No. 32.] SATURDAY,
DECEMBER 3, 1859
[PRICE 2d.
THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
HARTRIGHT'S NARRATIVE CONTINUED.
IV.
"She has escaped from my Asylum."
I cannot say with truth that the terrible inference which those words suggested
flashed upon me like a new revelation. Some of the strange questions put to me
by the woman in white, after my ill-considered promise to leave her free to act
as she pleased, had suggested the conclusion, either that she was naturally
flighty and unsettled, or that some recent shock of terror had disturbed the
balance of her faculties. But the idea of absolute insanity which we all
associate with the very name of an Asylum, had, I can honestly declare, never
occurred to me, in connexion with her. I had seen nothing, in her language or
her actions, to justify it at the time; and, even with the new light thrown on
her by the words which the stranger had addressed to the policeman, I could see
nothing to justify it now.
What had I done? Assisted the victim of the most horrible of all false
imprisonments to escape; or cast loose on the wide world of London an
unfortunate creature, whose actions it was my duty, and every man's duty,
mercifully to control? I turned sick at heart when the question occurred to me,
and when I felt self-reproachfully that it was asked too late.
In the disturbed state of my mind, it was useless to think of going to bed, when
I at last got back to my chambers in Clement's Inn. Before many hours elapsed it
would be necessary to start on my journey to Cumberland. I sat down and tried,
first to sketch, then to read but the woman in white got between me and my
pencil, between me and my book. Had the forlorn creature come to any harm? That
was my first thought, though I shrank selfishly from confronting it. Other
thoughts followed, on which it was less harrowing to dwell. Where had she
stopped the cab? What had become of her now? Had she been traced and captured by
the men in the chaise? Or was she still capable of controlling her own actions;
and were we two following our widely-parted roads towards one point in the
mysterious future, at which we were to meet once more?
It was a relief when the hour came to lock my door, to bid farewell to London
pursuits, London pupils, and London friends, and to be in movement again towards
new interests and a new life. Even the bustle and confusion at the railway
terminus, so wearisome and bewildering at other times, roused me and did me
good.
My travelling instructions directed me to go to Carlisle, and then to diverge by
a branch railway which ran in the direction of the coast. As a misfortune to
begin with, our engine broke down between Lancaster and Carlisle. The delay
occasioned by this accident caused me to be too late for the branch train, by
which I was to have gone on immediately. I had to wait some hours; and when a
later train finally deposited me at the nearest station to Limmeridge House, it
was past ten, and the night was so dark that I could hardly see my way to the
pony-chaise which Mr. Fairlie had ordered to be in waiting for me.
The driver was evidently discomposed by the lateness of my arrival. He was in
that state of highly-respectful sulkiness which is peculiar to English servants.
We drove away slowly through the darkness in perfect silence. The roads were
bad, and the dense obscurity of the night increased the difficulty of getting
over the ground quickly. It was, by my watch, nearly an hour and a half from the
time of our leaving the station before I heard the sound of the sea in the
distance, and the crunch of our wheels on a smooth gravel drive. We had passed
one gate before entering the drive, and we passed another before we drew up at
the house. I was received by a solemn man-servant out of livery, was informed
that the family had retired for the night, and was then led into a large and
lofty room where my supper was awaiting me, in a forlorn manner, at one
extremity of a lonesome mahogany wilderness of dining-table.
I was too tired and out of spirits to eat or drink much, especially with the
solemn servant waiting on me as elaborately as if a small dinner-party had
arrived at the house instead of a solitary man. In a quarter of an hour I was
ready to be taken up to my bedchamber. The solemn servant conducted me into a
prettily furnished room said: "Breakfast at nine o'clock, sir" looked all
round him to see that everything was in its proper place and noiselessly
withdrew.
"What shall I see in my dreams to-night?" I thought to myself, as I put out the
candle; "the woman in white? or the unknown inhabitants of this Cumberland
mansion?" It was a strange sensation to be sleeping in the house, like a friend
of the family, and yet not to know one of the inmates, even by sight!
V.
When I rose the next morning and drew up my blind, the sea opened before me
joyously under the broad August sunlight, and the distant coast of Scotland
fringed the horizon with its lines of melting blue.
The view was such a surprise, and such a change to me, after my weary London
experience of brick and mortar landscape, that I seemed to burst into a new life
and a new set of thoughts the moment I looked at it. A confused sensation of
having suddenly lost my familiarity with the past, without acquiring any
additional clearness of idea in reference to the present or the future, took
possession of my mind. Circumstances that were but a few days old, faded back in
my memory, as if they had happened months and months since. Pesca's quaint
announcement of the means by which he had procured me my present employment; the
farewell evening I had passed with my mother and sister; even my mysterious
adventure on the way home from Hampstead, had all become like events which might
have occurred at some former epoch of my existence. Although the woman in white
was still in my mind, the image of her seemed to have grown dull and faint
already.
A little before nine o'clock, I descended to the ground-floor of the house. The
solemn man-servant of the night before met me wandering among the passages, and
compassionately showed me the way to the breakfast-room.
My first glance round me, as the man opened the door, disclosed a well-furnished
breakfast-table, standing in the middle of a long room, with many windows in it.
I looked from the table to the window farthest from me, and saw a lady standing
at it, with her back turned towards me. The instant my eyes rested on her, I was
struck by the rare beauty of her form, and by the unaffected grace of her
attitude. Her figure was tall, yet not too tall; comely and well-developed, yet
not fat; her head set on her shoulders with an easy, pliant firmness; her waist,
perfection in the eyes of a man, for it occupied its natural place, it filled
out its natural circle, it was visibly and delightfully undeformed by stays. She
had not heard my entrance into the room, and I allowed myself the luxury of
admiring her for a few moments, before I moved one of the chairs near me, as the
least embarrassing means of attracting her attention. She turned towards me
immediately. The easy elegance of every movement of her limbs and body as soon
as she began to advance from the far end of the room, set me in a flutter of
expectation to see her face clearly. She left the window and I said to
myself, The lady is dark. She moved forward a few steps and I said to myself,
The lady is young. She approached nearer and I said to myself (with a sense
of surprise which words fail me to express), The lady is ugly!
Never was the old conventional maxim, that Nature cannot err, more flatly
contradicted never was the fair promise of a lovely figure more strangely and
startlingly belied by the face and head that crowned it. The lady's complexion
was almost swarthy, and the dark down on her upper lip was almost a moustache.
She had a large, firm, masculine mouth and jaw; prominent, piercing, resolute
brown eyes; and thick, coal-black hair, growing unusually low down on her
forehead. Her expression bright, frank, and intelligent, appeared while
she was silent, to be altogether wanting in those feminine attractions of
gentleness and pliability, without which the beauty of the handsomest woman
alive is beauty incomplete. To see such a face as this set on shoulders that a
sculptor would have longed to model to be charmed by the modest graces of
action through which the symmetrical limbs betrayed their beauty when they
moved, and then to be almost repelled by the masculine form and masculine look
of the features in which the perfectly shaped figure ended was to feel a
sensation oddly akin to the helpless discomfort familiar to us all in sleep,
when we recognise yet cannot reconcile the anomalies and contradictions of a
dream.
"Mr. Hartright?" said the lady, interrogatively; her dark face lighting up with
a smile, and softening and growing womanly the moment she began to speak. "We
resigned all hope of you last night, and went to bed as usual. Accept my
apologies for our apparent want of attention; and allow me to introduce myself
as one of your pupils. Shall we shake hands? I suppose we must come to it sooner
or later and why not sooner?"
These odd words of welcome were spoken in a clear, ringing, pleasant voice. The
offered hand rather large, but beautifully formed was given to me with the
easy, unaffected self-reliance of a highly-bred woman. We sat down together at
the breakfast-table in as cordial and customary a manner as if we had known each
other for years, and had met at Limmeridge House to talk over old times by
previous appointment.
"I hope you come here good-humouredly determined to make the best of your
position," continued the lady. "You will have to begin this morning by putting
up with no other company at breakfast than mine. My sister is in her own room,
nursing that essentially feminine malady, a slight headache; and her old
governess, Mrs. Vesey, is charitably attending on her with restorative tea. My
uncle, Mr. Fairlie, never joins us at any of our meals: he is an invalid, and
keeps bachelor state in his own apartments. There is nobody else in the house
but me. Two young ladies have been staying here, but they went away yesterday,
in despair; and no wonder. All through their visit (in consequence of Mr.
Fairlie's invalid condition) we produced no such convenience in the house as a
flirtable, danceable, small-talkable creature of the male sex; and the
consequence was, we did nothing but quarrel, especially at dinner-time. How can
you expect four women to dine together alone every day, and not quarrel? We are
such fools, we can't entertain each other at table. You see I don't think much
of my own sex, Mr. Hartright which will you have, tea or coffee? no woman
does think much of her own sex, although few of them confess it as freely as I
do. Dear me, you look puzzled. Why? Are you wondering what you will have for
breakfast? or are you surprised at my careless way of talking? In the first
case, I advise you, as a friend, to have nothing to do with that cold ham at
your elbow, and to wait till the omelette comes in. In the second case, I will
give you some tea to compose your spirits, and do all a woman can (which is very
little, by-the-by) to hold my tongue."
She handed me my cup of tea, laughing gaily. Her light flow of talk, and her
lively familiarity of manner with a total stranger, were accompanied by an
unaffected naturalness and an easy inborn confidence in herself and her
position, which would have secured her the respect of the most audacious man
breathing. While it was impossible to be formal and reserved in her company, it
was more than impossible to take the faintest vestige of a liberty with her,
even in thought. I felt this instinctively, even while I caught the infection of
her own bright gaiety of spirits even while I did my best to answer her in
her own frank, lively way.
"Yes, yes," she said, when I had suggested the only explanation I could offer,
to account for my perplexed looks, "I understand. You are such a perfect
stranger in the house, that you are puzzled by my familiar references to the
worthy inhabitants. Natural enough: I ought to have thought of it before. At any
rate, I can set it right now. Suppose I begin with myself, so as to get done
with that part of the subject as soon as possible? My name is Marian Halcombe;
and I am as inaccurate, as women usually are, in calling Mr. Fairlie my uncle,
and Miss Fairlie my sister. My mother was twice married: the first time to Mr.
Halcombe, my father; the second time to Mr. Fairlie, my half-sister's father.
Except that we are both orphans, we are in every respect as unlike each other as
possible. My father was a poor man, and Miss Fairlie's father was a rich man. I
have got nothing, and she is an heiress. I am dark and ugly, and she is fair and
pretty. Everybody thinks me crabbed and odd (with perfect justice); and
everybody thinks her sweet-tempered and charming (with more justice still). In
short, she is an angel; and I am Try some of that marmalade, Mr. Hartright,
and finish the sentence, in the name of female propriety, for yourself. What am
I to tell you about Mr. Fairlie? Upon my honour, I hardly know. He is sure to
send for you after breakfast, and you can study him for yourself. In the mean
time, I may inform you, first, that he is the late Mr. Fairlie's younger
brother; secondly, that he is a single man; and, thirdly, that he is Miss Fairlie's guardian. I won't live without her, and she can't live without me; and
that is how I come to be at Limmeridge House. My sister and I are honestly fond
of each other; which, you will say, is perfectly unaccountable, under the
circumstances, and I quite agree with you but so it is. You must please both
of us, Mr. Hartright, or please neither of us; and, what is still more trying,
you will be thrown entirely upon our society. Mrs. Vesey is an excellent person,
who possesses all the cardinal virtues, and counts for nothing; and Mr. Fairlie
is too great an invalid to be a companion for anybody. I don't know what is the
matter with him, and the doctors don't know what is the matter with him, and he
doesn't know himself what is the matter with him. We all say it's on the nerves,
and we none of us know what we mean when we say it. However, I advise you to
humour his little peculiarities, when you see him to-day. Admire his collection
of coins, prints, and water-colour drawings, and you will win his heart. Upon my
word, if you can be contented with a quiet country life, I don't see why you
should not get on very well here. From breakfast to lunch, Mr. Fairlie's
drawings will occupy you. After lunch, Miss Fairlie and I shoulder our
sketch-books, and go out to misrepresent nature, under your directions. Drawing
is her favourite whim, mind, not
mine. Women can't draw their minds are too flighty, and their eyes are too
inattentive. No matter my sister likes it; so I waste paint and spoil paper,
for her sake, as composedly as any woman in England. As for the evenings, I
think we can help you through them. Miss Fairlie plays delightfully. For my own
poor part, I don't know one note of music from the other; but I can match you at
chess, backgammon, ιcartι, and (with the inevitable female drawbacks) even at
billiards as well. What do you think of the programme? Can you reconcile
yourself to our quiet, regular life? or do you mean to be restless, and secretly
thirst for change and adventure, in the humdrum atmosphere of Limmeridge House?"
She had run on thus far, in her gracefully bantering way, with no other
interruptions on my part than the unimportant replies which politeness required
of me. The turn of the expression, however, in her last question, or rather the
one chance word, "adventure," lightly as it fell from her lips, recalled my
thoughts to my meeting with the woman in white, and urged me to discover the
connexion which the stranger's own reference to Mrs. Fairlie informed me must
once have existed between the nameless fugitive from the Asylum, and the former
mistress of Limmeridge House.
"Even if I were the most restless of mankind," I said, "I should be in no danger
of thirsting after adventures for some time to come. The very night before I
arrived at this house, I met with an adventure; and the wonder and excitement of
it, I can assure you, Miss Halcombe, will last me for the whole term of my stay
in Cumberland, if not for a much longer period."
"You don't say so, Mr. Hartright! May I hear it?"
"You have a claim to hear it. The chief person in the adventure was a total
stranger to me, and may perhaps be a total stranger to you; but she certainly
mentioned the name of the late Mrs. Fairlie in terms of the sincerest gratitude
and regard."
"Mentioned my mother's name! You interest me indescribably. Pray go on."
I at once related the circumstances under which I had met the woman in white,
exactly as they had occurred; and I repeated what she had said to me about Mrs.
Fairlie and Limmeridge House, word for word.
Miss Halcombe's bright resolute eyes looked eagerly into mine, from the
beginning of the narrative to the end. Her face expressed vivid interest and
astonishment, but nothing more. She was evidently as far from knowing of any
clue to the mystery as I was myself.
"Are you quite sure of those words referring to my mother?" she asked.
"Quite sure," I replied. "Whoever she may be, the woman was once at school in
the village of Limmeridge, was treated with especial kindness by Mrs. Fairlie,
and, in grateful remembrance of that kindness, feels an affectionate interest in
all surviving members of the family. She knew that Mrs. Fairlie and her husband
were both dead; and she spoke of Miss Fairlie as if they had known each other
when they were children."
"You said, I think, that she denied belonging to this place?"
"Yes, she told me she came from Hampshire."
"And you entirely failed to find out her name?"
"Entirely."
"Very strange. I think you were quite justified, Mr. Hartright, in giving the
poor creature her liberty, for she seems to have done nothing in your presence
to show herself unfit to enjoy it. But I wish you had been a little more
resolute about finding out her name. We must really clear up this mystery, in
some way. You had better not speak of it yet to Mr. Fairlie, or to my sister.
They are both of them, I am certain, quite as ignorant of who the woman is, and
of what her past history in connexion with us can be, as I am myself. But they
are also, in widely different ways, rather nervous and sensitive; and you would
only fidget one and alarm the other to no purpose. As for myself, I am all
aflame with curiosity, and I devote my whole energies to the business of
discovery from this moment. When my mother came here, after her second marriage,
she certainly established the village school just as it exists at the present
time. But the old teachers are all dead, or gone elsewhere; and no enlightenment
is to be hoped for from that quarter. The only other alternative I can think of
"
At this point we were interrupted by the entrance of the servant, with a message
from Mr. Fairlie, intimating that he would be glad to see me, as soon as I had
done breakfast.
"Wait in the hall," said Miss Halcombe, answering the servant for me, in her
quick, ready way. "Mr. Hartright will come out directly. I was about to say,"
she went on, addressing me again, "that my sister and I have a large collection
of my mother's letters, addressed to my father and to hers. In the absence of
any other means of getting information, I will pass the morning in looking over
my mother's correspondence with Mr. Fairlie. He was fond of London, and was
constantly away from his country home; and she was accustomed, at such times, to
write and report to him how things went on at Limmeridge. Her letters are full
of references to the school in which she took so strong an interest; and I think
it more than likely that I may have discovered something when we meet again. The
luncheon hour is two, Mr. Hartright. I shall have the pleasure of introducing
you to my sister by that time, and we will occupy the afternoon in driving round
the neighbourhood and showing you all our pet points of view. Till two o'clock,
then, farewell."
She nodded to me with the lively grace, the delightful refinement of
familiarity, which characterised all that she did and all that she said; and
disappeared by a door at the lower end of the room. As soon as she had left me,
I turned my steps towards the hall, and followed the servant on my way, for the
first time, to the presence of Mr. Fairlie.
VI.
My conductor led me up-stairs 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 bookcase 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 jewellers' brushes, a
washleather "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
ccupied 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.
All The Year Round, 3 December 1859, Vol.II, No.32, pp.117-123.
Weekly Part 2.
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