The Woman in White (22 page)

"Don't let him part me from Marian," she cried, with a sudden
outbreak of energy. "Oh, Mr. Gilmore, pray make it law that
Marian is to live with me!"

Under other circumstances I might, perhaps, have been amused at
this essentially feminine interpretation of my question, and of
the long explanation which had preceded it. But her looks and
tones, when she spoke, were of a kind to make me more than
serious—they distressed me. Her words, few as they were,
betrayed a desperate clinging to the past which boded ill for the
future.

"Your having Marian Halcombe to live with you can easily be
settled by private arrangement," I said. "You hardly understood
my question, I think. It referred to your own property—to the
disposal of your money. Supposing you were to make a will when
you come of age, who would you like the money to go to?"

"Marian has been mother and sister both to me," said the good,
affectionate girl, her pretty blue eyes glistening while she
spoke. "May I leave it to Marian, Mr. Gilmore?"

"Certainly, my love," I answered. "But remember what a large sum
it is. Would you like it all to go to Miss Halcombe?"

She hesitated; her colour came and went, and her hand stole back
again to the little album.

"Not all of it," she said. "There is some one else besides
Marian—-"

She stopped; her colour heightened, and the fingers of the hand
that rested upon the album beat gently on the margin of the
drawing, as if her memory had set them going mechanically with the
remembrance of a favourite tune.

"You mean some other member of the family besides Miss Halcombe?"
I suggested, seeing her at a loss to proceed.

The heightening colour spread to her forehead and her neck, and
the nervous fingers suddenly clasped themselves fast round the
edge of the book.

"There is some one else," she said, not noticing my last words,
though she had evidently heard them; "there is some one else who
might like a little keepsake if—if I might leave it. There would
be no harm if I should die first—-"

She paused again. The colour that had spread over her cheeks
suddenly, as suddenly left them. The hand on the album resigned
its hold, trembled a little, and moved the book away from her.
She looked at me for an instant—then turned her head aside in the
chair. Her handkerchief fell to the floor as she changed her
position, and she hurriedly hid her face from me in her hands.

Sad! To remember her, as I did, the liveliest, happiest child that
ever laughed the day through, and to see her now, in the flower of
her age and her beauty, so broken and so brought down as this!

In the distress that she caused me I forgot the years that had
passed, and the change they had made in our position towards one
another. I moved my chair close to her, and picked up her
handkerchief from the carpet, and drew her hands from her face
gently. "Don't cry, my love," I said, and dried the tears that
were gathering in her eyes with my own hand, as if she had been
the little Laura Fairlie of ten long years ago.

It was the best way I could have taken to compose her. She laid
her head on my shoulder, and smiled faintly through her tears.

"I am very sorry for forgetting myself," she said artlessly. "I
have not been well—I have felt sadly weak and nervous lately, and
I often cry without reason when I am alone. I am better now—I
can answer you as I ought, Mr. Gilmore, I can indeed."

"No, no, my dear," I replied, "we will consider the subject as
done with for the present. You have said enough to sanction my
taking the best possible care of your interests, and we can settle
details at another opportunity. Let us have done with business
now, and talk of something else."

I led her at once into speaking on other topics. In ten minutes'
time she was in better spirits, and I rose to take my leave.

"Come here again," she said earnestly. "I will try to be worthier
of your kind feeling for me and for my interests if you will only
come again."

Still clinging to the past—that past which I represented to her,
in my way, as Miss Halcombe did in hers! It troubled me sorely to
see her looking back, at the beginning of her career, just as I
look back at the end of mine.

"If I do come again, I hope I shall find you better," I said;
"better and happier. God bless you, my dear!"

She only answered by putting up her cheek to me to be kissed.
Even lawyers have hearts, and mine ached a little as I took leave
of her.

The whole interview between us had hardly lasted more than half an
hour—she had not breathed a word, in my presence, to explain the
mystery of her evident distress and dismay at the prospect of her
marriage, and yet she had contrived to win me over to her side of
the question, I neither knew how nor why. I had entered the room,
feeling that Sir Percival Glyde had fair reason to complain of the
manner in which she was treating him. I left it, secretly hoping
that matters might end in her taking him at his word and claiming
her release. A man of my age and experience ought to have known
better than to vacillate in this unreasonable manner. I can make
no excuse for myself; I can only tell the truth, and say—so it
was.

The hour for my departure was now drawing near. I sent to Mr.
Fairlie to say that I would wait on him to take leave if he liked,
but that he must excuse my being rather in a hurry. He sent a
message back, written in pencil on a slip of paper: "Kind love and
best wishes, dear Gilmore. Hurry of any kind is inexpressibly
injurious to me. Pray take care of yourself. Good-bye."

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.

"You are altering your opinion about Laura," she said. "You are
readier to make allowances for her than you were yesterday."

No sensible man ever engages, unprepared, in a fencing match of
words with a woman. I only answered—

"Let me know what happens. I will do nothing till I hear from
you."

She still looked hard in my face. "I wish it was all over, and
well over, Mr. Gilmore—and so do you." With those words she left
me.

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
tried and trusted old friend of this family will be always a
welcome visitor in any house of mine."

A really irresistible man—courteous, considerate, delightfully
free from pride—a gentleman, every inch of him. As I drove away
to the station I felt as if I could cheerfully do anything to
promote the interests of Sir Percival Glyde—anything in the
world, except drawing the marriage settlement of his wife.

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.

I ought not to have been surprised, I ought not to have been
sorry, but I was surprised and sorry, nevertheless. Some little
disappointment, caused by the unsatisfactory shortness of Miss
Halcombe's letter, mingled itself with these feelings, and
contributed its share towards upsetting my serenity for the day.
In six lines my correspondent announced the proposed marriage—in
three more, she told me that Sir Percival had left Cumberland to
return to his house in Hampshire, and in two concluding sentences
she informed me, first, that Laura was sadly in want of change and
cheerful society; secondly, that she had resolved to try the
effect of some such change forthwith, by taking her sister away
with her on a visit to certain old friends in Yorkshire. There
the letter ended, without a word to explain what the circumstances
were which had decided Miss Fairlie to accept Sir Percival Glyde
in one short week from the time when I had last seen her.

At a later period the cause of this sudden determination was fully
explained to me. It is not my business to relate it imperfectly,
on hearsay evidence. The circumstances came within the personal
experience of Miss Halcombe, and when her narrative succeeds mine,
she will describe them in every particular exactly as they
happened. In the meantime, the plain duty for me to perform—
before I, in my turn, lay down my pen and withdraw from the story—
is to relate the one remaining event connected with Miss
Fairlie's proposed marriage in which I was concerned, namely, the
drawing of the settlement.

It is impossible to refer intelligibly to this document without
first entering into certain particulars in relation to the bride's
pecuniary affairs. I will try to make my explanation briefly and
plainly, and to keep it free from professional obscurities and
technicalities. The matter is of the utmost importance. I warn
all readers of these lines that Miss Fairlie's inheritance is a
very serious part of Miss Fairlie's story, and that Mr. Gilmore's
experience, in this particular, must be their experience also, if
they wish to understand the narratives which are yet to come.

Miss Fairlie's expectations, then, were of a twofold kind,
comprising her possible inheritance of real property, or land,
when her uncle died, and her absolute inheritance of personal
property, or money, when she came of age.

Let us take the land first.

In the time of Miss Fairlie's paternal grandfather (whom we will
call Mr. Fairlie, the elder) the entailed succession to the
Limmeridge estate stood thus—

Mr. Fairlie, the elder, died and left three sons, Philip,
Frederick, and Arthur. As eldest son, Philip succeeded to the
estate, If he died without leaving a son, the property went to the
second brother, Frederick; and if Frederick died also without
leaving a son, the property went to the third brother, Arthur.

As events turned out, Mr. Philip Fairlie died leaving an only
daughter, the Laura of this story, and the estate, in consequence,
went, in course of law, to the second brother, Frederick, a single
man. The third brother, Arthur, had died many years before the
decease of Philip, leaving a son and a daughter. The son, at the
age of eighteen, was drowned at Oxford. His death left Laura, the
daughter of Mr. Philip Fairlie, presumptive heiress to the estate,
with every chance of succeeding to it, in the ordinary course of
nature, on her uncle Frederick's death, if the said Frederick died
without leaving male issue.

Except in the event, then, of Mr. Frederick Fairlie's marrying and
leaving an heir (the two very last things in the world that he was
likely to do), his niece, Laura, would have the property on his
death, possessing, it must be remembered, nothing more than a
life-interest in it. If she died single, or died childless, the
estate would revert to her cousin, Magdalen, the daughter of Mr.
Arthur Fairlie. If she married, with a proper settlement—or, in
other words, with the settlement I meant to make for her—the
income from the estate (a good three thousand a year) would,
during her lifetime, be at her own disposal. If she died before
her husband, he would naturally expect to be left in the enjoyment
of the income, for HIS lifetime. If she had a son, that son would
be the heir, to the exclusion of her cousin Magdalen. Thus, Sir
Percival's prospects in marrying Miss Fairlie (so far as his
wife's expectations from real property were concerned) promised
him these two advantages, on Mr. Frederick Fairlie's death: First,
the use of three thousand a year (by his wife's permission, while
she lived, and in his own right, on her death, if he survived
her); and, secondly, the inheritance of Limmeridge for his son, if
he had one.

So much for the landed property, and for the disposal of the
income from it, on the occasion of Miss Fairlie's marriage. Thus
far, no difficulty or difference of opinion on the lady's
settlement was at all likely to arise between Sir Percival's
lawyer and myself.

The personal estate, or, in other words, the money to which Miss
Fairlie would become entitled on reaching the age of twenty-one
years, is the next point to consider.

This part of her inheritance was, in itself, a comfortable little
fortune. It was derived under her father's will, and it amounted
to the sum of twenty thousand pounds. Besides this, she had a
life-interest in ten thousand pounds more, which latter amount was
to go, on her decease, to her aunt Eleanor, her father's only
sister. It will greatly assist in setting the family affairs
before the reader in the clearest possible light, if I stop here
for a moment, to explain why the aunt had been kept waiting for
her legacy until the death of the niece.

Mr. Philip Fairlie had lived on excellent terms with his sister
Eleanor, as long as she remained a single woman. But when her
marriage took place, somewhat late in life, and when that marriage
united her to an Italian gentleman named Fosco, or, rather, to an
Italian nobleman—seeing that he rejoiced in the title of Count—
Mr. Fairlie disapproved of her conduct so strongly that he ceased
to hold any communication with her, and even went the length of
striking her name out of his will. The other members of the
family all thought this serious manifestation of resentment at his
sister's marriage more or less unreasonable. Count Fosco, though
not a rich man, was not a penniless adventurer either. He had a
small but sufficient income of his own. He had lived many years
in England, and he held an excellent position in society. These
recommendations, however, availed nothing with Mr. Fairlie. In
many of his opinions he was an Englishman of the old school, and
he hated a foreigner simply and solely because he was a foreigner.
The utmost that he could be prevailed on to do, in after years—
mainly at Miss Fairlie's intercession—was to restore his sister's
name to its former place in his will, but to keep her waiting for
her legacy by giving the income of the money to his daughter for
life, and the money itself, if her aunt died before her, to her
cousin Magdalen. Considering the relative ages of the two ladies,
the aunt's chance, in the ordinary course of nature, of receiving
the ten thousand pounds, was thus rendered doubtful in the
extreme; and Madame Fosco resented her brother's treatment of her
as unjustly as usual in such cases, by refusing to see her niece,
and declining to believe that Miss Fairlie's intercession had ever
been exerted to restore her name to Mr. Fairlie's will.