The Woman in White

Chapter 3

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.

Such was the history of the ten thousand pounds. Here again no

difficulty could arise with Sir Percival's legal adviser. The

income would be at the wife's disposal, and the principal would go

to her aunt or her cousin on her death.

All preliminary explanations being now cleared out of the way, I

come at last to the real knot of the case--to the twenty thousand

pounds.

This sum was absolutely Miss Fairlie's own on her completing her

twenty-first year, and the whole future disposition of it

depended, in the first instance, on the conditions I could obtain

for her in her marriage-settlement. The other clauses contained

in that document were of a formal kind, and need not be recited

here. But the clause relating to the money is too important to be

passed over. A few lines will be sufficient to give the necessary

abstract of it.

My stipulation in regard to the twenty thousand pounds was simply

this: The whole amount was to be settled so as to give the income

to the lady for her life--afterwards to Sir Percival for his life--

and the principal to the children of the marriage. In default of

issue, the principal was to be disposed of as the lady might by

her will direct, for which purpose I reserved to her the right of

making a will. The effect of these conditions may be thus summed

up. If Lady Glyde died without leaving children, her half-sister

Miss Halcombe, and any other relatives or friends whom she might

be anxious to benefit, would, on her husband's death, divide among

them such shares of her money as she desired them to have. If, on

the other hand, she died leaving children, then their interest,

naturally and necessarily, superseded all other interests

whatsoever. This was the clause--and no one who reads it can

fail, I think, to agree with me that it meted out equal justice to

all parties.

We shall see how my proposals were met on the husband's side.

At the time when Miss Halcombe's letter reached me I was even more

busily occupied than usual. But I contrived to make leisure for

the settlement. I had drawn it, and had sent it for approval to

Sir Percival's solicitor, in less than a week from the time when

Miss Halcombe had informed me of the proposed marriage.

After a lapse of two days the document was returned to me, with

notes and remarks of the baronet's lawyer. His objections, in

general, proved to be of the most trifling and technical kind,

until he came to the clause relating to the twenty thousand

pounds. Against this there were double lines drawn in red ink,

and the following note was appended to them--

"Not admissible. The PRINCIPAL to go to Sir Percival Glyde, in

the event of his surviving Lady Glyde, and there being no issue."

That is to say, not one farthing of the twenty thousand pounds was

to go to Miss Halcombe, or to any other relative or friend of Lady

Glyde's. The whole sum, if she left no children, was to slip into

the pockets of her husband.

The answer I wrote to this audacious proposal was as short and

sharp as I could make it. "My dear sir. Miss Fairlie's

settlement. I maintain the clause to which you object, exactly as

it stands. Yours truly." The rejoinder came back in a quarter of

an hour. "My dear sir. Miss Fairlie's settlement. I maintain

the red ink to which you object, exactly as it stands. Yours

truly." In the detestable slang of the day, we were now both "at a

deadlock," and nothing was left for it but to refer to our clients

on either side.

As matters stood, my client--Miss Fairlie not having yet completed

her twenty-first year--Mr. Frederick Fairlie, was her guardian. I

wrote by that day's post, and put the case before him exactly as

it stood, not only urging every argument I could think of to

induce him to maintain the clause as I had drawn it, but stating

to him plainly the mercenary motive which was at the bottom of the

opposition to my settlement of the twenty thousand pounds. The

knowledge of Sir Percival's affairs which I had necessarily gained

when the provisions of the deed on HIS side were submitted in due

course to my examination, had but too plainly informed me that the

debts on his estate were enormous, and that his income, though

nominally a large one, was virtually, for a man in his position,

next to nothing. The want of ready money was the practical

necessity of Sir Percival's existence, and his lawyer's note on

the clause in the settlement was nothing but the frankly selfish

expression of it.

Mr. Fairlie's answer reached me by return of post, and proved to

be wandering and irrelevant in the extreme. Turned into plain

English, it practically expressed itself to this effect: "Would

dear Gilmore be so very obliging as not to worry his friend and

client about such a trifle as a remote contingency? Was it likely

that a young woman of twenty-one would die before a man of forty

five, and die without children? On the other hand, in such a

miserable world as this, was it possible to over-estimate the

value of peace and quietness? If those two heavenly blessings were

offered in exchange for such an earthly trifle as a remote chance

of twenty thousand pounds, was it not a fair bargain? Surely, yes.

Then why not make it?"

I threw the letter away in disgust. Just as it had fluttered to

the ground, there was a knock at my door, and Sir Percival's

solicitor, Mr. Merriman, was shown in. There are many varieties

of sharp practitioners in this world, but I think the hardest of

all to deal with are the men who overreach you under the disguise

of inveterate good-humour. A fat, well fed, smiling, friendly man

of business is of all parties to a bargain the most hopeless to

deal with. Mr. Merriman was one of this class.

"And how is good Mr. Gilmore?" he began, all in a glow with the

warmth of his own amiability. "Glad to see you, sir, in such

excellent health. I was passing your door, and I thought I would

look in in case you might have something to say to me. Do--now

pray do let us settle this little difference of ours by word of

mouth, if we can! Have you heard from your client yet?"

"Yes. Have you heard from yours?"

"My dear, good sir! I wish I had heard from him to any purpose--I

wish, with all my heart, the responsibility was off my shoulders;

but he is obstinate--or let me rather say, resolute--and he won't

take it off. 'Merriman, I leave details to you. Do what you

think right for my interests, and consider me as having personally

withdrawn from the business until it is all over.' Those were Sir

Percival's words a fortnight ago, and all I can get him to do now

is to repeat them. I am not a hard man, Mr. Gilmore, as you know.

Personally and privately, I do assure you, I should like to sponge

out that note of mine at this very moment. But if Sir Percival

won't go into the matter, if Sir Percival will blindly leave all

his interests in my sole care, what course can I possibly take

except the course of asserting them? My hands are bound--don't you

see, my dear sir?--my hands are bound."

"You maintain your note on the clause, then, to the letter?" I

said.

"Yes--deuce take it! I have no other alternative." He walked to

the fireplace and warmed himself, humming the fag end of a tune in

a rich convivial bass voice. "What does your side say?" he went

on; "now pray tell me--what does your side say?"

I was ashamed to tell him. I attempted to gain time--nay, I did

worse. My legal instincts got the better of me, and I even tried

to bargain.

"Twenty thousand pounds is rather a large sum to be given up by

the lady's friends at two days' notice," I said.

"Very true," replied Mr. Merriman, looking down thoughtfully at

his boots. "Properly put, sir--most properly put!"

"A compromise, recognising the interests of the lady's family as

well as the interests of the husband, might not perhaps have

frightened my client quite so much," I went on. "Come, come! this

contingency resolves itself into a matter of bargaining after all.

What is the least you will take?"

"The least we will take," said Mr. Merriman, "is nineteen-

thousand-nine-hundred-and-ninety-nine-pounds-nineteen-shillings-

and-elevenpence-three-farthings. Ha! ha! ha! Excuse me, Mr.

Gilmore. I must have my little joke."

"Little enough," I remarked. "The joke is just worth the odd

farthing it was made for."

Mr. Merriman was delighted. He laughed over my retort till the

room rang again. I was not half so good-humoured on my side; I

came back to business, and closed the interview.

"This is Friday," I said. "Give us till Tuesday next for our

final answer."

"By all means," replied Mr. Merriman. "Longer, my dear sir, if

you like." He took up his hat to go, and then addressed me again.

"By the way," he said, "your clients in Cumberland have not heard

anything more of the woman who wrote the anonymous letter, have

they?"

"Nothing more," I answered. "Have you found no trace of her?"

"Not yet," said my legal friend. "But we don't despair. Sir

Percival has his suspicions that Somebody is keeping her in

hiding, and we are having that Somebody watched."

"You mean the old woman who was with her in Cumberland," I said.

"Quite another party, sir," answered Mr. Merriman. "We don't

happen to have laid hands on the old woman yet. Our Somebody is a

man. We have got him close under our eye here in London, and we

strongly suspect he had something to do with helping her in the

first instance to escape from the Asylum. Sir Percival wanted to

question him at once, but I said, 'No. Questioning him will only

put him on his guard--watch him, and wait.' We shall see what

happens. A dangerous woman to be at large, Mr. Gilmore; nobody

knows what she may do next. I wish you good-morning, sir. On

Tuesday next I shall hope for the pleasure of hearing from you."

He smiled amiably and went out.

My mind had been rather absent during the latter part of the

conversation with my legal friend. I was so anxious about the

matter of the settlement that I had little attention to give to

any other subject, and the moment I was left alone again I began

to think over what my next proceeding ought to be.

In the case of any other client I should have acted on my

instructions, however personally distasteful to me, and have given

up the point about the twenty thousand pounds on the spot. But I

could not act with this business-like indifference towards Miss

Fairlie. I had an honest feeling of affection and admiration for

her--I remembered gratefully that her father had been the kindest

patron and friend to me that ever man had--I had felt towards her

while I was drawing the settlement as I might have felt, if I had

not been an old bachelor, towards a daughter of my own, and I was

determined to spare no personal sacrifice in her service and where

her interests were concerned. Writing a second time to Mr.

Fairlie was not to be thought of--it would only be giving him a

second opportunity of slipping through my fingers. Seeing him and

personally remonstrating with him might possibly be of more use.

The next day was Saturday. I determined to take a return ticket

and jolt my old bones down to Cumberland, on the chance of

persuading him to adopt the just, the independent, and the

honourable course. It was a poor chance enough, no doubt, but

when I had tried it my conscience would be at ease. I should then

have done all that a man in my position could do to serve the

interests of my old friend's only child.

The weather on Saturday was beautiful, a west wind and a bright

sun. Having felt latterly a return of that fulness and oppression

of the head, against which my doctor warned me so seriously more

than two years since, I resolved to take the opportunity of

getting a little extra exercise by sending my bag on before me and

walking to the terminus in Euston Square. As I came out into

Holborn a gentleman walking by rapidly stopped and spoke to me.

It was Mr. Walter Hartright.

If he had not been the first to greet me I should certainly have

passed him. He was so changed that I hardly knew him again. His

face looked pale and haggard--his manner was hurried and

uncertain--and his dress, which I remembered as neat and

gentleman-like when I saw him at Limmeridge, was so slovenly now

that I should really have been ashamed of the appearance of it on

one of my own clerks.

"Have you been long back from Cumberland?" he asked. "I heard

from Miss Halcombe lately. I am aware that Sir Percival Glyde's

explanation has been considered satisfactory. Will the marriage

take place soon? Do you happen to know Mr. Gilmore?"

He spoke so fast, and crowded his questions together so strangely

and confusedly, that I could hardly follow him. However

accidentally intimate he might have been with the family at

Limmeridge, I could not see that he had any right to expect

information on their private affairs, and I determined to drop

him, as easily as might be, on the subject of Miss Fairlie's

marriage.

"Time will show, Mr. Hartright," I said--"time will show. I dare

say if we look out for the marriage in the papers we shall not be

far wrong. Excuse my noticing it, but I am sorry to see you not

looking so well as you were when we last met."

A momentary nervous contraction quivered about his lips and eyes,

and made me half reproach myself for having answered him in such a

significantly guarded manner.

"I had no right to ask about her marriage," he said bitterly. "I

must wait to see it in the newspapers like other people. Yes,"--

he went on before I could make any apologies--"I have not been

well lately. I am going to another country to try a change of

scene and occupation. Miss Halcombe has kindly assisted me with

her influence, and my testimonials have been found satisfactory.

It is a long distance off, but I don't care where I go, what the

climate is, or how long I am away." He looked about him while he

said this at the throng of strangers passing us by on either side,

in a strange, suspicious manner, as if he thought that some of

them might be watching us.

"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.