn't want Laura to know the secret, that wasn't part of any grand plan either. So everything we thought about the situation, or most of what we thought about it anyway, was totally wrong. There was never a plot of any kind. Laura just ended up in a bad marriage to a sort of thuggish guy. But now, now we're in trouble because Fosco seems not to have the same scruples that Sir Percival has. And Fosco has pledged to take care of both Sir Percival's money troubles and finding Anne Catherick and getting her back to the asylum. And Fosco is not just a regular guy, right? Fosco is a comic book villain. And he's got skin in the game as well, right? We learned that last time. We learned that it's not just Percival who's in debt. Fosco is in debt too. And until this moment, Fosco was hoping to get some money the same way that Percival was. By Percival borrowing money from Laura's fortune and then lending some of it to Fosco. That's why Fosco was reading Marian's mail and everything. To see if she was going to be able to stop them from getting the money that way. And he was helping Laura and Marian because he believes that that's the only way to subdue a woman, right? It's to never let her see that you're upset and to always seem to be above board with her. To essentially lull her into a false sense of security. But now Fosco understands that this isn't really a possibility. And he knows that he would benefit a great deal from Laura's death because his wife would then get the £10,000. So it's not like he said, yes, I'm gonna kill Laura or anything. But he didn't say he wasn't going to either. But here's the thing about Fosco, and this is why I love him so much as a character. He's not just pure evil. I mean, he may be evil, but he's not like two dimensional. He's not saying, oh, we can get money by killing your wife. Great, let me get out my knife and go stab her right now, or whatever. Fosco is the best kind of villain. And writers take note of this, okay? Fosco is the best kind of villain because he believes he's a good guy. He believes he's an upstanding man. Man with a code. A deeply feeling, deeply intellectual, deeply sentimental, deeply fair man. Right? Listen to what he says when he's talking about how Percival has totally messed up the situation with Laura. He says, human ingenuity, my friend, has hitherto only discovered two ways in which a man can manage a woman. One way is to knock her down. A method largely adopted by the brutal lower orders of the people. But utterly abhorrent to the refined and educated classes above them. The other way, much longer, much more difficult, but in the end not less certain, Is never to accept a provocation at a woman's hands. Fosco would never hit a woman. It's abhorrent to him. He would never speak roughly to her. He has a code. He thinks of himself as a good man, an upstanding man. And of course, his whole thing about how women are the same as children and everything is awful. But he doesn't know it's awful. He thinks it's magnanimous and fatherly and wonderful. And he thinks he is wonderful. And I love. I really just absolutely love the fact that Fosco seems actually to admire Marian. See, this is the thing. I got so many letters like the ones I read today saying, how could he read her diary? Why did he write in her diary what the heck is going on? And part of it, I think, truly is just Wilkie Collins being like, dun, dun, dun. Fosco knows everything. But there's a little bit more than that as well. It's also that Fosco is actually sincere. I think, when he says that Marian is a worthy opponent. Right? Here's what he says about, can you look at Ms. Halcombe and not see that she has the foresight and the resolution of a man with that woman? For my friend, I would snap these fingers of Mine at the world with that woman for my enemy. I, with all my brains and experience. I, Fosco, cunning as the devil himself, as you have told me a hundred times. I walk in your English phrase upon eggshells. And this grand creature. I drink her health in my sugar and water. This grand creature who stands in the strength of her love and her courage. Firm as a rock between us two. And that poor, flimsy, pretty, blonde wife of yours. This magnificent woman whom I admire with all my soul. Though I oppose her in your interests and in mine. You drive to extremities as if she was no sharper and no bolder than the rest of her sex. And the thing is, I actually think he means it. I think Fosco sees that Marian is the only person in the house who might actually stop him. And instead of feeling scared or angry or annoyed or whatever, he feels delighted, right? He admires her. He feels like if they were only on the same side, they'd be unstoppable. And that, I think, is why he writes in her diary. He writes to commend her. To tell her that he thinks she's great. To applaud her effort. Which he really, truly thinks was magnificent. Even though he's going to totally thwart everything she tried to do. He tips his hat to her, essentially, right? He acknowledges the wonderfulness of her. He loves the way she wrote about him. Even though to us it's all about how awful he is. But Fosco thinks he's the good guy. So to him, he comes across wonderfully in the diary. And he wants her to know, as if this is a game or something like that. Wants her to know that he's not going to use anything he learned in the journal to carry out his plan, right? He'd already made his plan before he read the journal. So she shouldn't blame herself for anything that happens next. He's so awful, and it's so wonderful. He's great. I just love him. I mean, I hate him, but I love him. I love to hate him. You know, for me, Fosco makes the book larger than life. He catapults it into another level from this moment on. So for me, Vosco is the villain this book deserves, right? The book is so good. And Sir Percival just wasn't gonna cut it as the villain. We needed someone better, someone eviler. And now we've got him. But of course, it remains to be seen what he's actually going to do. And also what role Sir Percival will end up playing. But before we get back into the chapter. I do want to just acknowledge Marian. I mean, I'm with Fosco here. She is one cool lady. Like the way she suddenly goes all spy mode and dresses all in black and sneak roof and everything, that's pretty awesome. And I think that whole scene kind of goes along with the new quality that Fosco brings to the story too. Like, I can't think of another Victorian novel where one of the ladies in the house suddenly goes like full stealth mode, like, what on earth. Right? But this is the moment, right? This is the moment where this story goes from great to amazing. The lid just blows right off the whole thing. And it becomes so much more than it was. It becomes crazier, more out there, just more bigger, nuttier. And I don't know about you, but I'm here for it. So we know that Marian, at least at this point, is still alive, right? Fosco says she's ill, so she's not dead for the time being anyway. But she's clearly very sick and she's lost control of her diary, so she may be unconscious or too feverish to know what's happening or whatever. And Fosco is now holding the reins of whatever plan is going to unfold next. And Laura, We've been talking about how one by one, all of Laura's allies have been taken away. Well, now her biggest and best ally, Marian, is also gone from her. So things are looking really bad for Laura. So I know I talked a really long time right now and I'm sorry about that, but I just felt like those chapters that we read last time deserved an examination. They deserved to be talked about. So I hope you don't mind. I did go on and on, but let's get back to the book. Now we've got Fairleigh's narrative, which Fairley. Right, well, I'm gonna leave you to find out, so don't forget to write to me. By now you should know I Love your letters. Faithkmoore.com, click on Contact or scroll into the show notes and find that link. And please do get in touch. Alright, let's get started with Fairley's narrative of the Woman in White by Wilkie Collins. It's story time. The Story continued by Frederick Fairley, Esq. Of Limmeridge House. The manner in which Mr. Fairlie's narrative and other narratives that are shortly to follow it were originally obtained forms the subject of an explanation which will appear at a later period. It is the grand misfortune of My life that nobody will let me alone. Why, I ask everybody. Why worry me? Nobody answers that question, and nobody lets me alone. Relatives, friends and strangers all combine to annoy me. What have I done? I ask myself. I ask my servant Lewis 50 times a day. What have I done? Neither of us can tell. Most extraordinary. The last annoyance that has assailed me is the annoyance of being called upon to write this narrative. Is a man in my state of nervous wretchedness capable of writing narratives? When I put this extremely reasonable objection, I am told that certain very serious events relating to my niece have happened within my experience and that I am the first person to describe them. On that account. I am threatened if I fail to exert myself in the manner required, with consequences which I cannot so much as think of without perfect prostration. There is really no need to threaten me. Shattered by my miserable health and my family troubles, I am incapable of resistance. If you insist, you take your unjust advantage of me and I give way immediately, I will endeavor to remember what I can under protest and to write what I can, also under protest, and what I can't remember and can't write. Lewis must remember and write for me. He is an ass, and I am an invalid. And we are likely to make all sorts of mistakes between us. How humiliating, I am told, to remember dates. Good heavens. I never did such a thing in my life. How am I to begin now? I have asked Lewis. He is not quite such an ass as I have hitherto supposed. He remembers the date of the event within a week or two, and I remember the name of the person. The date was towards the end of June or the beginning of July. And the name, in my opinion, a remarkably vulgar one, was Fanny. At the end of June or the beginning of July. Then I was reclining in my customary state, surrounded by the various objects of art which I have collected about me to improve the taste of the barbarous people in my neighbourhood. That is to say, I had the photographs of my pictures and prints and coins and so forth all about me, which I intend one of these days to present. The photographs, I mean, if the clumsy English language will let me mean anything. To present to the institution of Carlyle horrid place with a view to improving the tastes of the membersgoths and vandals. To a man, it might be supposed that a gentleman who was in course of conferring a great national benefit on his countrymen was the last gentleman in the world to be unfeelingly worried about private difficulties in family affairs. Quite A mistake, I assure you. In my case, however, there I was, reclining with my art treasures about me and wanting a quiet morning. Morning. Because I wanted a quiet morning. Of course, Lewis came in. It was perfectly natural that I should inquire what the deuce he meant by making his appearance when I had not rung my bell. I seldom swear it is such an ungentlemanlike habit. But when Lewis answered by a grin, I think it was also perfectly natural that I should damn him for grinning. At any rate, I did. This rigorous mode of treatment, I have observed, invariably brings persons in the lower class of life to their senses. It brought Lewis to his senses. He was so obliging as to leave off grinning and inform me that a young person was outside waiting to see me. He added, with the odious talkativeness of servants, that her name was Fanny. Who is Fanny? Lady Glyde's maid, sir. What does Lady Glyde's maid want with me? A letter, sir. Take it. She refuses to give it to anybody but you, sir. Who sends the letter? Miss Halcombe, sir. The moment I heard Miss Halcombe's name, I gave up. It is a habit of mine always to give up to Miss Halcombe. I find by experience that it saves noise. I gave up on this occasion. Dear Marian, let Lady Glyde's maid come in. Lewis. Stop. Do her shoes creak? I was obliged to ask the question. Creaking shoes invariably upset me for the day. I was resigned to see the young person, but I was not resigned to let the young person's shoes upset me. There is a limit even to my endurance. Lewis affirmed distinctly that her shoes were to be depended upon. I waved my hand. He introduced her. Is it necessary to say that she expressed her sense of embarrassment by shutting up her mouth and breathing through her nose? To the student of female human nature in the lower orders, surely not. Let me do the girl justice. Her shoes did not creak. But why do young persons in service all perspire at the hands? Why have they all got fat noses and hard cheeks? And why are their faces so sadly unfinished, especially about the corners of the eyelids? I am not strong enough to think deeply myself on any subject, but I appeal to professional men who are. Why have we no variety in our breed of young persons? You have a letter for me from Miss Halcombe. Put it down on the table, please, and don't upset anything. How is Miss Halcombe? Very well, thank you, sir. And Lady Glyde? I received no answer. The young person's face became more unfinished. Than ever. And I think she began to cry. I certainly saw something moist about her eyes. Tears or perspiration? Lewis, whom I have just consulted, is inclined to think tears. He is in her class of life and he ought to know best, let us say tears. Except when the refining process of art judiciously removes from them all resemblance to nature. I distinctly object to tears. Tears are scientifically described as a secretion. I can understand that a secretion may be healthy or unhealthy, but I cannot see the interest of a secretion from a sentimental point of view. Perhaps my own secretions being all wrong together, I am a little prejudiced on the subject. No matter. I behaved on this occasion with all possible propriety of feeling. I closed my eyes and said to Lewis, endeavour to ascertain what she means. Lewis endeavoured and the young person endeavoured. They succeeded in confusing each other to such an extent that I am bound in common gratitude to say they really amused me. I think I shall send for them again when I am in low spirits. I have just mentioned this idea to Lewis. Strange to say. It seems to make him uncomfortable. Poor devil. Surely I am not expected to repeat my niece's maid's explanation of her tears interpreted in the Eng English of my Swiss valet. The thing is manifestly impossible. I can give my own impressions and feelings perhaps. Will that do as well? Please say yes. My idea is that she began by telling me through Lewis that her master had dismissed her from her mistress's service. Observe throughout the strange irrelevancy of the young person. Was it my fault that she had lost her place on her dismissal? She had gone to the inn to sleep keep. I don't keep the inn. Why mention it to me? Between 6 o'clock and 7 Ms. Halcombe had come to say good bye and had given her two lettersone for me and one for a gentleman in London. I am not a gentleman in London. Hang the gentleman in London. She had carefully put the two letters into her bosom. What have I to do with her bosom? She had been very unhappy when Miss Halcombe had gone away again. She had not had the heart to put bit or drop between her lips till it was near bedtime and then when it was close on 9 o'clock, she had thought she would like a cup of tea. Am I responsible for any of these vulgar fluctuations which begin with unhappiness and end with tea? Just as she was warming the pot, I give the words on the authority of Lewis, who says he knows what they mean and wishes to explain But I snub him on principle. Just as she was warming the pot, meaning she was making the tea, the door opened and she was struck of a heap, her words again and perfectly unintelligible, this time to Lewis as well as to myself, so meaning she was totally shocked by the appearance in the inn parlour of her Ladyship the Countess. I give my niece's maid's description of my sister's title with a sense of the highest relish. My poor dear sister is a tiresome woman who married a foreigner. So Madame Fosco came into Fanny's room at the inn. And remember, Madame Fosco is Laura's aunt, which makes her Mr. Fairlie's sister. To resume, the door opened, Her Ladyship, the Countess appeared in the parlour and the young person was struck of a heap. Most remarkable. I must really rest a little before I can get on any farther. When I have reclined for a few minutes with my eyes closed, and when Lewis has refreshed my poor aching temples with a little eau de cologne, I may be able to proceed. Her Ladyship the Countess. No, I am able to proceed, but not to sit up. I will recline and dictate. Lewis has a hard accent, but he knows the language and can write. How very convenient. Her Ladyship the Countess explained her unexpected appearance at the inn by telling Fanny that she had come to bring one or two little messages which Miss Halcombe in her hurry, had forgotten. The young person thereupon waited anxiously to hear what the messages were, but the Countess seemed disinclined to mention them so like my sister's tiresome way, until Fanny had had her tea. Her Ladyship was surprisingly kind and thoughtful about it, extremely unlike my sister, and said, I am sure, my poor girl, you must want your tea. We can let the messages wait till afterwards. Come, come. If nothing else will put you at ease, I'll make the tea and have a cup with you. You? I think those were the words, as reported excitably in my presence by the young person. At any rate, the Countess insisted on making the tea and carried her ridiculous ostentation of humility so far as to take one cup herself and to insist on the girl's taking the other. The girl drank the tea and, according to her own account, solemnized the extraordinary occasion five minutes afterwards by fainting dead away for the first time in her life. Life. Here again I use her own words. Lewis thinks they were accompanied by an increased secretion of tears. I can't say myself. The effort of listening being Quite as much as I could manage. My eyes were closed. Where did I leave off? Ah, yes, she fainted after drinking a cup of tea with the countess, a proceeding which might have interested me if I had been her medical man, but being nothing of the sort, I felt bored by hearing of it, nothing more. When she came to herself in half an hour's time, she was on the sofa and nobody was with her but the landlady. The Countess, finding it too late to remain any longer at the inn, had gone away as soon as the girl showed signs of recovering, and the landlady had been good enough to help her upstairs to bed. Left by herself, she had felt in her bosom, I regret the necessity of referring to this part of the subject a second time, and had found the two letters there quite, quite safe, but strangely crumpled. She had been giddy in the night, but had got up well enough to travel in the morning. She had put the letter addressed to that obtrusive stranger, the gentleman in London, into the post, and had now delivered the other letter into my hands. As she was told, this was the plain truth, and though she could not blame herself for any intentional neglect, she was sadly troubled in her mind and sadly in want of a word of advice. At this point, Lewis thinks the secretions appeared again. Perhaps they did, but it is of infinitely greater importance to mention that at this point also I lost my patience, opened my eyes and interfered. What is the purport of all this? I inquired. My niece's irrelevant maid stared and stood speechless. Endeavor to explain, I said to my servant. Translate me, Lewis. Lewis endeavoured and translated. In other words, he descended immediately into a bottomless pit of confusion, and the young person followed him down. I really don't know when I have been so amused. I left them at the bottom of the pit as long as they diverted me. When they ceased to divert me, I exerted my intelligence and pulled them up again. It is unnecessary to say that my interference enabled me in due course of time, to ascertain the purport of the young person remarks. I discovered that she was uneasy in her mind because the train of events that she had just described to me had prevented her from receiving those supplementary messages which Miss Halcombe had intrusted to the Countess to deliver. She was afraid the messages might have been of great importance to her mistress's interests. Her dread of Sir Percival had deterred her from going back to Blackwater park late at night to inquire about them, and Miss Halcombe's own directions to her. On no account to miss the train in the morning had prevented her from waiting at the inn the next day. She was most anxious that the misfortune of her fainting fit should not lead to the second misfortune of making her mistress think her neglectful. And she would humbly beg to ask me whether I would advise her to write her explanations and excuses to Miss Halcombe, requesting to receive the messages by letter if it was not too late. I make no apologies for this extremely prosy paragraph. I have been ordered to write it. There are people, unaccountable as it may appear, who actually take more interest in what my niece's maid said to me on this occasion than in what I said to my niece's maid. Amusing perversity. I should feel very much obliged to you, sir, if you would kindly tell me what I had better do. Remarked the young person. Let things stop as they are, I said, adapting my language to my listener. I invariably let things stop as they are. Yes. Is that all? If you think it would be a liberty in me, sir, to write, of course I wouldn't venture to do so, but I am so very anxious to do all I can to serve my mistress faithfully. People in the lower class of life never know when or how to go out of a room. They invariably require to be helped out by their better. I thought it high time to help the young person out. I did it with two judicious words. Good morning. Something outside or inside this singular girl suddenly creaked. Lewis, who was looking at her, which I was not, says she creaked when she curtsied. Curious. Was it her shoes, her stays or her bones? So her stays are a kind of stiff undergarment. Lewis thinks it was her stays. Most extraordinary. As soon as I was left by myself, I had a little nap. I really wanted it. When I awoke again, I noticed dear Marian's letter. If I had had the least idea of what it contained, I should certainly not have attempted to open it, being, unfortunately for myself quite innocent of all suspicion. I read the letter. It immediately upset me for the day. I am by nature one of the most easy tempered creatures that ever lived. I make allowances for everybody and I take offence at nothing. But as I have before remarked, there are limits to my endurance. I laid down Marian's letter and felt myself justly felt myself an injured man. I am about to make a remark. It is of course applicable to the very serious matter now under notice, or I should not allow it to appear in this place. Nothing, in my opinion, sets the odious selfishness of mankind in Such a repulsively vivid light as the treatment in all classes of society which the single people receive at the hands of the married people. When you have once shown yourself too considerate and self denying to add a family of your own to an already overcrowded population, you are vindictively marked out by your married friends who have no similar consideration and no similar self denial as the recipient of half their conjugal troubles and the born friend of all their children. Husbands and wives talk of the cares of matrimony and bachelors and spinsters bear them. Take my own king. I considerately remain single and my poor dear brother Philip inconsiderately marries. What does he do when he dies? He leaves his daughter to me. She is a sweet girl. She is also a dreadful responsibility. Why lay her on my shoulders? Because I am bound in the harmless character of a single man, to relieve my married connection of all their own troubles. I do my best with my brother's responsibility. I marry my niece with infinite fuss and difficulty to the man her father wanted her to marry. She and her husband disagree and unpleasant consequences follow. What does she do with those consequences? She transfers them to me. Why transfer them to me? Because I am bound in the harmless character of a single man to relieve my married connections of all their own troubles. Poor single people. Poor human nature. It is quite unnecessary to say that Marian's letter threatened me. Everybody threatens me. All sorts of horrors were to fall on my devoted head if I hesitated to turn Limmeridge House into an asylum for my niece and her misfortunes. I did hesitate nevertheless. So Remember, Marian wants Mr. Fairlie to allow Laura to come with Marian and stay at Limmeridge House to get away from Sir Percival. I have mentioned that my usual course hitherto had been to submit to dear Marian and save noise. But on this occasion, the consequences involved in her extremely inconsiderate proposal were of a nature to make me pause. If I opened Limmeridge House as an asylum to Lady Glyde, what security had I against Ser Percival? Glyde's following her here in a state of violent resentment against me for harbouring his wife. Meaning Sir Percival is now essentially Laura's guardian. And if Laura comes to Limmeridge House without his permission, then Sir Percival will have a reason to be angry with Mr. Fairlie and show up in the house in a bad temper. I saw such a perfect labyrinth of troubles involved in this proceeding that I determined to feel my ground, as it were. I wrote therefore to dear Marian to beg as she had no husband to lay claim to her that she would come here by herself first and talk the matter over with me if she could answer my objections to my own perfect satisfaction. Then I assured her that I would receive our sweet Laura with the greatest pleasure, but not otherwise. I felt, of course at the time that this temporizing on my part would probably end in bringing Marian here in a state of virtuous indignation. Banging doors. But then the other course of proceeding might end in bringing Sir Percival here in a state of virtuous indignation, banging doors also. And of the two indignations and bangings, I preferred Marian's because I was used to her. Accordingly, I dispatched the letter by return of post. It gave me time at all events. And oh dear me, what a point that was. To begin with, when I am totally prostrated. Did I mention that I was totally prostrated by Marian's letter? It always takes me three days to get up again. I was very unreasonable. I expected three days of quiet. Of course I didn't get them. The third day's post brought me a most impertinent letter from a person with whom I was totally unacquainted. It he described himself as the acting partner of our man of business, our dear peg headed old Gilmour. And he informed me that he had lately received by the post a letter addressed to him in Miss Halcombe's handwriting. On opening the envelope he had discovered to his astonishment that it contained nothing but a blank sheet of notepaper. This circumstance appeared to him so suspicious as suggesting to his restless legal mind that the letter had been tampered with. With that he had at once written to Miss Halcombe and had received no answer by return of post. In this difficulty, instead of acting like a sensible man and letting things take their proper course, his next absurd proceeding on his own showing was to pester me by writing to inquire if I knew anything about it. What the deuce should I know about it? Why alarm me as well as himself? I wrote back to that effect. It was one of my keenest letters. I have produced nothing with a sharper epistolary edge to it. Since I tendered his dismissal in writing to that extremely troublesome person, Mr. Hartright. My letter produced its effect. I heard nothing more from the lawyer. This perhaps was not altogether surprising, but it was certainly a remarkable circumstance that no second letter reached me from Marian and that no warning signs appeared of her arrival. Her unexpected absence did me amazing good. It was so very soothing and pleasant to infer as I did of course, that my married connections had made it up again. So Mr. Fairlie assumes that the reason he didn't hear anything more about Laura and Marian is that Laura and Sir Percival are happy together now. Five days of undisturbed tranquillity, of delicious single blessedness quite restored me. On the sixth day I felt strong enough to send for my photographer and to set him at work again on the presentation copies of my art treasures with a view, as I have already mentioned, to the improvement of taste in this barbarous neighbourhood. I had just dismissed him to his workshop and had just begun coquetting with my coins when Lewis suddenly made his appearance with a card in his hand. Another young person, I said. I won't see her in my state of health. Young persons disagree with me. Not at home. It is a gentleman this time, sir. A gentleman, of course made a difference. I looked at the card. Gracious heaven. My tiresome sister's foreign husband, Count Fosco. Is it necessary to say what my first impression was when I looked at my visitor's card? Surely not. My sister having married a foreigner, there was but one impression that any man in his senses could possibly feel. Of course the count had come to borrow money of me. Louis, I said, do you think he would go away if you gave him five shillings? Lewis looked quite shocked. He surprised me inexpressibly by declaring that my sister's foreign husband was dressed superbly and looked the picture of prosperity. Under these circumstances my first impression altered to a certain extent. I now took it for granted that the count had matrimonial difficulties of his own to contend with with, and that he had come, like the rest of the family, to cast them all on my shoulders. Did he mention his business? I asked. Count Fosco said he had come here, sir, because Miss Halcombe was unable to leave Blackwater Park. Fresh troubles, apparently. Not exactly his own, as I had supposed, but dear Marian's troubles anyway. Oh dear. Show him in, I said resignedly. The count's first appearance really startled me. He was such an alarmingly large person that I quite trembled. I felt certain that he would shake the floor and knock down my art treasures. He did neither the one nor the other. He was refreshingly dressed in summer costume. His manner was delightfully self possessed and quiet. He had a charming smile. My first impression of him was highly favorable. It is not creditable to my penetration, as the sequel will show, to acknowledge this, but I am a naturally candid man and I do acknowledge it. Notwithstanding, so he's saying. He now knows that Fosco is not a good man, but at the time he liked him. Allow me to present myself, Mr. Fairlie, he said. I come from Blackwater park, and I have the honor and the happiness of being Madame Fosco's husband. Let me take my first and last advantage of that circumstance by entreating you not to make a stranger of me. I beg you will not disturb yourself. I beg you will not move. You are very good, I replied. I wish I was strong enough to get up. Charmed to see you at Limmeridge. Please take a chair. I am afraid you are suffering today, said the count. As usual, I said, I am nothing but a bundle of nerves dressed up to look like a man. I have studied many subjects in my time, remarked this sympathetic person. Among others, the inexhaustible subject of nerves. May I make a suggestion? At once the simplest and the most profound. Will you let me alter the light in your room? Certainly, if you will be so kind as not to let any of it in on me. He walked to the window. Such a contrast to dear Marian, so extremely considerate in all his movements. Light, he said in that delightfully confidential tone which is so soothing to an invalid, is the first essential. Light stimulates, nourishes, preserves. You can no more do without it, Mr. Fairley, than if you were a flower. Observe here where you sit, I close the shutters to compose you. There, where you do not sit, I draw up the blind and let in the invigorating sun. Admit the light into your room if you cannot bear it on yourself. Light, sir, is the grand decree of Providence. You accept Providence with your own restrictions, except light on the same terms. I thought this very convincing and attentive. He had taken me in. Up to that point about the light, he had certainly taken me in. You see me confused, he said, returning to his place. On my word of honour, Mr. Fairlie, you see me confused in your presence. Shocked to hear it, I am sure. May I inquire why, sir, can I enter this room where you sit, a sufferer, and see you surrounded by these admirable objects of art without discovering that you are a man whose feelings are acutely impressionable, whose sympathies are perpetually alive? Tell me, can I do this? If I had been strong enough to sit up in my chair, I should, of course have bowed. Not being strong enough, I smiled my acknowledgments instead. It did. Just as well we both understood one another. Pray follow my train of thought, continued the count. I sit here, a man of refined sympathies myself in the presence of another man of refined sympathies Also, I am conscious of a terrible necessity for lacerating those sympathies by referring to domestic events of a very melancholy kind. What is the inevitable consequence? I have done myself the honour of pointing it out to you already. I sit confused. Was it at this point that I began to suspect he was going to bore me? I rather think it was. Is it absolutely necessary to refer to these unpleasant matters? I inquired in our homely English phrase, Count Fosco, Won't they keep meaning? Can't they talk about them later? The count, with the most alarming solemnity, sighed and shook his head. Must I really hear them? He shrugged his shoulders. It was the first foreign thing he had done since he had been in the room and looked at me in an unpleasantly penetrating manner. My instincts told me that I had better close my eyes. I observed my instincts. Please break it gently, I pleaded. Anybody dead? Dead. Cried the count with unnecessary foreign fierceness. Mr. Fairlie, your national composure terrifies me. In the name of heaven, what have I said or done to make you think me the messenger of death? Pray accept my apologies, I answered. You have said and done nothing. I make it a rule in these distressing cases always to anticipate the worst. It breaks the blow by meeting it half way, and so on. Inexpressibly relieved, I am sure, to hear that nobody is dead. Anybody ill? I opened my eyes and looked at him. Was he very yellow when he came in, or had he turned very yellow in the last minute or two? I really can't say, and I can't ask Lewis, because he was not in the room at the time. Anybody ill? I repeated, observing that my national composer still appeared to affect him. That is part of my bad news, Mr. Fairlie. Yes, somebody is ill. Grieved, I am sure. Which one of them is it? To my profound sorrow, Miss Halcombe, perhaps you were in some degree prepared to hear this. Perhaps when you found that Miss Halcombe did not come here by herself as you proposed, and did not write a second time, your affectionate anxiety may have made you fear that she was ill. I have no doubt my affectionate anxiety had led to that melancholy apprehension at some time or other. But at the moment my wretched memory entirely failed to remind me of the circumstance. However, I said yes, in justice to myself, meaning it never occurred to him that she might be ill. But he said he did think it, because he knows it looks bad if he didn't think it. I was much shocked it was so very uncharacteristic of such a robust person as dear Marian to be ill that I could only suppose she had met with an accident, a horse or a false step on the stairs, or something of that sort. Is it serious? I asked. Serious beyond a doubt, he replied. Dangerous. I hope and trust not. Miss Halcombe unhappily exposed herself to be wetted through by a heavy rain. The cold that followed was of an aggravated kind, and it has now brought with it the worst consequence. Fever. When I heard the word fever, and when I remembered at the same moment that the unscrupulous person who was now addressing me had just come from Blackwater Park, I thought I should have fainted on the spot. Good God, I said. Is it infectious? Not at present, he answered with detestable composure. It may turn to infection. But no such deplorable complication had taken place when I left Blackwater Park. I have felt the deepest interest in the case, Mr. Fairley. I have endeavoured to assist the regular medical attendant in watching it, except my personal assurances of the uninfectious nature of the fever when I last saw it, except his assurances, I never was farther from accepting anything in my life. I would not have believed him on his oath, he was too yellow to be believed. He looked like a walking West Indian epidemic. He was big enough to carry typhus by the ton and to dye the very carpet he walked on with scarlet fever. In certain emergencies my mind is remarkably soon made up. Up. I instantly determined to get rid of him. You will kindly excuse an invalid, I said, but long conferences of any kind invariably upset me. May I beg to know exactly what the object is to which I am indebted for the honour of your visit? I fervently hoped that this remarkably broad hint would throw him off his balance. Silence, confuse him, reduce him to polite apologies, in short, get him out of the room. On the contrary, it only settled him in his chair. He became additionally solemn and dignified and confidential. He held up two of his horrid fingers and gave me another of his unpleasantly penetrating looks. What was I to do? I was not strong enough to quarrel with him. Conceive my situation, if you please. Is language adequate to describe it? I think not. The objects of my visit, he went on quite irrepressibly, are numbered on my fingers. They are two. First, I come to bear my testimony with profound sorrow to the lamentable disagreements between Sir Percival and Lady Glyde. I am Sir Percival's oldest friend. I am related to Lady Glyde. By marriage. I am an eyewitness of all that has happened at Blackwater Park. In those three capacities, I speak with authority, with confidence. With honourable regret, sir. However, I inform you, as the head of Lady Glyde's family, that Miss Halcombe has exaggerated nothing in the letter which she wrote to your address. I affirm that the remedy which that admirable lady has proposed is the only remedy that will spare you the horrors of a public scandal. So Fosco is saying that Laura should come to Limbridge House and get away from Sir Percival. A temporary separation between husband and wife is the one peaceable solution of this difficulty. Part them for the present, and when all causes of irritation are removed, I, who have now the honour of addressing you, I will undertake to bring Sir Percival to reason. Lady Glyde is innocent. Lady Glyde is injured. But follow my thought. Here she is on that very account, I say it with shame, the cause of irritation. While she remains under her husband's roof. No other house can receive her with propriety but yours. I invite you to open it. Cool. Here was a matrimonial hailstorm pouring in the south of England, and I was invited by a man with fever in every fold of his coat to come out from the north of England and take my share of the pelting. I tried to put the point forcibly, just as I have put it here. The count deliberately lowered one of his horrid fingers, kept the other up and went on. Rode over me, as it were, without even the common coachmanlike attention of crying hi. Before he knocked me down. Follow my thought once more, if you please. He resumed. My first object. You have heard. My second object in coming to this house, is to do what Miss Halcombe's illness has prevented her from doing for herself. My large experience is consulted on all difficult matters at Blackwater park, and my friendly advice was requested. On the interesting subject of your letter to Miss Halcombe. I understood at once for my sympathies. Are your sympathies why you wished to see her before you pledged yourself to inviting Lady Glyde? You are most right, sir, in hesitating to receive the wife until you are quite certain that the husband will not exert his authority to reclaim her? I agree to that. I also agree that such delicate explanations as this difficulty involves are not explanations which can be properly disposed of by writing only. My presence here, to my own great inconvenience, is the proof that I speak sincerely. As for the explanations themselves, I, Fosco, I, who know Sir Percival much better than Miss Halcombe knows him. Affirm to you, on my honour and my word, that he will not come near this house or attempt to communicate with this house while his wife is living in it. His affairs are embarrassed. Offer him his freedom by means of the absence of Lady Glyde. I promise you he will take his freedom and go back to the Continent at the earliest moment when he can get away. So he's saying that Sir Percival is in debt and with Laura out of the picture, he'll just go back to Europe. He's not going to bother Mr. Ferris fairly. Is this clear to you? As crystal? Yes, it is. Have you questions to address to me? Be it so, I am here to answer. Ask Mr. Fairlie. Oblige me by asking to your heart's content. He had said so much already in spite of me, and he looked so dreadfully capable of saying a great deal more also in spite of me, that I declined his amiable invitation in pure self defence. Many thanks, I replied. I am sinking fast in my state of health. I must take things for granted. Allow me to do so on this occasion. We quite understand each other. Yes. Much obliged, I am sure, for your kind interference if I ever get better and ever have a second opportunity of improving our acquaintance. He got up. I thought he was going. No more talk, more time for the development of infectious influences. In my room, too. Remember that. In my room. One moment. Yet he said, one moment. Before I take my leave, I ask permission at parting to impress on you an urgent necessity. It is this, sir. You must not think of waiting till Miss Halcombe recovers before you receive Lady Glyde. Miss Halcombe has the attendance of the doctor, of the housekeeper at Blackwater park, and of an experienced nurse as well. Three persons for whose capacity and devotion I answer with my life. I tell you that. I tell you also that the anxiety and alarm of her sister's illness has already affected the health and spirits of Lady Glyde and has made her totally unfit to be of use in the sick room. Room? Her position with her husband grows more and more deplorable and dangerous every day. If you leave her any longer at Blackwater park, you do nothing whatever to hasten her sister's recovery. And at the same time you run the risk of public scandal, which you and I, and all of us are bound in the sacred interests of the family to avoid. With all my soul. I advise you to remove the serious responsibility of delay from your own shoulders by writing to Lady Glyde to come here at Once do your affectionate, your honourable, your inevitable duties, and whatever happens in the future, no one can lay the blame on you. I speak from my large experience. I offer my friendly advice. Is it accepted? Yes or no? So Fosco is proposing that Laura come to Limmeridge House immediately, leaving Marian at Blackwater park because she's too ill to travel. I looked at him, merely looked at him, with my sense of his amazing assurance and my dawning resolution to ring for Lewis and have him shown out of the room, expressed in every line of my face. It is perfectly incredible, but quite true that my face did not appear to produce the slightest impression on him. Born without nerves, evidently. Born without nerves. You hesitate, he said. Mr. Fairlie, I understand the hesitation. You object. See, sir, how my sympathies look straight down into your thoughts. You object that Lady Glyde is not in health and not in spirits to take the long journey from Hampshire to this place by herself. Her own maid is removed from her, as you know. And of other servants fit to travel with her from one end of England to another, there are none at Blackwater Park. You object again that she cannot comfortably stop and rest in London on her way here, because she cannot comfortably go alone to a public hotel where she is a total stranger. In one breath, I grant both objections. In another breath, I remove them. Follow me, if you please. For the last time, it was my intention, when I returned to England with Sir Percival, to settle myself in the neighborhood of London. That purpose has just been happily accomplished. I have taken for six months a little furnished house in the quarter called St. John's Wood. Be so obliging as to keep this fact in your mind and observe the program I now propose. Lady Glyde travels to London. A short journey. I myself meet her at the station. I take her to rest and sleep at my house, which is also the house of her aunt. When she is restored, I escort her to the station again. She travels to this place, and her own maid, who is now under your roof, receives her at the carriage door. Here is comfort consulted. Here are the interests of propriety consulted. Here is your own duty. Duty of hospitality, sympathy, protection to an unhappy lady in need of all three smoothed and made easy from the beginning to the end. I cordially invite you, sir, to second my efforts in the sacred interests of the family. I seriously advise you to write by my hands, offering the hospitality of your house and heart, and the hospitality of my house and heart to that injured and unfortunate lady whose cause I plead today. So Fosco is basically guiding Mr. Fairleigh here into allowing Laura to come to stay. Because obviously Mr. Fairley doesn't care about Laura's health or her propriety or whatever. But by pretending that he thinks that he does, Fosco forces Mr. Fairlie to either say that he doesn't care about that or to agree to the plan. And the plan is that Laura will travel to London, stay the night in Fosco's new house there, and then travel on to Limmeridge, where Fanny will attend her. He waved his horrid hand at me. He struck his infectious breast. He addressed me oratorically, as if I was laid up in the House of Commons. It was high time to take a desperate course of some sort. It was also high time to send for Lewis and adopt the precaution of fumigating the room in this trying emergency. An idea occurred to me, an inestimable idea which, so to speak, killed two intrusive birds with one stone. I determined to get rid of the Count's tiresome eloquence and of Lady Glyde's tiresome troubles by complying with this odious foreigner's request and writing the letter at once. There was not the least danger of the invitation being accepted, for there was not the least chance that Laura would come, consent to leave Blackwater park while Marian was lying there ill. How this charmingly convenient obstacle could have escaped the officious penetration of the Count, it was impossible to conceive. But it had escaped him. So Mr. Fairley is saying that Laura would never agree to leave Marian behind. So if he agrees to allow her to come, it won't matter, because Marian can't travel because she's ill, so Laura won't come anyway. My dread that he might yet discover it if I allowed him any more time to think stimulated me to such an amazing degree that I struggled into a sitting position, seized, really seized, the writing materials by my side and produced the letter as rapidly as if I had been a common clerk in an office. Dearest Laura, please come whenever you like. Break the journey by sleeping in London at your aunt's house. Grieved to hear of Marian's illness, ever affectionately yours. I handed these lines at arm's length to the Count. I sank back in my chair. I said, excuse me. I am entirely prostrated. I can do no more. Will you rest and lunch downstairs? Love to all, and sympathy and so on. Good morning. He made another speech. The man was absolutely inexhaustible. I closed my eyes. I endeavoured to hear as Little as possible. In spite of my endeavours, I was obliged to hear a great deal. My sister's endless husband congratulated himself and congratulated me on the result of our interview. He mentioned a great deal more about his sympathies and mine. He deplored my miserable health. He offered to write me a prescription. He impressed on me the necessity of not forgetting what he had said about the importance of light. He accepted my obliging invitation to rest and lunch. He recommended me to expect Lady Glyde in two or three days time. He begged my permission to look forward to our next meeting. Instead of paining himself and paining me by saying farewell, he added a great deal more, which I rejoice to think I did not attend to at the time and do not remember now. I heard his sympathetic voice travelling away from me by degrees, but large as he was, I never heard him. He had the negative merit of being absolutely noiseless. I don't know when he opened the door or when he shut it. I ventured to make use of my eyes again. After an interval of silence and he was gone. I rang for Lewis and retired to my bathroom. Tepid water strengthened with aromatic vinegar for myself and copious fumigation for my stomach study were the obvious precautions to take and of course I adopted them. I rejoice to say they proved successful. I enjoyed my customary siesta. I awoke moist and cool. My first inquiries were for the count. Had we really got rid of him? Yes, he had gone away by the afternoon train. Had he lunched? And if so, upon what? Entirely upon fruit tart and cream. What a man. What a digestion. Am I expected to say anything more? I believe not. I believe I have reached the limits assigned to me. The shocking circumstances which happened at a later period did not, I am thankful to say, happen in my presence. I do beg and entreat that nobody will be so very unfeeling as to lay any part of the blame of those circumstances on me. I did everything for the best. I am not answerable for a deplorable calamity which it was quite impossible to foresee. I am shattered by it. I have suffered under it as nobody else has suffered. My servant Lewis, who is really attached to me in his unintelligent way, thinks I shall never get over it. He sees me dictating at this moment with my handkerchief to my eye. I wish to mention, in justice to myself that it was not my fault and that I am quite exhausted and heartbroken. Need I say more? Thank you so much for listening. I'd love to know what you thought of the chapters. Is there anything you'd like me to clarify? Did something particularly interest you? Please go to my website, faithkmoore.com click on contact and send me your questions and thoughts. Or you can click on the link in the Show Notes to contact me. I'll feature one or two of your entries at the start of the next episode. Speaking of links, don't forget to take a look at the other links in the Show Notes. You can learn more about me, check out our merch store, or pick up one of my books. Before I go, I'd like to ask a quick favorite. This is an independent podcast. It's produced, recorded and marketed by me, so I need your help. Spread the word about the show by posting about it on social media or texting a link to your friends. Subscribe, tap those five stars and leave a positive review wherever you're listening. If you are able to support the show financially, there's a link in the Show Notes to make a donation. I would really, really appreciate it it all right everyone, story time is over. To be continued.