XV_The Woman in White

As we walked round to the front of the house a fly from the railway

approached us along the drive. Miss Halcombe waited on the door-steps

until the fly drew up, and then advanced to shake hands with an old

gentleman, who got out briskly the moment the steps were let down. Mr.

Gilmore had arrived.

I looked at him, when we were introduced to each other, with an

interest and a curiosity which I could hardly conceal. This old man

was to remain at Limmeridge House after I had left it, he was to hear

Sir Percival Glyde’s explanation, and was to give Miss Halcombe the

assistance of his experience in forming her judgment; he was to wait

until the question of the marriage was set at rest; and his hand,

if that question were decided in the affirmative, was to draw the

settlement which bound Miss Fairlie irrevocably to her engagement. Even

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

by a few minutes of needful and welcome silence. The servant who had

been despatched to trace Anne Catherick and Mrs. Clements returned with

his report, and was shown into the dining-room immediately.

“Well,” said Mr. Gilmore, “what have you found out?”

“I have found out, sir,” answered the man, “that both the women took

tickets at our station here for Carlisle.”

“You went to Carlisle, of course, when you heard that?”

“I did, sir, but I am sorry to say I could find no further trace of

them.”

“You inquired at the railway?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And at the different inns?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you left the statement I wrote for you at the police station?”

“I did, sir.”

“Well, my friend, you have done all you could, and I have done all I

could, and there the matter must rest till further notice. We have

played our trump cards, Mr. Hartright,” continued the old gentleman

when the servant had withdrawn. “For the present, at least, the women

have outmanoeuvred us, and our only resource now is to wait till Sir

Percival Glyde comes here on Monday next. Won’t you fill your glass

again? Good bottle of port, that—sound, substantial, old wine. I have

got better in my own cellar, though.”

We returned to the drawing-room—the room in which the happiest evenings

of my life had been passed—the room which, after this last night, I was

never to see again. Its aspect was altered since the days had shortened

and the weather had grown cold. The glass doors on the terrace side

were closed, and hidden by thick curtains. Instead of the soft twilight

obscurity, in which we used to sit, the bright radiant glow of

lamplight now dazzled my eyes. All was changed—indoors and out all was

changed.

Miss Halcombe and Mr. Gilmore sat down together at the card-table—Mrs.

Vesey took her customary chair. There was no restraint on the disposal

of THEIR evening, and I felt the restraint on the disposal of mine all

the more painfully from observing it. I saw Miss Fairlie lingering near

the music-stand. The time had been when I might have joined her there.

I waited irresolutely—I knew neither where to go nor what to do next.

She cast one quick glance at me, took a piece of music suddenly from

the stand, and came towards me of her own accord.

“Shall I play some of those little melodies of Mozart’s which you used

to like so much?” she asked, opening the music nervously, and looking

down at it while she spoke.

Before I could thank her she hastened to the piano. The chair near it,

which I had always been accustomed to occupy, stood empty. She struck a

few chords—then glanced round at me—then looked back again at her music.

“Won’t you take your old place?” she said, speaking very abruptly and

in very low tones.

“I may take it on the last night,” I answered.

She did not reply—she kept her attention riveted on the music—music

which she knew by memory, which she had played over and over again, in

former times, without the book. I only knew that she had heard me, I

only knew that she was aware of my being close to her, by seeing the

red spot on the cheek that was nearest to me fade out, and the face

grow pale all over.

“I am very sorry you are going,” she said, her voice almost sinking

to a whisper, her eyes looking more and more intently at the music,

her fingers flying over the keys of the piano with a strange feverish

energy which I had never noticed in her before.

“I shall remember those kind words, Miss Fairlie, long after to-morrow

has come and gone.”

The paleness grew whiter on her face, and she turned it farther away

from me.

“Don’t speak of to-morrow,” she said. “Let the music speak to us of

to-night, in a happier language than ours.”

Her lips trembled—a faint sigh fluttered from them, which she tried

vainly to suppress. Her fingers wavered on the piano—she struck a false

note, confused herself in trying to set it right, and dropped her

hands angrily on her lap. Miss Halcombe and Mr. Gilmore looked up in

astonishment from the card-table at which they were playing. Even Mrs.

Vesey, dozing in her chair, woke at the sudden cessation of the music,

and inquired what had happened.

“You play at whist, Mr. Hartright?” asked Miss Halcombe, with her eyes

directed significantly at the place I occupied.

I knew what she meant—I knew she was right, and I rose at once to go to

the card-table. As I left the piano Miss Fairlie turned a page of the

music, and touched the keys again with a surer hand.

“I WILL play it,” she said, striking the notes almost passionately. “I

WILL play it on the last night.”

“Come, Mrs. Vesey,” said Miss Halcombe, “Mr. Gilmore and I are tired of

ecarte—come and be Mr. Hartright’s partner at whist.”

The old lawyer smiled satirically. His had been the winning hand, and

he had just turned up a king. He evidently attributed Miss Halcombe’s

abrupt change in the card-table arrangements to a lady’s inability to

play the losing game.

The rest of the evening passed without a word or a look from her. She

kept her place at the piano, and I kept mine at the card-table. She

played unintermittingly—played as if the music was her only refuge

from herself. Sometimes her fingers touched the notes with a lingering

fondness—a soft, plaintive, dying tenderness, unutterably beautiful and

mournful to hear; sometimes they faltered and failed her, or hurried

over the instrument mechanically, as if their task was a burden to

them. But still, change and waver as they might in the expression they

imparted to the music, their resolution to play never faltered. She

only rose from the piano when we all rose to say good night.

Mrs. Vesey was the nearest to the door, and the first to shake hands

with me.

“I shall not see you again, Mr. Hartright,” said the old lady. “I am

truly sorry you are going away. You have been very kind and attentive,

and an old woman like me feels kindness and attention. I wish you

happy, sir—I wish you a kind good-bye.”

Mr. Gilmore came next.

“I hope we shall have a future opportunity of bettering our

acquaintance, Mr. Hartright. You quite understand about that little

matter of business being safe in my hands? Yes, yes, of course. Bless

me, how cold it is! Don’t let me keep you at the door. Bon voyage, my

dear sir—bon voyage, as the French say.”

Miss Halcombe followed.

“Half-past seven to-morrow morning,” she said—then added in a whisper,

“I have heard and seen more than you think. Your conduct to-night has

made me your friend for life.”

Miss Fairlie came last. I could not trust myself to look at her when I

took her hand, and when I thought of the next morning.

“My departure must be a very early one,” I said. “I shall be gone, Miss

Fairlie, before you——”

“No, no,” she interposed hastily, “not before I am out of my room. I

shall be down to breakfast with Marian. I am not so ungrateful, not so

forgetful of the past three months——”

Her voice failed her, her hand closed gently round mine—then dropped it

suddenly. Before I could say “Good-night” she was gone.

The end comes fast to meet me—comes inevitably, as the light of the

last morning came at Limmeridge House.

It was barely half-past seven when I went downstairs, but I found

them both at the breakfast-table waiting for me. In the chill air, in

the dim light, in the gloomy morning silence of the house, we three

sat down together, and tried to eat, tried to talk. The struggle to

preserve appearances was hopeless and useless, and I rose to end it.

As I held out my hand, as Miss Halcombe, who was nearest to me, took

it, Miss Fairlie turned away suddenly and hurried from the room.

“Better so,” said Miss Halcombe, when the door had closed—“better so,

for you and for her.”

I waited a moment before I could speak—it was hard to lose her, without

a parting word or a parting look. I controlled myself—I tried to take

leave of Miss Halcombe in fitting terms; but all the farewell words I

would fain have spoken dwindled to one sentence.

“Have I deserved that you should write to me?” was all I could say.

“You have nobly deserved everything that I can do for you, as long as

we both live. Whatever the end is you shall know it.”

“And if I can ever be of help again, at any future time, long after the

memory of my presumption and my folly is forgotten . . .”

I could add no more. My voice faltered, my eyes moistened in spite of

me.

She caught me by both hands—she pressed them with the strong, steady

grasp of a man—her dark eyes glittered—her brown complexion flushed

deep—the force and energy of her face glowed and grew beautiful with

the pure inner light of her generosity and her pity.

“I will trust you—if ever the time comes I will trust you as my friend

and HER friend, as my brother and HER brother.” She stopped, drew

me nearer to her—the fearless, noble creature—touched my forehead,

sister-like, with her lips, and called me by my Christian name. “God

bless you, Walter!” she said. “Wait here alone and compose yourself—I

had better not stay for both our sakes—I had better see you go from the

balcony upstairs.”

She left the room. I turned away towards the window, where nothing

faced me but the lonely autumn landscape—I turned away to master

myself, before I too left the room in my turn, and left it for ever.

A minute passed—it could hardly have been more—when I heard the door

open again softly, and the rustling of a woman’s dress on the carpet

moved towards me. My heart beat violently as I turned round. Miss

Fairlie was approaching me from the farther end of the room.

She stopped and hesitated when our eyes met, and when she saw that we

were alone. Then, with that courage which women lose so often in the

small emergency, and so seldom in the great, she came on nearer to me,

strangely pale and strangely quiet, drawing one hand after her along

the table by which she walked, and holding something at her side in the

other, which was hidden by the folds of her dress.

“I only went into the drawing-room,” she said, “to look for this. It

may remind you of your visit here, and of the friends you leave behind

you. You told me I had improved very much when I did it, and I thought