The Woman in White (23 page)

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naturally and necessarily, superseded all other interests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
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. Miss Fairlie's
settlement. I maintain the clause to which you object, exactly as
it stands. Yours truly." The rejoinder came back in a quarter of
an hour. "My dear sir. Miss Fairlie's settlement. I maintain
the red ink to which you object, exactly as it stands. Yours
truly." In the detestable slang of the day, we were now both "at a
deadlock," 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—Mr. Frederick Fairlie, was her guardian. 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 had 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 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 is obstinate—or let me rather say, resolute—and 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-elevenpence-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
gentleman-like 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 am going to another country to try a change of
scene and occupation. Miss Halcombe has kindly assisted me with
her influence, and my testimonials have been found satisfactory.
It is a long distance off, but 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.