The Woman in White

Chapter 6

When I rose the next morning and drew up my blind, the sea opened

before me joyously under the broad August sunlight, and the

distant coast of Scotland fringed the horizon with its lines of

melting blue.

The view was such a surprise, and such a change to me, after my

weary London experience of brick and mortar landscape, that I

seemed to burst into a new life and a new set of thoughts the

moment I looked at it. A confused sensation of having suddenly

lost my familiarity with the past, without acquiring any

additional clearness of idea in reference to the present or the

future, took possession of my mind. Circumstances that were but a

few days old faded back in my memory, as if they had happened

months and months since. Pesca's quaint announcement of the means

by which he had procured me my present employment; the farewell

evening I had passed with my mother and sister; even my mysterious

adventure on the way home from Hampstead--had all become like

events which might have occurred at some former epoch of my

existence. Although the woman in white was still in my mind, the

image of her seemed to have grown dull and faint already.

A little before nine o'clock, I descended to the ground-floor of

the house. The solemn man-servant of the night before met me

wandering among the passages, and compassionately showed me the

way to the breakfast-room.

My first glance round me, as the man opened the door, disclosed a

well-furnished breakfast-table, standing in the middle of a long

room, with many windows in it. I looked from the table to the

window farthest from me, and saw a lady standing at it, with her

back turned towards me. The instant my eyes rested on her, I was

struck by the rare beauty of her form, and by the unaffected grace

of her attitude. Her figure was tall, yet not too tall; comely

and well-developed, yet not fat; her head set on her shoulders

with an easy, pliant firmness; her waist, perfection in the eyes

of a man, for it occupied its natural place, it filled out its

natural circle, it was visibly and delightfully undeformed by

stays. She had not heard my entrance into the room; and I allowed

myself the luxury of admiring her for a few moments, before I

moved one of the chairs near me, as the least embarrassing means

of attracting her attention. She turned towards me immediately.

The easy elegance of every movement of her limbs and body as soon

as she began to advance from the far end of the room, set me in a

flutter of expectation to see her face clearly. She left the

window--and I said to myself, The lady is dark. She moved forward

a few steps--and I said to myself, The lady is young. She

approached nearer--and I said to myself (with a sense of surprise

which words fail me to express), The lady is ugly!

Never was the old conventional maxim, that Nature cannot err, more

flatly contradicted--never was the fair promise of a lovely figure

more strangely and startlingly belied by the face and head that

crowned it. The lady's complexion was almost swarthy, and the

dark down on her upper lip was almost a moustache. She had a

large, firm, masculine mouth and jaw; prominent, piercing,

resolute brown eyes; and thick, coal-black hair, growing unusually

low down on her forehead. Her expression--bright, frank, and

intelligent--appeared, while she was silent, to be altogether

wanting in those feminine attractions of gentleness and

pliability, without which the beauty of the handsomest woman alive

is beauty incomplete. To see such a face as this set on shoulders

that a sculptor would have longed to model--to be charmed by the

modest graces of action through which the symmetrical limbs

betrayed their beauty when they moved, and then to be almost

repelled by the masculine form and masculine look of the features

in which the perfectly shaped figure ended--was to feel a

sensation oddly akin to the helpless discomfort familiar to us all

in sleep, when we recognise yet cannot reconcile the anomalies and

contradictions of a dream.

"Mr. Hartright?" said the lady interrogatively, her dark face

lighting up with a smile, and softening and growing womanly the

moment she began to speak. "We resigned all hope of you last

night, and went to bed as usual. Accept my apologies for our

apparent want of attention; and allow me to introduce myself as

one of your pupils. Shall we shake hands? I suppose we must come

to it sooner or later--and why not sooner?"

These odd words of welcome were spoken in a clear, ringing,

pleasant voice. The offered hand--rather large, but beautifully

formed--was given to me with the easy, unaffected self-reliance of

a highly-bred woman. We sat down together at the breakfast-table

in as cordial and customary a manner as if we had known each other

for years, and had met at Limmeridge House to talk over old times

by previous appointment.

"I hope you come here good-humouredly determined to make the best

of your position," continued the lady. "You will have to begin

this morning by putting up with no other company at breakfast than

mine. My sister is in her own room, nursing that essentially

feminine malady, a slight headache; and her old governness, Mrs.

Vesey, is charitably attending on her with restorative tea. My

uncle, Mr. Fairlie, never joins us at any of our meals: he is an

invalid, and keeps bachelor state in his own apartments. There is

nobody else in the house but me. Two young ladies have been

staying here, but they went away yesterday, in despair; and no

wonder. All through their visit (in consequence of Mr. Fairlie's

invalid condition) we produced no such convenience in the house as

a flirtable, danceable, small-talkable creature of the male s*x;

and the consequence was, we did nothing but quarrel, especially at

dinner-time. How can you expect four women to dine together alone

every day, and not quarrel? We are such fools, we can't entertain

each other at table. You see I don't think much of my own s*x,

Mr. Hartright--which will you have, tea or coffee?--no woman does

think much of her own s*x, although few of them confess it as

freely as I do. Dear me, you look puzzled. Why? Are you

wondering what you will have for breakfast? or are you surprised

at my careless way of talking? In the first case, I advise you, as

a friend, to have nothing to do with that cold ham at your elbow,

and to wait till the omelette comes in. In the second case, I

will give you some tea to compose your spirits, and do all a woman

can (which is very little, by-the-bye) to hold my tongue."

She handed me my cup of tea, laughing gaily. Her light flow of

talk, and her lively familiarity of manner with a total stranger,

were accompanied by an unaffected naturalness and an easy inborn

confidence in herself and her position, which would have secured

her the respect of the most audacious man breathing. While it was

impossible to be formal and reserved in her company, it was more

than impossible to take the faintest vestige of a liberty with

her, even in thought. I felt this instinctively, even while I

caught the infection of her own bright gaiety of spirits--even

while I did my best to answer her in her own frank, lively way.

"Yes, yes," she said, when I had suggested the only explanation I

could offer, to account for my perplexed looks, "I understand.

You are such a perfect stranger in the house, that you are puzzled

by my familiar references to the worthy inhabitants. Natural

enough: I ought to have thought of it before. At any rate, I can

set it right now. Suppose I begin with myself, so as to get done

with that part of the subject as soon as possible? My name is

Marian Halcombe; and I am as inaccurate as women usually are, in

calling Mr. Fairlie my uncle, and Miss Fairlie my sister. My

mother was twice married: the first time to Mr. Halcombe, my

father; the second time to Mr. Fairlie, my half-sister's father.

Except that we are both orphans, we are in every respect as unlike

each other as possible. My father was a poor man, and Miss

Fairlie's father was a rich man. I have got nothing, and she has

a fortune. I am dark and ugly, and she is fair and pretty.

Everybody thinks me crabbed and odd (with perfect justice); and

everybody thinks her sweet-tempered and charming (with more

justice still). In short, she is an angel; and I am---- Try

some of that marmalade, Mr. Hartright, and finish the sentence, in

the name of female propriety, for yourself. What am I to tell you

about Mr. Fairlie? Upon my honour, I hardly know. He is sure to

send for you after breakfast, and you can study him for yourself.

In the meantime, I may inform you, first, that he is the late Mr.

Fairlie's younger brother; secondly, that he is a single man; and

thirdly, that he is Miss Fairlie's guardian. I won't live without

her, and she can't live without me; and that is how I come to be

at Limmeridge House. My sister and I are honestly fond of each

other; which, you will say, is perfectly unaccountable, under the

circumstances, and I quite agree with you--but so it is. You must

please both of us, Mr. Hartright, or please neither of us: and,

what is still more trying, you will be thrown entirely upon our

society. Mrs. Vesey is an excellent person, who possesses all the

cardinal virtues, and counts for nothing; and Mr. Fairlie is too

great an invalid to be a companion for anybody. I don't know what

is the matter with him, and the doctors don't know what is the

matter with him, and he doesn't know himself what is the matter

with him. We all say it's on the nerves, and we none of us know

what we mean when we say it. However, I advise you to humour his

little peculiarities, when you see him to-day. Admire his

collection of coins, prints, and water-colour drawings, and you

will win his heart. Upon my word, if you can be contented with a

quiet country life, I don't see why you should not get on very

well here. From breakfast to lunch, Mr. Fairlie's drawings will

occupy you. After lunch, Miss Fairlie and I shoulder our sketch-

books, and go out to misrepresent Nature, under your directions.

Drawing is her favourite whim, mind, not mine. Women can't draw--

their minds are too flighty, and their eyes are too inattentive.

No matter--my sister likes it; so I waste paint and spoil paper,

for her sake, as composedly as any woman in England. As for the

evenings, I think we can help you through them. Miss Fairlie

plays delightfully. For my own poor part, I don't know one note

of music from the other; but I can match you at chess, backgammon,

ecarte, and (with the inevitable female drawbacks) even at

billiards as well. What do you think of the programme? Can you

reconcile yourself to our quiet, regular life? or do you mean to

be restless, and secretly thirst for change and adventure, in the

humdrum atmosphere of Limmeridge House?"

She had run on thus far, in her gracefully bantering way, with no

other interruptions on my part than the unimportant replies which

politeness required of me. The turn of the expression, however,

in her last question, or rather the one chance word, "adventure,"

lightly as it fell from her lips, recalled my thoughts to my

meeting with the woman in white, and urged me to discover the

connection which the stranger's own reference to Mrs. Fairlie

informed me must once have existed between the nameless fugitive

from the Asylum, and the former mistress of Limmeridge House.

"Even if I were the most restless of mankind," I said, "I should

be in no danger of thirsting after adventures for some time to

come. The very night before I arrived at this house, I met with

an adventure; and the wonder and excitement of it, I can assure

you, Miss Halcombe, will last me for the whole term of my stay in

Cumberland, if not for a much longer period."

"You don't say so, Mr. Hartright! May I hear it?"

"You have a claim to hear it. The chief person in the adventure

was a total stranger to me, and may perhaps be a total stranger to

you; but she certainly mentioned the name of the late Mrs. Fairlie

in terms of the sincerest gratitude and regard."

"Mentioned my mother's name! You interest me indescribably. Pray

go on."

I at once related the circumstances under which I had met the

woman in white, exactly as they had occurred; and I repeated what

she had said to me about Mrs. Fairlie and Limmeridge House, word

for word.

Miss Halcombe's bright resolute eyes looked eagerly into mine,

from the beginning of the narrative to the end. Her face

expressed vivid interest and astonishment, but nothing more. She

was evidently as far from knowing of any clue to the mystery as I

was myself.

"Are you quite sure of those words referring to my mother?" she

asked.

"Quite sure," I replied. "Whoever she may be, the woman was once

at school in the village of Limmeridge, was treated with especial

kindness by Mrs. Fairlie, and, in grateful remembrance of that

kindness, feels an affectionate interest in all surviving members

of the family. She knew that Mrs. Fairlie and her husband were

both dead; and she spoke of Miss Fairlie as if they had known each

other when they were children."

"You said, I think, that she denied belonging to this place?"

"Yes, she told me she came from Hampshire."

"And you entirely failed to find out her name?"

"Entirely."

"Very strange. I think you were quite justified, Mr. Hartright,

in giving the poor creature her liberty, for she seems to have

done nothing in your presence to show herself unfit to enjoy it.

But I wish you had been a little more resolute about finding out

her name. We must really clear up this mystery, in some way. You

had better not speak of it yet to Mr. Fairlie, or to my sister.

They are both of them, I am certain, quite as ignorant of who the

woman is, and of what her past history in connection with us can

be, as I am myself. But they are also, in widely different ways,

rather nervous and sensitive; and you would only fidget one and

alarm the other to no purpose. As for myself, I am all aflame

with curiosity, and I devote my whole energies to the business of

discovery from this moment. When my mother came here, after her

second marriage, she certainly established the village school just

as it exists at the present time. But the old teachers are all

dead, or gone elsewhere; and no enlightenment is to be hoped for

from that quarter. The only other alternative I can think of----"

At this point we were interrupted by the entrance of the servant,

with a message from Mr. Fairlie, intimating that he would be glad

to see me, as soon as I had done breakfast.

"Wait in the hall," said Miss Halcombe, answering the servant for

me, in her quick, ready way. "Mr. Hartright will come out

directly. I was about to say," she went on, addressing me again,

"that my sister and I have a large collection of my mother's

letters, addressed to my father and to hers. In the absence of

any other means of getting information, I will pass the morning in

looking over my mother's correspondence with Mr. Fairlie. He was

fond of London, and was constantly away from his country home; and

she was accustomed, at such times, to write and report to him how

things went on at Limmeridge. Her letters are full of references

to the school in which she took so strong an interest; and I think

it more than likely that I may have discovered something when we

meet again. The luncheon hour is two, Mr. Hartright. I shall

have the pleasure of introducing you to my sister by that time,

and we will occupy the afternoon in driving round the

neighbourhood and showing you all our pet points of view. Till

two o'clock, then, farewell."

She nodded to me with the lively grace, the delightful refinement

of familiarity, which characterised all that she did and all that

she said; and disappeared by a door at the lower end of the room.

As soon as she had left me, I turned my steps towards the hall,

and followed the servant, on my way, for the first time, to the

presence of Mr. Fairlie.