The Woman in White (18 page)

The empty silence of the beach struck cold to my heart. I
returned to the house and the garden, where traces were left to
speak of her at every turn.

On the west terrace walk I met Mr. Gilmore. He was evidently in
search of me, for he quickened his pace when we caught sight of
each other. The state of my spirits little fitted me for the
society of a stranger; but the meeting was inevitable, and I
resigned myself to make the best of it.

"You are the very person I wanted to see," said the old gentleman.
"I had two words to say to you, my dear sir; and If you have no
objection I will avail myself of the present opportunity. To put
it plainly, Miss Halcombe and I have been talking over family
affairs—affairs which are the cause of my being here—and in the
course of our conversation she was naturally led to tell me of
this unpleasant matter connected with the anonymous letter, and of
the share which you have most creditably and properly taken in the
proceedings so far. That share, I quite understand, gives you an
interest which you might not otherwise have felt, in knowing that
the future management of the investigation which you have begun
will be placed in safe hands. My dear sir, make yourself quite
easy on that point—it will be placed in MY hands."

"You are, in every way, Mr. Gilmore, much fitter to advise and to
act in the matter than I am. Is it an indiscretion on my part to
ask if you have decided yet on a course of proceeding?"

"So far as it is possible to decide, Mr. Hartright, I have
decided. I mean to send a copy of the letter, accompanied by a
statement of the circumstances, to Sir Percival Glyde's solicitor
in London, with whom I have some acquaintance. The letter itself
I shall keep here to show to Sir Percival as soon as he arrives.
The tracing of the two women I have already provided for, by
sending one of Mr. Fairlie's servants—a confidential person—to
the station to make inquiries. The man has his money and his
directions, and he will follow the women in the event of his
finding any clue. This is all that can be done until Sir Percival
comes on Monday. I have no doubt myself that every explanation
which can be expected from a gentleman and a man of honour, he
will readily give. Sir Percival stands very high, sir—an eminent
position, a reputation above suspicion—I feel quite easy about
results—quite easy, I am rejoiced to assure you. Things of this
sort happen constantly in my experience. Anonymous letters—
unfortunate woman—sad state of society. I don't deny that there
are peculiar complications in this case; but the case itself is,
most unhappily, common—common."

"I am afraid, Mr. Gilmore, I have the misfortune to differ from
you in the view I take of the case."

"Just so, my dear sir—just so. I am an old man, and I take the
practical view. You are a young man, and you take the romantic
view. Let us not dispute about our views. I live professionally
in an atmosphere of disputation, Mr. Hartright, and I am only too
glad to escape from it, as I am escaping here. We will wait for
events—yes, yes, yes—we will wait for events. Charming place
this. Good shooting? Probably not, none of Mr. Fairlie's land is
preserved, I think. Charming place, though, and delightful
people. You draw and paint, I hear, Mr. Hartright? Enviable
accomplishment. What style?"

We dropped into general conversation, or rather, Mr. Gilmore
talked and I listened. My attention was far from him, and from
the topics on which he discoursed so fluently. The solitary walk
of the last two hours had wrought its effect on me—it had set the
idea in my mind of hastening my departure from Limmeridge House.
Why should I prolong the hard trial of saying farewell by one
unnecessary minute? What further service was required of me by any
one? There was no useful purpose to be served by my stay in
Cumberland—there was no restriction of time in the permission to
leave which my employer had granted to me. Why not end it there
and then?

I determined to end it. There were some hours of daylight still
left—there was no reason why my journey back to London should not
begin on that afternoon. I made the first civil excuse that
occurred to me for leaving Mr. Gilmore, and returned at once to
the house.

On my way up to my own room I met Miss Halcombe on the stairs.
She saw, by the hurry of my movements and the change in my manner,
that I had some new purpose in view, and asked what had happened.

I told her the reasons which induced me to think of hastening my
departure, exactly as I have told them here.

"No, no," she said, earnestly and kindly, "leave us like a friend—
break bread with us once more. Stay here and dine, stay here and
help us to spend our last evening with you as happily, as like our
first evenings, as we can. It is my invitation—Mrs. Vesey's
invitation—-" she hesitated a little, and then added, "Laura's
invitation as well."

I promised to remain. God knows I had no wish to leave even the
shadow of a sorrowful impression with any one of them.

My own room was the best place for me till the dinner bell rang.
I waited there till it was time to go downstairs.

I had not spoken to Miss Fairlie—I had not even seen her—all
that day. The first meeting with her, when I entered the drawing-
room, was a hard trial to her self-control and to mine. She, too,
had done her best to make our last evening renew the golden bygone
time—the time that could never come again. She had put on the
dress which I used to admire more than any other that she
possessed—a dark blue silk, trimmed quaintly and prettily with
old-fashioned lace; she came forward to meet me with her former
readiness—she gave me her hand with the frank, innocent good-will
of happier days. The cold fingers that trembled round mine—the
pale cheeks with a bright red spot burning in the midst of them—
the faint smile that struggled to live on her lips and died away
from them while I looked at it, told me at what sacrifice of
herself her outward composure was maintained. My heart could take
her no closer to me, or I should have loved her then as I had
never loved her yet.

Mr. Gilmore was a great assistance to us. He was in high good-
humour, and he led the conversation with unflagging spirit. Miss
Halcombe seconded him resolutely, and I did all I could to follow
her example. The kind blue eyes, whose slightest changes of
expression I had learnt to interpret so well, looked at me
appealingly when we first sat down to table. Help my sister—the
sweet anxious face seemed to say—help my sister, and you will
help me.

We got through the dinner, to all outward appearance at least,
happily enough. When the ladies had risen from table, and Mr.
Gilmore and I were left alone in the dining-room, a new interest
presented itself to occupy our attention, and to give me an
opportunity of quieting myself by a few minutes of needful and
welcome silence. The servant who had been despatched to trace
Anne Catherick and Mrs. Clements returned with his report, and was
shown into the dining-room immediately.

"Well," said Mr. Gilmore, "what have you found out?"

"I have found out, sir," answered the man, "that both the women
took tickets at our station here for Carlisle."

"You went to Carlisle, of course, when you heard that?"

"I did, sir, but I am sorry to say I could find no further trace
of them."

"You inquired at the railway?"

"Yes, sir."

"And at the different inns?"

"Yes, sir."

"And you left the statement I wrote for you at the police
station?"

"I did, sir."

"Well, my friend, you have done all you could, and I have done all
I could, and there the matter must rest till further notice. We
have played our trump cards, Mr. Hartright," continued the old
gentleman when the servant had withdrawn. "For the present, at
least, the women have outmanoeuvred us, and our only resource now
is to wait till Sir Percival Glyde comes here on Monday next.
Won't you fill your glass again? Good bottle of port, that—sound,
substantial, old wine. I have got better in my own cellar,
though."

We returned to the drawing-room—the room in which the happiest
evenings of my life had been passed—the room which, after this
last night, I was never to see again. Its aspect was altered
since the days had shortened and the weather had grown cold. The
glass doors on the terrace side were closed, and hidden by thick
curtains. Instead of the soft twilight obscurity, in which we
used to sit, the bright radiant glow of lamplight now dazzled my
eyes. All was changed—in-doors and out all was changed.

Miss Halcombe and Mr. Gilmore sat down together at the card-table—
Mrs. Vesey took her customary chair. There was no restraint on
the disposal of THEIR evening, and I felt the restraint on the
disposal of mine all the more painfully from observing it. I saw
Miss Fairlie lingering near the music-stand. The time had been
when I might have joined her there. I waited irresolutely—I knew
neither where to go nor what to do next. She cast one quick
glance at me, took a piece of music suddenly from the stand, and
came towards me of her own accord.

"Shall I play some of those little melodies of Mozart's which you
used to like so much?" she asked, opening the music nervously, and
looking down at it while she spoke.

Before I could thank her she hastened to the piano. The chair
near it, which I had always been accustomed to occupy, stood
empty. She struck a few chords—then glanced round at me—then
looked back again at her music.

"Won't you take your old place?" she said, speaking very abruptly
and in very low tones.

"I may take it on the last night," I answered.

She did not reply—she kept her attention riveted on the music—
music which she knew by memory, which she had played over and over
again, in former times, without the book. I only knew that she
had heard me, I only knew that she was aware of my being close to
her, by seeing the red spot on the cheek that was nearest to me
fade out, and the face grow pale all over.

"I am very sorry you are going," she said, her voice almost
sinking to a whisper, her eyes looking more and more intently at
the music, her fingers flying over the keys of the piano with a
strange feverish energy which I had never noticed in her before.

"I shall remember those kind words, Miss Fairlie, long after to-
morrow has come and gone."

The paleness grew whiter on her face, and she turned it farther
away from me.

"Don't speak of to-morrow," she said. "Let the music speak to us
of to-night, in a happier language than ours."

Her lips trembled—a faint sigh fluttered from them, which she
tried vainly to suppress. Her fingers wavered on the piano—she
struck a false note, confused herself in trying to set it right,
and dropped her hands angrily on her lap. Miss Halcombe and Mr.
Gilmore looked up in astonishment from the card-table at which
they were playing. Even Mrs. Vesey, dozing in her chair, woke at
the sudden cessation of the music, and inquired what had happened.

"You play at whist, Mr. Hartright?" asked Miss Halcombe, with her
eyes directed significantly at the place I occupied.

I knew what she meant—I knew she was right, and I rose at once to
go to the card-table. As I left the piano Miss Fairlie turned a
page of the music, and touched the keys again with a surer hand.

"I WILL play it," she said, striking the notes almost
passionately. "I WILL play it on the last night."

"Come, Mrs. Vesey," said Miss Halcombe, "Mr. Gilmore and I are
tired of ecarte—come and be Mr. Hartright's partner at whist."

The old lawyer smiled satirically. His had been the winning hand,
and he had just turned up a king. He evidently attributed Miss
Halcombe's abrupt change in the card-table arrangements to a
lady's inability to play the losing game.

The rest of the evening passed without a word or a look from her.
She kept her place at the piano, and I kept mine at the card-
table. She played unintermittingly—played as if the music was
her only refuge from herself. Sometimes her fingers touched the
notes with a lingering fondness—a soft, plaintive, dying
tenderness, unutterably beautiful and mournful to hear; sometimes
they faltered and failed her, or hurried over the instrument
mechanically, as if their task was a burden to them. But still,
change and waver as they might in the expression they imparted to
the music, their resolution to play never faltered. She only rose
from the piano when we all rose to say Good-night.

Mrs. Vesey was the nearest to the door, and the first to shake
hands with me.

"I shall not see you again, Mr. Hartright," said the old lady. "I
am truly sorry you are going away. You have been very kind and
attentive, and an old woman like me feels kindness and attention.
I wish you happy, sir—I wish you a kind good-bye."

Mr. Gilmore came next.

"I hope we shall have a future opportunity of bettering our
acquaintance, Mr. Hartright. You quite understand about that
little matter of business being safe in my hands? Yes, yes, of
course. Bless me, how cold it is! Don't let me keep you at the
door. Bon voyage, my dear sir—bon voyage, as the French say."

Miss Halcombe followed.

"Half-past seven to-morrow morning," she said—then added in a
whisper, "I have heard and seen more than you think. Your conduct
to-night has made me your friend for life."

Miss Fairlie came last. I could not trust myself to look at her
when I took her hand, and when I thought of the next morning.

"My departure must be a very early one," I said. "I shall be
gone, Miss Fairlie, before you—-"

"No, no," she interposed hastily, "not before I am out of my room.
I shall be down to breakfast with Marian. I am not so ungrateful,
not so forgetful of the past three months—-"