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 gentlemanlike 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.