No. 39.] SATURDAY,
JANUARY 21, 1860
[PRICE 2d.
THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
———•———
GILMORE'S NARRATIVE CONCLUDED.
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 desk.
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 mean time, 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 the 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. I maintain clause number so-and-so, exactly as it stands.
Yours truly." The rejoinder came back in a quarter of an hour. "My dear sir. I
maintain the note in red ink exactly as it stands. Yours truly." In the
detestable slang of the day, we were now both "at a dead-lock," 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 — was her guardian, Mr. Frederick Fairlie. 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 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 from me 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 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-eleven-pence-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 want a change of scene and
occupation. You have a large circle of acquaintance, Mr. Gilmore. If you should
hear of any expedition abroad which may be in want of a draughtsman, and if you
have no friend of your own who can take advantage of the opportunity, I should
feel greatly obliged by your letting me know of it. I can answer for my
testimonials being satisfactory; and 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.
"If I hear of anything of the kind I will not fail to mention it," 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.
IV.
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 in
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."
I was determined not to let him provoke me, for Laura Fairlie's sake.
"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 great 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 among lawyers. If you were to
apply, at the nearest town here, to the first respectable practitioner 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 the event of the 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 — for
the sake 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 down stairs — 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.
All The Year Round, 21 January 1860, Vol.II, No.39, pp.285-291.
Weekly Part 9.
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