Leaving by an early train, I got to Limmeridge in time for dinner.
The house was oppressively empty and dull. I had expected that good
Mrs. Vesey would have been company for me in the absence of the young
ladies, but she was confined to her room by a cold. The servants were
so surprised at seeing me that they hurried and bustled absurdly, and
made all sorts of annoying mistakes. Even the butler, who was old
enough to have known better, brought me a bottle of port that was
chilled. The reports of Mr. Fairlie’s health were just as usual, and
when I sent up a message to announce my arrival, I was told that he
would be delighted to see me the next morning but that the sudden news
of my appearance had prostrated him with palpitations for the rest of
the evening. The wind howled dismally all night, and strange cracking
and groaning noises sounded here, there, and everywhere in the empty
house. I slept as wretchedly as possible, and got up in a mighty bad
humour to breakfast by myself the next morning.
At ten o’clock I was conducted to Mr. Fairlie’s apartments. He was
in his usual room, his usual chair, and his usual aggravating state
of mind and body. When I went in, his valet was standing before him,
holding up for inspection a heavy volume of etchings, as long and as
broad as my office writing-desk. The miserable foreigner grinned in the
most abject manner, and looked ready to drop with fatigue, while his
master composedly turned over the etchings, and brought their hidden
beauties to light with the help of a magnifying glass.
“You very best of good old friends,” said Mr. Fairlie, leaning back
lazily before he could look at me, “are you QUITE well? How nice of you
to come here and see me in my solitude. Dear Gilmore!”
I had expected that the valet would be dismissed when I appeared, but
nothing of the sort happened. There he stood, in front of his master’s
chair, trembling under the weight of the etchings, and there Mr.
Fairlie sat, serenely twirling the magnifying glass between his white
fingers and thumbs.
“I have come to speak to you on a very important matter,” I said, “and
you will therefore excuse me, if I suggest that we had better be alone.”
The unfortunate valet looked at me gratefully. Mr. Fairlie faintly
repeated my last three words, “better be alone,” with every appearance
of the utmost possible astonishment.
I was in no humour for trifling, and I resolved to make him understand
what I meant.
“Oblige me by giving that man permission to withdraw,” I said, pointing
to the valet.
Mr. Fairlie arched his eyebrows and pursed up his lips in sarcastic
surprise.
“Man?” he repeated. “You provoking old Gilmore, what can you possibly
mean by calling him a man? He’s nothing of the sort. He might have been
a man half an hour ago, before I wanted my etchings, and he may be a
man half an hour hence, when I don’t want them any longer. At present
he is simply a portfolio stand. Why object, Gilmore, to a portfolio
stand?”
“I DO object. For the third time, Mr. Fairlie, I beg that we may be
alone.”
My tone and manner left him no alternative but to comply with my
request. He looked at the servant, and pointed peevishly to a chair at
his side.
“Put down the etchings and go away,” he said. “Don’t upset me by losing
my place. Have you, or have you not, lost my place? Are you sure you
have not? And have you put my hand-bell quite within my reach? Yes?
Then why the devil don’t you go?”
The valet went out. Mr. Fairlie twisted himself round in his chair,
polished the magnifying glass with his delicate cambric handkerchief,
and indulged himself with a sidelong inspection of the open volume of
etchings. It was not easy to keep my temper under these circumstances,
but I did keep it.
“I have come here at great personal inconvenience,” I said, “to serve
the interests of your niece and your family, and I think I have
established some slight claim to be favoured with your attention in
return.”
“Don’t bully me!” exclaimed Mr. Fairlie, falling back helplessly in the
chair, and closing his eyes. “Please don’t bully me. I’m not strong
enough.”