VII

My conductor led me upstairs into a passage which took us back to the

bedchamber in which I had slept during the past night; and opening the

door next to it, begged me to look in.

“I have my master’s orders to show you your own sitting-room, sir,”

said the man, “and to inquire if you approve of the situation and the

light.”

I must have been hard to please, indeed, if I had not approved of the

room, and of everything about it. The bow-window looked out on the

same lovely view which I had admired, in the morning, from my bedroom.

The furniture was the perfection of luxury and beauty; the table in

the centre was bright with gaily bound books, elegant conveniences for

writing, and beautiful flowers; the second table, near the window, was

covered with all the necessary materials for mounting water-colour

drawings, and had a little easel attached to it, which I could expand

or fold up at will; the walls were hung with gaily tinted chintz; and

the floor was spread with Indian matting in maize-colour and red. It

was the prettiest and most luxurious little sitting-room I had ever

seen; and I admired it with the warmest enthusiasm.

The solemn servant was far too highly trained to betray the slightest

satisfaction. He bowed with icy deference when my terms of eulogy were

all exhausted, and silently opened the door for me to go out into the

passage again.

We turned a corner, and entered a long second passage, ascended a short

flight of stairs at the end, crossed a small circular upper hall, and

stopped in front of a door covered with dark baize. The servant opened

this door, and led me on a few yards to a second; opened that also, and

disclosed two curtains of pale sea-green silk hanging before us; raised

one of them noiselessly; softly uttered the words, “Mr. Hartright,” and

left me.

I found myself in a large, lofty room, with a magnificent carved

ceiling, and with a carpet over the floor, so thick and soft that it

felt like piles of velvet under my feet. One side of the room was

occupied by a long book-case of some rare inlaid wood that was quite

new to me. It was not more than six feet high, and the top was adorned

with statuettes in marble, ranged at regular distances one from the

other. On the opposite side stood two antique cabinets; and between

them, and above them, hung a picture of the Virgin and Child, protected

by glass, and bearing Raphael’s name on the gilt tablet at the bottom

of the frame. On my right hand and on my left, as I stood inside the

door, were chiffoniers and little stands in buhl and marquetterie,

loaded with figures in Dresden china, with rare vases, ivory ornaments,

and toys and curiosities that sparkled at all points with gold, silver,

and precious stones. At the lower end of the room, opposite to me, the

windows were concealed and the sunlight was tempered by large blinds

of the same pale sea-green colour as the curtains over the door. The

light thus produced was deliciously soft, mysterious, and subdued; it

fell equally upon all the objects in the room; it helped to intensify

the deep silence, and the air of profound seclusion that possessed

the place; and it surrounded, with an appropriate halo of repose, the

solitary figure of the master of the house, leaning back, listlessly

composed, in a large easy-chair, with a reading-easel fastened on one

of its arms, and a little table on the other.

If a man’s personal appearance, when he is out of his dressing-room,

and when he has passed forty, can be accepted as a safe guide to his

time of life—which is more than doubtful—Mr. Fairlie’s age, when I saw

him, might have been reasonably computed at over fifty and under sixty

years. His beardless face was thin, worn, and transparently pale, but

not wrinkled; his nose was high and hooked; his eyes were of a dim

greyish blue, large, prominent, and rather red round the rims of the

eyelids; his hair was scanty, soft to look at, and of that light sandy

colour which is the last to disclose its own changes towards grey. He

was dressed in a dark frock-coat, of some substance much thinner than

cloth, and in waistcoat and trousers of spotless white. His feet were

effeminately small, and were clad in buff-coloured silk stockings,

and little womanish bronze-leather slippers. Two rings adorned his

white delicate hands, the value of which even my inexperienced

observation detected to be all but priceless. Upon the whole, he had

a frail, languidly-fretful, over-refined look—something singularly

and unpleasantly delicate in its association with a man, and, at the

same time, something which could by no possibility have looked natural

and appropriate if it had been transferred to the personal appearance

of a woman. My morning’s experience of Miss Halcombe had predisposed

me to be pleased with everybody in the house; but my sympathies shut

themselves up resolutely at the first sight of Mr. Fairlie.

On approaching nearer to him, I discovered that he was not so entirely

without occupation as I had at first supposed. Placed amid the other

rare and beautiful objects on a large round table near him, was a

dwarf cabinet in ebony and silver, containing coins of all shapes and

sizes, set out in little drawers lined with dark purple velvet. One of

these drawers lay on the small table attached to his chair; and near

it were some tiny jeweller’s brushes, a wash-leather “stump,” and a

little bottle of liquid, all waiting to be used in various ways for the

removal of any accidental impurities which might be discovered on the

coins. His frail white fingers were listlessly toying with something

which looked, to my uninstructed eyes, like a dirty pewter medal with

ragged edges, when I advanced within a respectful distance of his

chair, and stopped to make my bow.

“So glad to possess you at Limmeridge, Mr. Hartright,” he said in a

querulous, croaking voice, which combined, in anything but an agreeable

manner, a discordantly high tone with a drowsily languid utterance.

“Pray sit down. And don’t trouble yourself to move the chair, please.

In the wretched state of my nerves, movement of any kind is exquisitely

painful to me. Have you seen your studio? Will it do?”

“I have just come from seeing the room, Mr. Fairlie; and I assure you——”

He stopped me in the middle of the sentence, by closing his eyes,

and holding up one of his white hands imploringly. I paused in

astonishment; and the croaking voice honoured me with this explanation—

“Pray excuse me. But could you contrive to speak in a lower key? In the

wretched state of my nerves, loud sound of any kind is indescribable

torture to me. You will pardon an invalid? I only say to you what the

lamentable state of my health obliges me to say to everybody. Yes. And

you really like the room?”

“I could wish for nothing prettier and nothing more comfortable,” I

answered, dropping my voice, and beginning to discover already that Mr.

Fairlie’s selfish affectation and Mr. Fairlie’s wretched nerves meant

one and the same thing.

“So glad. You will find your position here, Mr. Hartright, properly

recognised. There is none of the horrid English barbarity of feeling

about the social position of an artist in this house. So much of

my early life has been passed abroad, that I have quite cast my

insular skin in that respect. I wish I could say the same of the

gentry—detestable word, but I suppose I must use it—of the gentry in

the neighbourhood. They are sad Goths in Art, Mr. Hartright. People,

I do assure you, who would have opened their eyes in astonishment, if

they had seen Charles the Fifth pick up Titian’s brush for him. Do you

mind putting this tray of coins back in the cabinet, and giving me the

next one to it? In the wretched state of my nerves, exertion of any

kind is unspeakably disagreeable to me. Yes. Thank you.”

As a practical commentary on the liberal social theory which he had

just favoured me by illustrating, Mr. Fairlie’s cool request rather

amused me. I put back one drawer and gave him the other, with all

possible politeness. He began trifling with the new set of coins and

the little brushes immediately; languidly looking at them and admiring

them all the time he was speaking to me.

“A thousand thanks and a thousand excuses. Do you like coins? Yes.

So glad we have another taste in common besides our taste for Art.

Now, about the pecuniary arrangements between us—do tell me—are they

satisfactory?”

“Most satisfactory, Mr. Fairlie.”

“So glad. And—what next? Ah! I remember. Yes. In reference to the

consideration which you are good enough to accept for giving me the

benefit of your accomplishments in art, my steward will wait on you at

the end of the first week, to ascertain your wishes. And—what next?

Curious, is it not? I had a great deal more to say: and I appear to

have quite forgotten it. Do you mind touching the bell? In that corner.

Yes. Thank you.”

I rang; and a new servant noiselessly made his appearance—a foreigner,

with a set smile and perfectly brushed hair—a valet every inch of him.

“Louis,” said Mr. Fairlie, dreamily dusting the tips of his fingers

with one of the tiny brushes for the coins, “I made some entries in

my tablettes this morning. Find my tablettes. A thousand pardons, Mr.

Hartright, I’m afraid I bore you.”

As he wearily closed his eyes again, before I could answer, and as he

did most assuredly bore me, I sat silent, and looked up at the Madonna

and Child by Raphael. In the meantime, the valet left the room, and

returned shortly with a little ivory book. Mr. Fairlie, after first

relieving himself by a gentle sigh, let the book drop open with one

hand, and held up the tiny brush with the other, as a sign to the

servant to wait for further orders.

“Yes. Just so!” said Mr. Fairlie, consulting the tablettes. “Louis,

take down that portfolio.” He pointed, as he spoke, to several

portfolios placed near the window, on mahogany stands. “No. Not the one

with the green back—that contains my Rembrandt etchings, Mr. Hartright.

Do you like etchings? Yes? So glad we have another taste in common.

The portfolio with the red back, Louis. Don’t drop it! You have no

idea of the tortures I should suffer, Mr. Hartright, if Louis dropped

that portfolio. Is it safe on the chair? Do YOU think it safe, Mr.

Hartright? Yes? So glad. Will you oblige me by looking at the drawings,

if you really think they are quite safe. Louis, go away. What an ass

you are. Don’t you see me holding the tablettes? Do you suppose I want

to hold them? Then why not relieve me of the tablettes without being

told? A thousand pardons, Mr. Hartright; servants are such asses, are

they not? Do tell me—what do you think of the drawings? They have come

from a sale in a shocking state—I thought they smelt of horrid dealers’

and brokers’ fingers when I looked at them last. CAN you undertake

them?”

Although my nerves were not delicate enough to detect the odour of

plebeian fingers which had offended Mr. Fairlie’s nostrils, my taste

was sufficiently educated to enable me to appreciate the value of the

drawings, while I turned them over. They were, for the most part,

really fine specimens of English water-colour art; and they had

deserved much better treatment at the hands of their former possessor

than they appeared to have received.

“The drawings,” I answered, “require careful straining and mounting;

and, in my opinion, they are well worth——”

“I beg your pardon,” interposed Mr. Fairlie. “Do you mind my closing my

eyes while you speak? Even this light is too much for them. Yes?”

“I was about to say that the drawings are well worth all the time and

trouble——”

Mr. Fairlie suddenly opened his eyes again, and rolled them with an

expression of helpless alarm in the direction of the window.

“I entreat you to excuse me, Mr. Hartright,” he said in a feeble

flutter. “But surely I hear some horrid children in the garden—my

private garden—below?”

“I can’t say, Mr. Fairlie. I heard nothing myself.”

“Oblige me—you have been so very good in humouring my poor

nerves—oblige me by lifting up a corner of the blind. Don’t let the sun

in on me, Mr. Hartright! Have you got the blind up? Yes? Then will you

be so very kind as to look into the garden and make quite sure?”

I complied with this new request. The garden was carefully walled in,

all round. Not a human creature, large or small, appeared in any part

of the sacred seclusion. I reported that gratifying fact to Mr. Fairlie.

“A thousand thanks. My fancy, I suppose. There are no children, thank

Heaven, in the house; but the servants (persons born without nerves)

will encourage the children from the village. Such brats—oh, dear me,

such brats! Shall I confess it, Mr. Hartright?—I sadly want a reform

in the construction of children. Nature’s only idea seems to be to

make them machines for the production of incessant noise. Surely our

delightful Raffaello’s conception is infinitely preferable?”

He pointed to the picture of the Madonna, the upper part of which

represented the conventional cherubs of Italian Art, celestially

provided with sitting accommodation for their chins, on balloons of

buff-coloured cloud.

“Quite a model family!” said Mr. Fairlie, leering at the cherubs. “Such

nice round faces, and such nice soft wings, and—nothing else. No dirty

little legs to run about on, and no noisy little lungs to scream with.

How immeasurably superior to the existing construction! I will close

my eyes again, if you will allow me. And you really can manage the

drawings? So glad. Is there anything else to settle? if there is, I

think I have forgotten it. Shall we ring for Louis again?”

Being, by this time, quite as anxious, on my side, as Mr. Fairlie

evidently was on his, to bring the interview to a speedy conclusion, I

thought I would try to render the summoning of the servant unnecessary,

by offering the requisite suggestion on my own responsibility.

“The only point, Mr. Fairlie, that remains to be discussed,” I said,

“refers, I think, to the instruction in sketching which I am engaged to

communicate to the two young ladies.”

“Ah! just so,” said Mr. Fairlie. “I wish I felt strong enough to go

into that part of the arrangement—but I don’t. The ladies who profit by

your kind services, Mr. Hartright, must settle, and decide, and so on,

for themselves. My niece is fond of your charming art. She knows just

enough about it to be conscious of her own sad defects. Please take

pains with her. Yes. Is there anything else? No. We quite understand

each other—don’t we? I have no right to detain you any longer from your

delightful pursuit—have I? So pleasant to have settled everything—such

a sensible relief to have done business. Do you mind ringing for Louis

to carry the portfolio to your own room?”

“I will carry it there myself, Mr. Fairlie, if you will allow me.”

“Will you really? Are you strong enough? How nice to be so strong!

Are you sure you won’t drop it? So glad to possess you at Limmeridge,

Mr. Hartright. I am such a sufferer that I hardly dare hope to enjoy

much of your society. Would you mind taking great pains not to let the

doors bang, and not to drop the portfolio? Thank you. Gently with the

curtains, please—the slightest noise from them goes through me like a

knife. Yes. GOOD morning!”

When the sea-green curtains were closed, and when the two baize doors

were shut behind me, I stopped for a moment in the little circular hall

beyond, and drew a long, luxurious breath of relief. It was like coming

to the surface of the water after deep diving, to find myself once more

on the outside of Mr. Fairlie’s room.

As soon as I was comfortably established for the morning in my pretty

little studio, the first resolution at which I arrived was to turn my

steps no more in the direction of the apartments occupied by the master

of the house, except in the very improbable event of his honouring me

with a special invitation to pay him another visit. Having settled

this satisfactory plan of future conduct in reference to Mr. Fairlie,

I soon recovered the serenity of temper of which my employer’s haughty

familiarity and impudent politeness had, for the moment, deprived me.

The remaining hours of the morning passed away pleasantly enough, in

looking over the drawings, arranging them in sets, trimming their

ragged edges, and accomplishing the other necessary preparations in

anticipation of the business of mounting them. I ought, perhaps, to

have made more progress than this; but, as the luncheon-time drew near,

I grew restless and unsettled, and felt unable to fix my attention on

work, even though that work was only of the humble manual kind.

At two o’clock I descended again to the breakfast-room, a little

anxiously. Expectations of some interest were connected with my

approaching reappearance in that part of the house. My introduction

to Miss Fairlie was now close at hand; and, if Miss Halcombe’s search

through her mother’s letters had produced the result which she

anticipated, the time had come for clearing up the mystery of the woman

in white.