THE WOMAN IN WHITE (Illustrated Edition). Wilkie Collins Collins

business, and he has replied by proposing to stop at Limmeridge House on his way back to town. He will arrive tomorrow, and will stay with us a few days, so as to allow Sir Percival time to plead his own cause. If he succeeds, Mr. Gilmore will then return to London, taking with him his instructions for my sister’s marriage-settlement. You understand now, Mr. Hartright, why I speak of waiting to take legal advice until tomorrow? Mr. Gilmore is the old and tried friend of two generations of Fairlies, and we can trust him, as we could trust no one else.”

      The marriage-settlement! The mere hearing of those two words stung me with a jealous despair that was poison to my higher and better instincts. I began to think — it is hard to confess this, but I must suppress nothing from beginning to end of the terrible story that I now stand committed to reveal — I began to think, with a hateful eagerness of hope, of the vague charges against Sir Percival Glyde which the anonymous letter contained. What if those wild accusations rested on a foundation of truth? What if their truth could be proved before the fatal words of consent were spoken, and the marriage-settlement was drawn? I have tried to think since, that the feeling which then animated me began and ended in pure devotion to Miss Fairlie’s interests, but I have never succeeded in deceiving myself into believing it, and I must not now attempt to deceive others. The feeling began and ended in reckless, vindictive, hopeless hatred of the man who was to marry her.

      “If we are to find out anything,” I said, speaking under the new influence which was now directing me, “we had better not let another minute slip by us unemployed. I can only suggest, once more, the propriety of questioning the gardener a second time, and of inquiring in the village immediately afterwards.”

      “I think I may be of help to you in both cases,” said Miss Halcombe, rising. “Let us go, Mr. Hartright, at once, and do the best we can together.”

      I had the door in my hand to open it for her — but I stopped, on a sudden, to ask an important question before we set forth.

      “One of the paragraphs of the anonymous letter,” I said, “contains some sentences of minute personal description. Sir Percival Glyde’s name is not mentioned, I know — but does that description at all resemble him?”

      “Accurately — even in stating his age to be forty-five — — ”

      Forty-five; and she was not yet twenty-one! Men of his age married wives of her age every day — and experience had shown those marriages to be often the happiest ones. I knew that — and yet even the mention of his age, when I contrasted it with hers, added to my blind hatred and distrust of him.

      “Accurately,” Miss Halcombe continued, “even to the scar on his right hand, which is the scar of a wound that he received years since when he was travelling in Italy. There can be no doubt that every peculiarity of his personal appearance is thoroughly well known to the writer of the letter.”

      “Even a cough that he is troubled with is mentioned, if I remember right?”

      “Yes, and mentioned correctly. He treats it lightly himself, though it sometimes makes his friends anxious about him.”

      “I suppose no whispers have ever been heard against his character?”

      “Mr. Hartright! I hope you are not unjust enough to let that infamous letter influence you?”

      I felt the blood rush into my cheeks, for I knew that it HAD influenced me.

      “I hope not,” I answered confusedly. “Perhaps I had no right to ask the question.”

      “I am not sorry you asked it,” she said, “for it enables me to do justice to Sir Percival’s reputation. Not a whisper, Mr. Hartright, has ever reached me, or my family, against him. He has fought successfully two contested elections, and has come out of the ordeal unscathed. A man who can do that, in England, is a man whose character is established.”

      I opened the door for her in silence, and followed her out. She had not convinced me. If the recording angel had come down from heaven to confirm her, and had opened his book to my mortal eyes, the recording angel would not have convinced me.

      We found the gardener at work as usual. No amount of questioning could extract a single answer of any importance from the lad’s impenetrable stupidity. The woman who had given him the letter was an elderly woman; she had not spoken a word to him, and she had gone away towards the south in a great hurry. That was all the gardener could tell us.

      The village lay southward of the house. So to the village we went next.

       XII

      Our inquiries at Limmeridge were patiently pursued in all directions, and among all sorts and conditions of people. But nothing came of them. Three of the villagers did certainly assure us that they had seen the woman, but as they were quite unable to describe her, and quite incapable of agreeing about the exact direction in which she was proceeding when they last saw her, these three bright exceptions to the general rule of total ignorance afforded no more real assistance to us than the mass of their unhelpful and unobservant neighbours.

      The course of our useless investigations brought us, in time, to the end of the village at which the schools established by Mrs. Fairlie were situated. As we passed the side of the building appropriated to the use of the boys, I suggested the propriety of making a last inquiry of the schoolmaster, whom we might presume to be, in virtue of his office, the most intelligent man in the place.

      “I am afraid the schoolmaster must have been occupied with his scholars,” said Miss Halcombe, “just at the time when the woman passed through the village and returned again. However, we can but try.”

      We entered the playground enclosure, and walked by the schoolroom window to get round to the door, which was situated at the back of the building. I stopped for a moment at the window and looked in.

      The schoolmaster was sitting at his high desk, with his back to me, apparently haranguing the pupils, who were all gathered together in front of him, with one exception. The one exception was a sturdy white-headed boy, standing apart from all the rest on a stool in a corner — a forlorn little Crusoe, isolated in his own desert island of solitary penal disgrace.

      The door, when we got round to it, was ajar, and the schoolmaster’s voice reached us plainly, as we both stopped for a minute under the porch.

      “Now, boys,” said the voice, “mind what I tell you. If I hear another word spoken about ghosts in this school, it will be the worse for all of you. There are no such things as ghosts, and therefore any boy who believes in ghosts believes in what can’t possibly be; and a boy who belongs to Limmeridge School, and believes in what can’t possibly be, sets up his back against reason and discipline, and must be punished accordingly. You all see Jacob Postlethwaite standing up on the stool there in disgrace. He has been punished, not because he said he saw a ghost last night, but because he is too impudent and too obstinate to listen to reason, and because he persists in saying he saw the ghost after I have told him that no such thing can possibly be. If nothing else will do, I mean to cane the ghost out of Jacob Postlethwaite, and if the thing spreads among any of the rest of you, I mean to go a step farther, and cane the ghost out of the whole school.”

      “We seem to have chosen an awkward moment for our visit,” said Miss Halcombe, pushing open the door at the end of the schoolmaster’s address, and leading the way in.

      Our appearance produced a strong sensation among the boys. They appeared to think that we had arrived for the express purpose of seeing Jacob Postlethwaite caned.

      “Go home all of you to dinner,” said the schoolmaster, “except Jacob. Jacob must stop where he is; and the ghost may bring him his dinner, if the ghost pleases.”

      Jacob’s fortitude deserted him at the double disappearance of his schoolfellows and his prospect of dinner. He took his hands out of his pockets, looked hard at his knuckles, raised them with great deliberation to his eyes, and when they got there, ground them round and round slowly, accompanying the action by short spasms of sniffing, which followed each other at regular intervals — the nasal minute guns of juvenile distress.

      “We came here to ask