THE WOMAN IN WHITE (With Original Illustrations). Wilkie Collins Collins
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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 Hartright,” continued the old gentleman when the servant had withdrawn.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 — indoors 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 tomorrow has come and gone.”
The paleness grew whiter on her face, and she turned it farther away from me.
“Don’t speak of tomorrow,” she said. “Let the music speak to us of tonight, 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 Goodnight.
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 goodbye.”
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 tomorrow morning,” she said — then added in a whisper, “I have heard and seen more than you think. Your conduct tonight 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 — — ”
Her voice failed her, her hand closed gently round mine — then dropped it suddenly. Before I could say “Goodnight” she was gone.
The end comes fast to meet me — comes inevitably, as the light of the last morning came at Limmeridge House.
It was barely half-past seven when I went downstairs, but I found them both at the breakfast-table waiting for me. In the chill air, in the dim light, in the gloomy morning silence of the house, we three sat down together, and tried to eat, tried to talk. The struggle to preserve appearances was hopeless and useless, and I rose to end it.
As I held out my hand, as Miss Halcombe, who was nearest to me, took it, Miss Fairlie turned away suddenly and hurried from the room.
“Better so,” said Miss Halcombe, when the door had closed — ”better so, for you and for her.”
I waited a moment before I could speak — it was hard to lose her, without a parting word or a parting look. I controlled myself — I tried to take leave of Miss Halcombe in fitting terms; but all the farewell words I would fain have spoken dwindled to one sentence.
“Have I deserved that you should write to me?” was all I could say.
“You have nobly deserved everything that I can do for you, as long as we both live. Whatever the end is you shall know it.”
“And