The Woman in White

Chapter 2

Sir Percival was in such boisterous high spirits that I hardly

recognised him as the same man whose quiet tact, refinement, and

good sense had impressed me so strongly at the interview of the

morning. The only trace of his former self that I could detect

reappeared, every now and then, in his manner towards Miss

Fairlie. A look or a word from her suspended his loudest laugh,

checked his gayest flow of talk, and rendered him all attention to

her, and to no one else at table, in an instant. Although he

never openly tried to draw her into the conversation, he never

lost the slightest chance she gave him of letting her drift into

it by accident, and of saying the words to her, under those

favourable circumstances, which a man with less tact and delicacy

would have pointedly addressed to her the moment they occurred to

him. Rather to my surprise, Miss Fairlie appeared to be sensible

of his attentions without being moved by them. She was a little

confused from time to time when he looked at her, or spoke to her;

but she never warmed towards him. Rank, fortune, good breeding,

good looks, the respect of a gentleman, and the devotion of a

lover were all humbly placed at her feet, and, so far as

appearances went, were all offered in vain.

On the next day, the Tuesday, Sir Percival went in the morning

(taking one of the servants with him as a guide) to Todd's Corner.

His inquiries, as I afterwards heard, led to no results. On his

return he had an interview with Mr. Fairlie, and in the afternoon

he and Miss Halcombe rode out together. Nothing else happened

worthy of record. The evening passed as usual. There was no

change in Sir Percival, and no change in Miss Fairlie.

The Wednesday's post brought with it an event--the reply from Mrs.

Catherick. I took a copy of the document, which I have preserved,

and which I may as well present in this place. It ran as follows--

"MADAM,--I beg to acknowledge the receipt of your letter,

inquiring whether my daughter, Anne, was placed under medical

superintendence with my knowledge and approval, and whether the

share taken in the matter by Sir Percival Glyde was such as to

merit the expression of my gratitude towards that gentleman. Be

pleased to accept my answer in the affirmative to both those

questions, and believe me to remain, your obedient servant,

Short, sharp, and to the point; in form rather a business-like

letter for a woman to write--in substance as plain a confirmation

as could be desired of Sir Percival Glyde's statement. This was

my opinion, and with certain minor reservations, Miss Halcombe's

opinion also. Sir Percival, when the letter was shown to him, did

not appear to be struck by the sharp, short tone of it. He told

us that Mrs. Catherick was a woman of few words, a clear-headed,

straightforward, unimaginative person, who wrote briefly and

plainly, just as she spoke.

The next duty to be accomplished, now that the answer had been

received, was to acquaint Miss Fairlie with Sir Percival's

explanation. Miss Halcombe had undertaken to do this, and had

left the room to go to her sister, when she suddenly returned

again, and sat down by the easy-chair in which I was reading the

newspaper. Sir Percival had gone out a minute before to look at

the stables, and no one was in the room but ourselves.

"I suppose we have really and truly done all we can?" she said,

turning and twisting Mrs. Catherick's letter in her hand.

"If we are friends of Sir Percival's, who know him and trust him,

we have done all, and more than all, that is necessary," I

answered, a little annoyed by this return of her hesitation. "But

if we are enemies who suspect him----"

"That alternative is not even to be thought of," she interposed.

"We are Sir Percival's friends, and if generosity and forbearance

can add to our regard for him, we ought to be Sir Percival's

admirers as well. You know that he saw Mr. Fairlie yesterday, and

that he afterwards went out with me."

"We began the ride by talking about Anne Catherick, and about the

singular manner in which Mr. Hartright met with her. But we soon

dropped that subject, and Sir Percival spoke next, in the most

unselfish terms, of his engagement with Laura. He said he had

observed that she was out of spirits, and he was willing, if not

informed to the contrary, to attribute to that cause the

alteration in her manner towards him during his present visit.

If, however, there was any more serious reason for the change, he

would entreat that no constraint might be placed on her

inclinations either by Mr. Fairlie or by me. All he asked, in

that case, was that she would recall to mind, for the last time,

what the circumstances were under which the engagement between

them was made, and what his conduct had been from the beginning of

the courtship to the present time. If, after due reflection on

those two subjects, she seriously desired that he should withdraw

his pretensions to the honour of becoming her husband--and if she

would tell him so plainly with her own lips--he would sacrifice

himself by leaving her perfectly free to withdraw from the

engagement."

"I accuse nobody, and I suspect nothing," she broke out abruptly.

"But I cannot and will not accept the responsibility of persuading

Laura to this marriage."

"That is exactly the course which Sir Percival Glyde has himself

requested you to take," I replied in astonishment. "He has begged

you not to force her inclinations."

"Consult your own knowledge of Laura, Mr. Gilmore. If I tell her

to reflect on the circumstances of her engagement, I at once

appeal to two of the strongest feelings in her nature--to her love

for her father's memory, and to her strict regard for truth. You

know that she never broke a promise in her life--you know that she

entered on this engagement at the beginning of her father's fatal

illness, and that he spoke hopefully and happily of her marriage

to Sir Percival Glyde on his deathbed."

"Surely," I said, "you don't mean to infer that when Sir Percival

spoke to you yesterday he speculated on such a result as you have

just mentioned?"

"Do you think I would remain an instant in the company of any man

whom I suspected of such baseness as that?" she asked angrily.

I liked to feel her hearty indignation flash out on me in that

way. We see so much malice and so little indignation in my

profession.

"In that case," I said, "excuse me if I tell you, in our legal

phrase, that you are travelling out of the record. Whatever the

consequences may be, Sir Percival has a right to expect that your

sister should carefully consider her engagement from every

reasonable point of view before she claims her release from it.

If that unlucky letter has prejudiced her against him, go at once,

and tell her that he has cleared himself in your eyes and in mine.

What objection can she urge against him after that? What excuse

can she possibly have for changing her mind about a man whom she

had virtually accepted for her husband more than two years ago?"

"In the eyes of law and reason, Mr. Gilmore, no excuse, I daresay.

If she still hesitates, and if I still hesitate, you must

attribute our strange conduct, if you like, to caprice in both

cases, and we must bear the imputation as well as we can."

With those words she suddenly rose and left me. When a sensible

woman has a serious question put to her, and evades it by a

flippant answer, it is a sure sign, in ninety-nine cases out of a

hundred, that she has something to conceal. I returned to the

perusal of the newspaper, strongly suspecting that Miss Halcombe

and Miss Fairlie had a secret between them which they were keeping

from Sir Percival, and keeping from me. I thought this hard on

both of us, especially on Sir Percival.

My doubts--or to speak more correctly, my convictions--were

confirmed by Miss Halcombe's language and manner when I saw her

again later in the day. She was suspiciously brief and reserved

in telling me the result of her interview with her sister. Miss

Fairlie, it appeared, had listened quietly while the affair of the

letter was placed before her in the right point of view, but when

Miss Halcombe next proceeded to say that the object of Sir

Percival's visit at Limmeridge was to prevail on her to let a day

be fixed for the marriage she checked all further reference to the

subject by begging for time. If Sir Percival would consent to

spare her for the present, she would undertake to give him his

final answer before the end of the year. She pleaded for this

delay with such anxiety and agitation, that Miss Halcombe had

promised to use her influence, if necessary, to obtain it, and

there, at Miss Fairlie's earnest entreaty, all further discussion

of the marriage question had ended.

The purely temporary arrangement thus proposed might have been

convenient enough to the young lady, but it proved somewhat

embarrassing to the writer of these lines. That morning's post

had brought a letter from my partner, which obliged me to return

to town the next day by the afternoon train. It was extremely

probable that I should find no second opportunity of presenting

myself at Limmeridge House during the remainder of the year. In

that case, supposing Miss Fairlie ultimately decided on holding to

her engagement, my necessary personal communication with her,

before I drew her settlement, would become something like a

downright impossibility, and we should be obliged to commit to

writing questions which ought always to be discussed on both sides

by word of mouth. I said nothing about this difficulty until Sir

Percival had been consulted on the subject of the desired delay.

He was too gallant a gentleman not to grant the request

immediately. When Miss Halcombe informed me of this I told her

that I must absolutely speak to her sister before I left

Limmeridge, and it was, therefore, arranged that I should see Miss

Fairlie in her own sitting-room the next morning. She did not

come down to dinner, or join us in the evening. Indisposition was

the excuse, and I thought Sir Percival looked, as well he might, a

little annoyed when he heard of it.

The next morning, as soon as breakfast was over, I went up to Miss

Fairlie's sitting-room. The poor girl looked so pale and sad, and

came forward to welcome me so readily and prettily, that the

resolution to lecture her on her caprice and indecision, which I

had been forming all the way upstairs, failed me on the spot. I

led her back to the chair from which she had risen, and placed

myself opposite to her. Her cross-grained pet greyhound was in

the room, and I fully expected a barking and snapping reception.

Strange to say, the whimsical little brute falsified my

expectations by jumping into my lap and poking its sharp muzzle

familiarly into my hand the moment I sat down.

"You used often to sit on my knee when you were a child, my

dear," I said, "and now your little dog seems determined to

succeed you in the vacant throne. Is that pretty drawing your

doing?"

I pointed to a little album which lay on the table by her side and

which she had evidently been looking over when I came in. The

page that lay open had a small water-colour landscape very neatly

mounted on it. This was the drawing which had suggested my

question--an idle question enough--but how could I begin to talk

of business to her the moment I opened my lips?

Her fingers had a restless habit, which I remembered in her as a

child, of always playing with the first thing that came to hand

whenever any one was talking to her. On this occasion they

wandered to the album, and toyed absently about the margin of the

little water-colour drawing. The expression of melancholy

deepened on her face. She did not look at the drawing, or look at

me. Her eyes moved uneasily from object to object in the room,

betraying plainly that she suspected what my purpose was in coming

to speak to her. Seeing that, I thought it best to get to the

purpose with as little delay as possible.

"One of the errands, my dear, which brings me here is to bid you

good-bye," I began. "I must get back to London to-day: and,

before I leave, I want to have a word with you on the subject of

your own affairs."

"I am very sorry you are going, Mr. Gilmore," she said, looking at

me kindly. "It is like the happy old times to have you here.

"I hope I may be able to come back and recall those pleasant

memories once more," I continued; "but as there is some

uncertainty about the future, I must take my opportunity when I

can get it, and speak to you now. I am your old lawyer and your

old friend, and I may remind you, I am sure, without offence, of

the possibility of your marrying Sir Percival Glyde."

She took her hand off the little album as suddenly as if it had

turned hot and burnt her. Her fingers twined together nervously

in her lap, her eyes looked down again at the floor, and an

expression of constraint settled on her face which looked almost

like an expression of pain.

"It is necessary to refer to it," I answered, "but not to dwell on

it. Let us merely say that you may marry, or that you may not

marry. In the first case, I must be prepared, beforehand, to draw

your settlement, and I ought not to do that without, as a matter

of politeness, first consulting you. This may be my only chance

of hearing what your wishes are. Let us, therefore, suppose the

case of your marrying, and let me inform you, in as few words as

possible, what your position is now, and what you may make it, if

you please, in the future."

I explained to her the object of a marriage-settlement, and then

told her exactly what her prospects were--in the first place, on

her coming of age, and in the second place, on the decease of her

uncle--marking the distinction between the property in which she

had a life-interest only, and the property which was left at her

own control. She listened attentively, with the constrained

expression still on her face, and her hands still nervously

clasped together in her lap.

"And now," I said in conclusion, "tell me if you can think of any

condition which, in the case we have supposed, you would wish me

to make for you--subject, of course, to your guardian's approval,

as you are not yet of age."

"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?"

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.

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.

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."

"You are altering your opinion about Laura," she said. "You are

readier to make allowances for her than you were yesterday."

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.

"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.

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.