The Woman in White (24 page)

"I wish you well through it, and safe back again," I said, and
then added, so as not to keep him altogether at arm's length on
the subject of the Fairlies, "I am going down to Limmeridge to-day
on business. Miss Halcombe and Miss Fairlie are away just now on
a visit to some friends in Yorkshire."

His eyes brightened, and he seemed about to say something in
answer, but the same momentary nervous spasm crossed his face
again. He took my hand, pressed it hard, and disappeared among
the crowd without saying another word. Though he was little more
than a stranger to me, I waited for a moment, looking after him
almost with a feeling of regret. I had gained in my profession
sufficient experience of young men to know what the outward signs
and tokens were of their beginning to go wrong, and when I resumed
my walk to the railway I am sorry to say I felt more than doubtful
about Mr. Hartright's future.

Leaving by an early train, I got to Limmeridge in time for dinner.
The house was oppressively empty and dull. I had expected that
good Mrs. Vesey would have been company for me in the absence of
the young ladies, but she was confined to her room by a cold. The
servants were so surprised at seeing me that they hurried and
bustled absurdly, and made all sorts of annoying mistakes. Even
the butler, who was old enough to have known better, brought me a
bottle of port that was chilled. The reports of Mr. Fairlie's
health were just as usual, and when I sent up a message to
announce my arrival, I was told that he would be delighted to see
me the next morning but that the sudden news of my appearance had
prostrated him with palpitations for the rest of the evening. The
wind howled dismally all night, and strange cracking and groaning
noises sounded here, there, and everywhere in the empty house. I
slept as wretchedly as possible, and got up in a mighty bad humour
to breakfast by myself the next morning.

At ten o'clock I was conducted to Mr. Fairlie's apartments. He
was in his usual room, his usual chair, and his usual aggravating
state of mind and body. When I went in, his valet was standing
before him, holding up for inspection a heavy volume of etchings,
as long and as broad as my office writing-desk. The miserable
foreigner grinned in the most abject manner, and looked ready to
drop with fatigue, while his master composedly turned over the
etchings, and brought their hidden beauties to light with the help
of a magnifying glass.

"You very best of good old friends," said Mr. Fairlie, leaning
back lazily before he could look at me, "are you QUITE well? How
nice of you to come here and see me in my solitude. Dear
Gilmore!"

I had expected that the valet would be dismissed when I appeared,
but nothing of the sort happened. There he stood, in front of his
master's chair, trembling under the weight of the etchings, and
there Mr. Fairlie sat, serenely twirling the magnifying glass
between his white fingers and thumbs.

"I have come to speak to you on a very important matter," I said,
"and you will therefore excuse me, if I suggest that we had better
be alone."

The unfortunate valet looked at me gratefully. Mr. Fairlie
faintly repeated my last three words, "better be alone," with
every appearance of the utmost possible astonishment.

I was in no humour for trifling, and I resolved to make him
understand what I meant.

"Oblige me by giving that man permission to withdraw," I said,
pointing to the valet.

Mr. Fairlie arched his eyebrows and pursed up his lips in
sarcastic surprise.

"Man?" he repeated. "You provoking old Gilmore, what can you
possibly mean by calling him a man? He's nothing of the sort. He
might have been a man half an hour ago, before I wanted my
etchings, and he may be a man half an hour hence, when I don't
want them any longer. At present he is simply a portfolio stand.
Why object, Gilmore, to a portfolio stand?"

"I DO object. For the third time, Mr. Fairlie, I beg that we may
be alone."

My tone and manner left him no alternative but to comply with my
request. He looked at the servant, and pointed peevishly to a
chair at his side.

"Put down the etchings and go away," he said. "Don't upset me by
losing my place. Have you, or have you not, lost my place? Are
you sure you have not? And have you put my hand-bell quite within
my reach? Yes? Then why the devil don't you go?"

The valet went out. Mr. Fairlie twisted himself round in his
chair, polished the magnifying glass with his delicate cambric
handkerchief, and indulged himself with a sidelong inspection of
the open volume of etchings. It was not easy to keep my temper
under these circumstances, but I did keep it.

"I have come here at great personal inconvenience," I said, "to
serve the interests of your niece and your family, and I think I
have established some slight claim to be favoured with your
attention in return."

"Don't bully me!" exclaimed Mr. Fairlie, falling back helplessly
in the chair, and closing his eyes. "Please don't bully me. I'm
not strong enough."

I was determined not to let him provoke me, for Laura Fairlie's
sake.

"My object," I went on, "is to entreat you to reconsider your
letter, and not to force me to abandon the just rights of your
niece, and of all who belong to her. Let me state the case to you
once more, and for the last time."

Mr. Fairlie shook his head and sighed piteously.

"This is heartless of you, Gilmore—very heartless," he said.
"Never mind, go on."

I put all the points to him carefully—I set the matter before him
in every conceivable light. He lay back in the chair the whole
time I was speaking with his eyes closed. When I had done he
opened them indolently, took his silver smelling-bottle from the
table, and sniffed at it with an air of gentle relish.

"Good Gilmore!" he said between the sniffs, "how very nice this is
of you! How you reconcile one to human nature!"

"Give me a plain answer to a plain question, Mr. Fairlie. I tell
you again, Sir Percival Glyde has no shadow of a claim to expect
more than the income of the money. The money itself if your niece
has no children, ought to be under her control, and to return to
her family. If you stand firm, Sir Percival must give way—he
must give way, I tell you, or he exposes himself to the base
imputation of marrying Miss Fairlie entirely from mercenary
motives."

Mr. Fairlie shook the silver smelling-bottle at me playfully.

"You dear old Gilmore, how you do hate rank and family, don't you?
How you detest Glyde because he happens to be a baronet. What a
Radical you are—oh, dear me, what a Radical you are!"

A Radical!!! I could put up with a good deal of provocation, but,
after holding the soundest Conservative principles all my life, I
could NOT put up with being called a Radical. My blood boiled at
it—I started out of my chair—I was speechless with Indignation.

"Don't shake the room!" cried Mr. Fairlie—"for Heaven's sake
don't shake the room! Worthiest of all possible Gilmores, I meant
no offence. My own views are so extremely liberal that I think I
am a Radical myself. Yes. We are a pair of Radicals. Please
don't be angry. I can't quarrel—I haven't stamina enough. Shall
we drop the subject? Yes. Come and look at these sweet etchings.
Do let me teach you to understand the heavenly pearliness of these
lines. Do now, there's a good Gilmore!"

While he was maundering on in this way I was, fortunately for my
own self-respect, returning to my senses. When I spoke again I
was composed enough to treat his impertinence with the silent
contempt that it deserved.

"You are entirely wrong, sir," I said, "in supposing that I speak
from any prejudice against Sir Percival Glyde. I may regret that
he has so unreservedly resigned himself in this matter to his
lawyer's direction as to make any appeal to himself impossible,
but I am not prejudiced against him. What I have said would
equally apply to any other man in his situation, high or low. The
principle I maintain is a recognised principle. If you were to
apply at the nearest town here, to the first respectable solicitor
you could find, he would tell you as a stranger what I tell you as
a friend. He would inform you that it is against all rule to
abandon the lady's money entirely to the man she marries. He
would decline, on grounds of common legal caution, to give the
husband, under any circumstances whatever, an interest of twenty
thousand pounds in his wife's death."

"Would he really, Gilmore?" said Mr. Fairlie. "If he said
anything half so horrid, I do assure you I should tinkle my bell
for Louis, and have him sent out of the house immediately."

"You shall not irritate me, Mr. Fairlie—for your niece's sake and
for her father's sake, you shall not irritate me. You shall take
the whole responsibility of this discreditable settlement on your
own shoulders before I leave the room."

"Don't!—now please don't!" said Mr. Fairlie. "Think how precious
your time is, Gilmore, and don't throw it away. I would dispute
with you if I could, but I can't—I haven't stamina enough. You
want to upset me, to upset yourself, to upset Glyde, and to upset
Laura; and—oh, dear me!—all for the sake of the very last thing
in the world that is likely to happen. No, dear friend, in the
interests of peace and quietness, positively No!"

"I am to understand, then, that you hold by the determination
expressed in your letter?"

"Yes, please. So glad we understand each other at last. Sit down
again—do!"

I walked at once to the door, and Mr. Fairlie resignedly "tinkled"
his hand-bell. Before I left the room I turned round and
addressed him for the last time.

"Whatever happens in the future, sir," I said, "remember that my
plain duty of warning you has been performed. As the faithful
friend and servant of your family, I tell you, at parting, that no
daughter of mine should be married to any man alive under such a
settlement as you are forcing me to make for Miss Fairlie."

The door opened behind me, and the valet stood waiting on the
threshold.

"Louis," said Mr. Fairlie, "show Mr. Gilmore out, and then come
back and hold up my etchings for me again. Make them give you a
good lunch downstairs. Do, Gilmore, make my idle beasts of
servants give you a good lunch!"

I was too much disgusted to reply—I turned on my heel, and left
him in silence. There was an up train at two o'clock in the
afternoon, and by that train I returned to London.

On the Tuesday I sent in the altered settlement, which practically
disinherited the very persons whom Miss Fairlie's own lips had
informed me she was most anxious to benefit. I had no choice.
Another lawyer would have drawn up the deed if I had refused to
undertake it.

My task is done. My personal share in the events of the family
story extends no farther than the point which I have just reached.
Other pens than mine will describe the strange circumstances which
are now shortly to follow. Seriously and sorrowfully I close this
brief record. Seriously and sorrowfully I repeat here the parting
words that I spoke at Limmeridge House:—No daughter of mine
should have been married to any man alive under such a settlement
as I was compelled to make for Laura Fairlie.

The End of Mr. Gilmore's Narrative.

LIMMERIDGE HOUSE, Nov. 8.
[1]

This morning Mr. Gilmore left us.

His interview with Laura had evidently grieved and surprised him
more than he liked to confess. I felt afraid, from his look and
manner when we parted, that she might have inadvertently betrayed
to him the real secret of her depression and my anxiety. This
doubt grew on me so, after he had gone, that I declined riding out
with Sir Percival, and went up to Laura's room instead.

I have been sadly distrustful of myself, in this difficult and
lamentable matter, ever since I found out my own ignorance of the
strength of Laura's unhappy attachment. I ought to have known
that the delicacy and forbearance and sense of honour which drew
me to poor Hartright, and made me so sincerely admire and respect
him, were just the qualities to appeal most irresistibly to
Laura's natural sensitiveness and natural generosity of nature.
And yet, until she opened her heart to me of her own accord, I had
no suspicion that this new feeling had taken root so deeply. I
once thought time and care might remove it. I now fear that it
will remain with her and alter her for life. The discovery that I
have committed such an error in judgment as this makes me hesitate
about everything else. I hesitate about Sir Percival, in the face
of the plainest proofs. I hesitate even in speaking to Laura. On
this very morning I doubted, with my hand on the door, whether I
should ask her the questions I had come to put, or not.

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

"I wanted you," she said. "Come and sit down on the sofa with me.
Marian! I can bear this no longer—I must and will end it."

There was too much colour in her cheeks, too much energy in her
manner, too much firmness in her voice. The little book of
Hartright's drawings—the fatal book that she will dream over
whenever she is alone—was in one of her hands. I began by gently
and firmly taking it from her, and putting it out of sight on a
side-table.

"Tell me quietly, my darling, what you wish to do," I said. "Has
Mr. Gilmore been advising you?"

She shook her head. "No, not in what I am thinking of now. He
was very kind and good to me, Marian, and I am ashamed to say I
distressed him by crying. I am miserably helpless—I can't
control myself. For my own sake, and for all our sakes, I must
have courage enough to end it."