“My object,” I went on, “is to entreat you to reconsider your letter,
and not to force me to abandon the just rights of your niece, and of
all who belong to her. Let me state the case to you once more, and for
the last time.”
Mr. Fairlie shook his head and sighed piteously.
“This is heartless of you, Gilmore—very heartless,” he said. “Never
mind, go on.”
I put all the points to him carefully—I set the matter before him
in every conceivable light. He lay back in the chair the whole time
I was speaking with his eyes closed. When I had done he opened them
indolently, took his silver smelling-bottle from the table, and sniffed
at it with an air of gentle relish.
“Good Gilmore!” he said between the sniffs, “how very nice this is of
you! How you reconcile one to human nature!”
“Give me a plain answer to a plain question, Mr. Fairlie. I tell you
again, Sir Percival Glyde has no shadow of a claim to expect more
than the income of the money. The money itself if your niece has no
children, ought to be under her control, and to return to her family.
If you stand firm, Sir Percival must give way—he must give way, I tell
you, or he exposes himself to the base imputation of marrying Miss
Fairlie entirely from mercenary motives.”
Mr. Fairlie shook the silver smelling-bottle at me playfully.
“You dear old Gilmore, how you do hate rank and family, don’t you? How
you detest Glyde because he happens to be a baronet. What a Radical you
are—oh, dear me, what a Radical you are!”
A Radical!!! I could put up with a good deal of provocation, but, after
holding the soundest Conservative principles all my life, I could NOT
put up with being called a Radical. My blood boiled at it—I started out
of my chair—I was speechless with Indignation.
“Don’t shake the room!” cried Mr. Fairlie—“for Heaven’s sake don’t
shake the room! Worthiest of all possible Gilmores, I meant no offence.
My own views are so extremely liberal that I think I am a Radical
myself. Yes. We are a pair of Radicals. Please don’t be angry. I can’t
quarrel—I haven’t stamina enough. Shall we drop the subject? Yes. Come
and look at these sweet etchings. Do let me teach you to understand the
heavenly pearliness of these lines. Do now, there’s a good Gilmore!”
While he was maundering on in this way I was, fortunately for my own
self-respect, returning to my senses. When I spoke again I was composed
enough to treat his impertinence with the silent contempt that it
deserved.
“You are entirely wrong, sir,” I said, “in supposing that I speak from
any prejudice against Sir Percival Glyde. I may regret that he has so
unreservedly resigned himself in this matter to his lawyer’s direction
as to make any appeal to himself impossible, but I am not prejudiced
against him. What I have said would equally apply to any other man in
his situation, high or low. The principle I maintain is a recognised
principle. If you were to apply at the nearest town here, to the first
respectable solicitor you could find, he would tell you as a stranger
what I tell you as a friend. He would inform you that it is against all
rule to abandon the lady’s money entirely to the man she marries. He
would decline, on grounds of common legal caution, to give the husband,
under any circumstances whatever, an interest of twenty thousand pounds
in his wife’s death.”
“Would he really, Gilmore?” said Mr. Fairlie. “If he said anything half
so horrid, I do assure you I should tinkle my bell for Louis, and have
him sent out of the house immediately.”
“You shall not irritate me, Mr. Fairlie—for your niece’s sake and for
her father’s sake, you shall not irritate me. You shall take the whole
responsibility of this discreditable settlement on your own shoulders
before I leave the room.”
“Don’t!—now please don’t!” said Mr. Fairlie. “Think how precious your
time is, Gilmore, and don’t throw it away. I would dispute with you if
I could, but I can’t—I haven’t stamina enough. You want to upset me,
to upset yourself, to upset Glyde, and to upset Laura; and—oh, dear
me!—all for the sake of the very last thing in the world that is likely
to happen. No, dear friend—in the interests of peace and quietness,
positively No!”
“I am to understand, then, that you hold by the determination expressed
in your letter?”
“Yes, please. So glad we understand each other at last. Sit down
again—do!”
I walked at once to the door, and Mr. Fairlie resignedly “tinkled” his
hand-bell. Before I left the room I turned round and addressed him for
the last time.
“Whatever happens in the future, sir,” I said, “remember that my plain
duty of warning you has been performed. As the faithful friend and
servant of your family, I tell you, at parting, that no daughter of
mine should be married to any man alive under such a settlement as you
are forcing me to make for Miss Fairlie.”
The door opened behind me, and the valet stood waiting on the threshold.
“Louis,” said Mr. Fairlie, “show Mr. Gilmore out, and then come back
and hold up my etchings for me again. Make them give you a good lunch
downstairs. Do, Gilmore, make my idle beasts of servants give you a
good lunch!”
I was too much disgusted to reply—I turned on my heel, and left him in
silence. There was an up train at two o’clock in the afternoon, and by
that train I returned to London.
On the Tuesday I sent in the altered settlement, which practically
disinherited the very persons whom Miss Fairlie’s own lips had informed
me she was most anxious to benefit. I had no choice. Another lawyer
would have drawn up the deed if I had refused to undertake it.
My task is done. My personal share in the events of the family story
extends no farther than the point which I have just reached. Other
pens than mine will describe the strange circumstances which are now
shortly to follow. Seriously and sorrowfully I close this brief record.
Seriously and sorrowfully I repeat here the parting words that I spoke
at Limmeridge House:—No daughter of mine should have been married to
any man alive under such a settlement as I was compelled to make for
Laura Fairlie.
The End of Mr. Gilmore’s Narrative.