The Woman in White
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 sea-side 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.”
“I am afraid, Mr. Gilmore, I have the misfortune to differ from you in
the view I take of the case.”
“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.
I told her the reasons which induced me to think of hastening my
departure, exactly as I have told them here.
“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 promised to remain. God knows I had no wish to leave even the shadow
of a sorrowful impression with any one of them.
My own room was the best place for me till the dinner bell rang. I
waited there till it was time to go downstairs.
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