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.

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 Sir Percival Glyde’s following her here in a state of violent resentment against me for harbouring his wife?  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 temporising 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 despatched the letter by return of post.  It gained 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.  He described himself as the acting partner of our man of business—­our dear, pig-headed old Gilmore—­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) 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. Walter Hartright.