The Woman in White

Chapter 15

As we walked round to the front of the house a fly from the

railway approached us along the drive. Miss Halcombe waited on

the door-steps until the fly drew up, and then advanced to shake

hands with an old gentleman, who got out briskly the moment the

steps were let down. Mr. Gilmore had arrived.

I looked at him, when we were introduced to each other, with an

interest and a curiosity which I could hardly conceal. This old

man was to remain at Limmeridge House after I had left it, he was

to hear Sir Percival Glyde's explanation, and was to give Miss

Halcombe the assistance of his experience in forming her judgment;

he was to wait until the question of the marriage was set at rest;

and his hand, if that question were decided in the affirmative,

was to draw the settlement which bound Miss Fairlie irrevocably to

her engagement. Even then, when I knew nothing by comparison with

what I know now, I looked at the family lawyer with an interest

which I had never felt before in the presence of any man breathing

who was a total stranger to me.

In external appearance Mr. Gilmore was the exact opposite of the

conventional idea of an old lawyer. His complexion was florid--

his white hair was worn rather long and kept carefully brushed--

his black coat, waistcoat, and trousers fitted him with perfect

neatness--his white cravat was carefully tied, and his lavender-

coloured kid gloves might have adorned the hands of a fashionable

clergyman, without fear and without reproach. His manners were

pleasantly marked by the formal grace and refinement of the old

school of politeness, quickened by the invigorating sharpness and

readiness of a man whose business in life obliges him always to

keep his faculties in good working order. A sanguine constitution

and fair prospects to begin with--a long subsequent career of

creditable and comfortable prosperity--a cheerful, diligent,

widely-respected old age--such were the general impressions I

derived from my introduction to Mr. Gilmore, and it is but fair to

him to add, that the knowledge I gained by later and better

experience only tended to confirm them.

I left the old gentleman and Miss Halcombe to enter the house

together, and to talk of family matters undisturbed by the

restraint of a stranger's presence. They crossed the hall on

their way to the drawing-room, and I descended the steps again to

wander about the garden alone.

My hours were numbered at Limmeridge House--my departure the next

morning was irrevocably settled--my share in the investigation

which the anonymous letter had rendered necessary was at an end.

No harm could be done to any one but myself if I let my heart

loose again, for the little time that was left me, from the cold

cruelty of restraint which necessity had forced me to inflict upon

it, and took my farewell of the scenes which were associated with

the brief dream-time of my happiness and my love.

I turned instinctively to the walk beneath my study-window, where

I had seen her the evening before with her little dog, and

followed the path which her dear feet had trodden so often, till I

came to the wicket gate that led into her rose garden. The winter

bareness spread drearily over it now. The flowers that she had

taught me to distinguish by their names, the flowers that I had

taught her to paint from, were gone, and the tiny white paths that

led between the beds were damp and green already. I went on to

the avenue of trees, where we had breathed together the warm

fragrance of August evenings, where we had admired together the

myriad combinations of shade and sunlight that dappled the ground

at our feet. The leaves fell about me from the groaning branches,

and the earthy decay in the atmosphere chilled me to the bones. A

little farther on, and I was out of the grounds, and following the

lane that wound gently upward to the nearest hills. The old

felled tree by the wayside, on which we had sat to rest, was

sodden with rain, and the tuft of ferns and grasses which I had

drawn for her, nestling under the rough stone wall in front of us,

had turned to a pool of water, stagnating round an island of

draggled weeds. I gained the summit of the hill, and looked at

the view which we had so often admired in the happier time. It

was cold and barren--it was no longer the view that I remembered.

The sunshine of her presence was far from me-the charm of her

voice no longer murmured in my ear. She had talked to me, on the

spot from which I now looked down, of her father, who was her last

surviving parent--had told me how fond of each other they had

been, and how sadly she missed him still when she entered certain

rooms in the house, and when she took up forgotten occupations and

amusements with which he had been associated. Was the view that I

had seen, while listening to those words, the view that I saw now,

standing on the hill-top by myself? I turned and left it--I wound

my way back again, over the moor, and round the sandhills, down to

the beach. There was the white rage of the surf, and the

multitudinous glory of the leaping waves--but where was the place

on which she had once drawn idle figures with her parasol in the

sand--the place where we had sat together, while she talked to me

about myself and my home, while she asked me a woman's minutely

observant questions about my mother and my sister, and innocently

wondered whether I should ever leave my lonely chambers and have a

wife and a house of my own? Wind and wave had long since smoothed

out the trace of her which she had left in those marks on the

sand, I looked over the wide monotony of the seaside prospect, and

the place in which we two had idled away the sunny hours was as

lost to me as if I had never known it, as strange to me as if I

stood already on a foreign shore.

The empty silence of the beach struck cold to my heart. I

returned to the house and the garden, where traces were left to

speak of her at every turn.

On the west terrace walk I met Mr. Gilmore. He was evidently in

search of me, for he quickened his pace when we caught sight of

each other. The state of my spirits little fitted me for the

society of a stranger; but the meeting was inevitable, and I

resigned myself to make the best of it.

"You are the very person I wanted to see," said the old gentleman.

"I had two words to say to you, my dear sir; and If you have no

objection I will avail myself of the present opportunity. To put

it plainly, Miss Halcombe and I have been talking over family

affairs--affairs which are the cause of my being here--and in the

course of our conversation she was naturally led to tell me of

this unpleasant matter connected with the anonymous letter, and of

the share which you have most creditably and properly taken in the

proceedings so far. That share, I quite understand, gives you an

interest which you might not otherwise have felt, in knowing that

the future management of the investigation which you have begun

will be placed in safe hands. My dear sir, make yourself quite

easy on that point--it will be placed in MY hands."

"You are, in every way, Mr. Gilmore, much fitter to advise and to

act in the matter than I am. Is it an indiscretion on my part to

ask if you have decided yet on a course of proceeding?"

"So far as it is possible to decide, Mr. Hartright, I have

decided. I mean to send a copy of the letter, accompanied by a

statement of the circumstances, to Sir Percival Glyde's solicitor

in London, with whom I have some acquaintance. The letter itself

I shall keep here to show to Sir Percival as soon as he arrives.

The tracing of the two women I have already provided for, by

sending one of Mr. Fairlie's servants--a confidential person--to

the station to make inquiries. The man has his money and his

directions, and he will follow the women in the event of his

finding any clue. This is all that can be done until Sir Percival

comes on Monday. I have no doubt myself that every explanation

which can be expected from a gentleman and a man of honour, he

will readily give. Sir Percival stands very high, sir--an eminent

position, a reputation above suspicion--I feel quite easy about

results--quite easy, I am rejoiced to assure you. Things of this

sort happen constantly in my experience. Anonymous letters--

unfortunate woman--sad state of society. I don't deny that there

are peculiar complications in this case; but the case itself is,

most unhappily, common--common."

"Just so, my dear sir--just so. I am an old man, and I take the

practical view. You are a young man, and you take the romantic

view. Let us not dispute about our views. I live professionally

in an atmosphere of disputation, Mr. Hartright, and I am only too

glad to escape from it, as I am escaping here. We will wait for

events--yes, yes, yes--we will wait for events. Charming place

this. Good shooting? Probably not, none of Mr. Fairlie's land is

preserved, I think. Charming place, though, and delightful

people. You draw and paint, I hear, Mr. Hartright? Enviable

accomplishment. What style?"

We dropped into general conversation, or rather, Mr. Gilmore

talked and I listened. My attention was far from him, and from

the topics on which he discoursed so fluently. The solitary walk

of the last two hours had wrought its effect on me--it had set the

idea in my mind of hastening my departure from Limmeridge House.

Why should I prolong the hard trial of saying farewell by one

unnecessary minute? What further service was required of me by any

one? There was no useful purpose to be served by my stay in

Cumberland--there was no restriction of time in the permission to

leave which my employer had granted to me. Why not end it there

and then?

I determined to end it. There were some hours of daylight still

left--there was no reason why my journey back to London should not

begin on that afternoon. I made the first civil excuse that

occurred to me for leaving Mr. Gilmore, and returned at once to

the house.

On my way up to my own room I met Miss Halcombe on the stairs.

She saw, by the hurry of my movements and the change in my manner,

that I had some new purpose in view, and asked what had happened.

"No, no," she said, earnestly and kindly, "leave us like a friend--

break bread with us once more. Stay here and dine, stay here and

help us to spend our last evening with you as happily, as like our

first evenings, as we can. It is my invitation--Mrs. Vesey's

invitation----" she hesitated a little, and then added, "Laura's

invitation as well."

I had not spoken to Miss Fairlie--I had not even seen her--all

that day. The first meeting with her, when I entered the drawing-

room, was a hard trial to her self-control and to mine. She, too,

had done her best to make our last evening renew the golden bygone

time--the time that could never come again. She had put on the

dress which I used to admire more than any other that she

possessed--a dark blue silk, trimmed quaintly and prettily with

old-fashioned lace; she came forward to meet me with her former

readiness--she gave me her hand with the frank, innocent good-will

of happier days. The cold fingers that trembled round mine--the

pale cheeks with a bright red spot burning in the midst of them--

the faint smile that struggled to live on her lips and died away

from them while I looked at it, told me at what sacrifice of

herself her outward composure was maintained. My heart could take

her no closer to me, or I should have loved her then as I had

never loved her yet.

Mr. Gilmore was a great assistance to us. He was in high good-

humour, and he led the conversation with unflagging spirit. Miss

Halcombe seconded him resolutely, and I did all I could to follow

her example. The kind blue eyes, whose slightest changes of

expression I had learnt to interpret so well, looked at me

appealingly when we first sat down to table. Help my sister--the

sweet anxious face seemed to say--help my sister, and you will

help me.

We got through the dinner, to all outward appearance at least,

happily enough. When the ladies had risen from table, and Mr.

Gilmore and I were left alone in the dining-room, a new interest

presented itself to occupy our attention, and to give me an

opportunity of quieting myself by a few minutes of needful and

welcome silence. The servant who had been despatched to trace

Anne Catherick and Mrs. Clements returned with his report, and was

shown into the dining-room immediately.

"Well, my friend, you have done all you could, and I have done all

I could, and there the matter must rest till further notice. We

have played our trump cards, Mr. Hartright," continued the old

gentleman when the servant had withdrawn. "For the present, at

least, the women have outmanoeuvred us, and our only resource now

is to wait till Sir Percival Glyde comes here on Monday next.

Won't you fill your glass again? Good bottle of port, that--sound,

substantial, old wine. I have got better in my own cellar,

though."

We returned to the drawing-room--the room in which the happiest

evenings of my life had been passed--the room which, after this

last night, I was never to see again. Its aspect was altered

since the days had shortened and the weather had grown cold. The

glass doors on the terrace side were closed, and hidden by thick

curtains. Instead of the soft twilight obscurity, in which we

used to sit, the bright radiant glow of lamplight now dazzled my

eyes. All was changed--in-doors and out all was changed.

Miss Halcombe and Mr. Gilmore sat down together at the card-table--

Mrs. Vesey took her customary chair. There was no restraint on

the disposal of THEIR evening, and I felt the restraint on the

disposal of mine all the more painfully from observing it. I saw

Miss Fairlie lingering near the music-stand. The time had been

when I might have joined her there. I waited irresolutely--I knew

neither where to go nor what to do next. She cast one quick

glance at me, took a piece of music suddenly from the stand, and

came towards me of her own accord.

"Shall I play some of those little melodies of Mozart's which you

used to like so much?" she asked, opening the music nervously, and

looking down at it while she spoke.

Before I could thank her she hastened to the piano. The chair

near it, which I had always been accustomed to occupy, stood

empty. She struck a few chords--then glanced round at me--then

looked back again at her music.

She did not reply--she kept her attention riveted on the music--

music which she knew by memory, which she had played over and over

again, in former times, without the book. I only knew that she

had heard me, I only knew that she was aware of my being close to

her, by seeing the red spot on the cheek that was nearest to me

fade out, and the face grow pale all over.

"I am very sorry you are going," she said, her voice almost

sinking to a whisper, her eyes looking more and more intently at

the music, her fingers flying over the keys of the piano with a

strange feverish energy which I had never noticed in her before.

Her lips trembled--a faint sigh fluttered from them, which she

tried vainly to suppress. Her fingers wavered on the piano--she

struck a false note, confused herself in trying to set it right,

and dropped her hands angrily on her lap. Miss Halcombe and Mr.

Gilmore looked up in astonishment from the card-table at which

they were playing. Even Mrs. Vesey, dozing in her chair, woke at

the sudden cessation of the music, and inquired what had happened.

I knew what she meant--I knew she was right, and I rose at once to

go to the card-table. As I left the piano Miss Fairlie turned a

page of the music, and touched the keys again with a surer hand.

"Come, Mrs. Vesey," said Miss Halcombe, "Mr. Gilmore and I are

tired of ecarte--come and be Mr. Hartright's partner at whist."

The old lawyer smiled satirically. His had been the winning hand,

and he had just turned up a king. He evidently attributed Miss

Halcombe's abrupt change in the card-table arrangements to a

lady's inability to play the losing game.

The rest of the evening passed without a word or a look from her.

She kept her place at the piano, and I kept mine at the card-

table. She played unintermittingly--played as if the music was

her only refuge from herself. Sometimes her fingers touched the

notes with a lingering fondness--a soft, plaintive, dying

tenderness, unutterably beautiful and mournful to hear; sometimes

they faltered and failed her, or hurried over the instrument

mechanically, as if their task was a burden to them. But still,

change and waver as they might in the expression they imparted to

the music, their resolution to play never faltered. She only rose

from the piano when we all rose to say Good-night.

"I shall not see you again, Mr. Hartright," said the old lady. "I

am truly sorry you are going away. You have been very kind and

attentive, and an old woman like me feels kindness and attention.

I wish you happy, sir--I wish you a kind good-bye."

"I hope we shall have a future opportunity of bettering our

acquaintance, Mr. Hartright. You quite understand about that

little matter of business being safe in my hands? Yes, yes, of

course. Bless me, how cold it is! Don't let me keep you at the

door. Bon voyage, my dear sir--bon voyage, as the French say."

"Half-past seven to-morrow morning," she said--then added in a

whisper, "I have heard and seen more than you think. Your conduct

to-night has made me your friend for life."

Miss Fairlie came last. I could not trust myself to look at her

when I took her hand, and when I thought of the next morning.

"No, no," she interposed hastily, "not before I am out of my room.

I shall be down to breakfast with Marian. I am not so ungrateful,

not so forgetful of the past three months----"

Her voice failed her, her hand closed gently round mine--then

dropped it suddenly. Before I could say "Good-night" she was

gone.

It was barely half-past seven when I went downstairs, but I found

them both at the breakfast-table waiting for me. In the chill

air, in the dim light, in the gloomy morning silence of the house,

we three sat down together, and tried to eat, tried to talk. The

struggle to preserve appearances was hopeless and useless, and I

rose to end it.

As I held out my hand, as Miss Halcombe, who was nearest to me,

took it, Miss Fairlie turned away suddenly and hurried from the

room.

I waited a moment before I could speak--it was hard to lose her,

without a parting word or a parting look. I controlled myself--I

tried to take leave of Miss Halcombe in fitting terms; but all the

farewell words I would fain have spoken dwindled to one sentence.

"And if I can ever be of help again, at any future time, long

after the memory of my presumption and my folly is forgotten . . ."

She caught me by both hands--she pressed them with the strong,

steady grasp of a man--her dark eyes glittered--her brown

complexion flushed deep--the force and energy of her face glowed

and grew beautiful with the pure inner light of her generosity and

her pity.

"I will trust you--if ever the time comes I will trust you as my

friend and HER friend, as my brother and HER brother." She

stopped, drew me nearer to her--the fearless, noble creature--

touched my forehead, sister-like, with her lips, and called me by

my Christian name. "God bless you, Walter!" she said. "Wait here

alone and compose yourself--I had better not stay for both our

sakes--I had better see you go from the balcony upstairs."

She left the room. I turned away towards the window, where

nothing faced me but the lonely autumn landscape--I turned away to

master myself, before I too left the room in my turn, and left it

for ever.

A minute passed--it could hardly have been more--when I heard the

door open again softly, and the rustling of a woman's dress on the

carpet moved towards me. My heart beat violently as I turned

round. Miss Fairlie was approaching me from the farther end of

the room.

She stopped and hesitated when our eyes met, and when she saw that

we were alone. Then, with that courage which women lose so often

in the small emergency, and so seldom in the great, she came on

nearer to me, strangely pale and strangely quiet, drawing one hand

after her along the table by which she walked, and holding

something at her side in the other, which was hidden by the folds

of her dress.

"I only went into the drawing-room," she said, "to look for this.

It may remind you of your visit here, and of the friends you leave

behind you. You told me I had improved very much when I did it,

and I thought you might like----"

She turned her head away, and offered me a little sketch, drawn

throughout by her own pencil, of the summer-house in which we had

first met. The paper trembled in her hand as she held it out to

me--trembled in mine as I took it from her.

I was afraid to say what I felt--I only answered, "It shall never

leave me--all my life long it shall be the treasure that I prize

most. I am very grateful for it--very grateful to you, for not

letting me go away without bidding you good-bye."

"Those days may never return, Miss Fairlie--my way of life and

yours are very far apart. But if a time should come, when the

devotion of my whole heart and soul and strength will give you a

moment's happiness, or spare you a moment's sorrow, will you try

to remember the poor drawing-master who has taught you? Miss

Halcombe has promised to trust me--will you promise too?"

"You have many friends who love you, Miss Fairlie. Your happy

future is the dear object of many hopes. May I say, at parting,

that it is the dear object of MY hopes too?"

The tears flowed fast down her cheeks. She rested one trembling

hand on the table to steady herself while she gave me the other.

I took it in mine--I held it fast. My head drooped over it, my

tears fell on it, my lips pressed it--not in love; oh, not in

love, at that last moment, but in the agony and the self-

abandonment of despair.

The confession of her heart's secret burst from her in those

pleading words. I had no right to hear them, no right to answer

them--they were the words that banished me, in the name of her

sacred weakness, from the room. It was all over. I dropped her

hand, I said no more. The blinding tears shut her out from my

eyes, and I dashed them away to look at her for the last time.

One look as she sank into a chair, as her arms fell on the table,

as her fair head dropped on them wearily. One farewell look, and

the door had closed upon her--the great gulf of separation had

opened between us--the image of Laura Fairlie was a memory of the

past already.

In the 1600s, Balthasar Gracian, a jesuit priest wrote 300 aphorisms on living life called "The Art of Worldly Wisdom." Join our newsletter below and read them all, one at a time.