The heat had been painfully oppressive all day, and it was now
a close and sultry night. My mother and sister had spoken so many last words, and had begged me to wait another five minutes so many times,
that it was nearly midnight when the servant locked the
garden-gate behind me. I walked forward a few paces on the
shortest way back to London, then stopped and hesitated.
The moon was full and broad in the dark blue starless sky,
and the broken ground of the heath looked wild enough in the
mysterious light to be hundreds of miles away from the great
city that lay beneath it. The idea of descending any sooner than
I could help into the heat and gloom of London repelled me.
The prospect of going to bed in my airless chambers, and the
prospect of gradual suffocation, seemed, in my present restless
frame of mind and body, to be one and the same thing. I determined to stroll home in the purer air by the most roundabout way I could take; to follow the white winding paths
across the lonely heath; and to approach London through its
most open suburb by striking into the Finchley Road, and so
getting back, in the cool of the new morning, by the western
side of the Regent's Park.
I wound my way down slowly over the heath, enjoying the divine stillness of the scene, and admiring the soft alternations of
light and shade as they followed each other over the broken
ground on every side of me. So long as I was proceeding
through this first and prettiest part of my night walk my mind
remained passively open to the impressions produced by the
view; and I thought but little on any subject indeed, so far as
my own sensations were concerned, I can hardly say that I
thought at all.
But when I had left the heath and had turned into the byroad, where there was less to see, the ideas naturally engendered by the approaching change in my habits and occupations gradually drew more and more of my attention exclusively to themselves. By the time I had arrived at the end of the
road I had become completely absorbed in my own fanciful visions of Limmeridge House, of Mr. Fairlie, and of the two ladies
whose practice in the art of water-colour painting I was so
soon to superintend.
I had now arrived at that particular point of my walk where
four roads met the road to Hampstead, along which I had returned, the road to Finchley, the road to West End, and the
road back to London. I had mechanically turned in this latter
direction, and was strolling along the lonely high-road—idly
wondering, I remember, what the Cumberland young ladies
would look like when, in one moment, every drop of blood in
my body was brought to a stop by the touch of a hand laid
lightly and suddenly on my shoulder from behind me.
I turned on the instant, with my fingers tightening round the
handle of my stick.
There, in the middle of the broad bright high-road—there, as
if it had that moment sprung out of the earth or dropped from
the heaven—stood the figure of a solitary Woman, dressed
from head to foot in white garments, her face bent in grave inquiry on mine, her hand pointing to the dark cloud over London, as I faced her.
I was far too seriously startled by the suddenness with which
this extraordinary apparition stood before me, in the dead of
night and in that lonely place, to ask what she wanted. The
strange woman spoke first.
"Is that the road to London?" she said.
I looked attentively at her, as she put that singular question
to me. It was then nearly one o'clock. All I could discern distinctly by the moonlight was a colourless, youthful face, meagre and sharp to look at about the cheeks and chin; large,
grave, wistfully attentive eyes; nervous, uncertain lips; and
light hair of a pale, brownish yellow hue. There was nothing
wild, nothing immodest in her manner: it was quiet and self controlled, a little melancholy and a little touched by suspicion;
not exactly the manner of a lady, and, at the same time, not the
manner of a woman in the humblest rank of life. The voice,
little as I had yet heard of it, had something curiously still and
mechanical in its tones, and the utterance was remarkably rapid. She held a small bag in her hand: and her dress bonnet,
shawl, and gown all of white was, so far as I could guess, certainly not composed of very delicate or very expensive materials. Her figure was slight, and rather above the average
height—her gait and actions free from the slightest approach
to extravagance. This was all that I could observe of her in the
dim light and under the perplexingly strange circumstances of
our meeting. What sort of a woman she was, and how she came
to be out alone in the high-road, an hour after midnight, I altogether failed to guess. The one thing of which I felt certain
was, that the grossest of mankind could not have misconstrued
her motive in speaking, even at that suspiciously late hour and
in that suspiciously lonely place.
"Did you hear me?" she said, still quietly and rapidly, and
without the least fretfulness or impatience. "I asked if that was
the way to London."
"Yes," I replied, "that is the way: it leads to St. John's Wood
and the Regent's Park. You must excuse my not answering you
before. I was rather startled by your sudden appearance in the
road; and I am, even now, quite unable to account for it."
"You don't suspect me of doing anything wrong, do you? I
have done nothing wrong. I have met with an accident—I am
very unfortunate in being here alone so late. Why do you suspect me of doing wrong?"
She spoke with unnecessary earnestness and agitation, and
shrank back from me several paces. I did my best to reassure
her.
"Pray don't suppose that I have any idea of suspecting you," I
said, "or any other wish than to be of assistance to you, if I can.
I only wondered at your appearance in the road, because it
seemed to me to be empty the instant before I saw you."
She turned, and pointed back to a place at the junction of the
road to London and the road to Hampstead, where there was a
gap in the hedge.
"I heard you coming," she said, "and hid there to see what
sort of man you were, before I risked speaking. I doubted and
feared about it till you passed; and then I was obliged to steal
after you, and touch you."
Steal after me and touch me? Why not call to me? Strange, to
say the least of it.
"May I trust you?" she asked. "You don't think the worse of
me because I have met with an accident?" She stopped in confusion; shifted her bag from one hand to the other; and sighed
bitterly.
The loneliness and helplessness of the woman touched me.
The natural impulse to assist her and to spare her got the better of the judgment, the caution, the worldly tact, which an
older, wiser, and colder man might have summoned to help
him in this strange emergency.
"You may trust me for any harmless purpose," I said. "If it
troubles you to explain your strange situation to me, don't
think of returning to the subject again. I have no right to ask
you for any explanations. Tell me how I can help you; and if I
can, I will."
"You are very kind, and I am very, very thankful to have met
you." The first touch of womanly tenderness that I had heard
from her trembled in her voice as she said the words; but no
tears glistened in those large, wistfully attentive eyes of hers,
which were still fixed on me. "I have only been in London once
before," she went on, more and more rapidly, "and I know
nothing about that side of it, yonder. Can I get a fly, or a carriage of any kind? Is it too late? I don't know. If you could show
me where to get a fly—and if you will only promise not to interfere with me, and to let me leave you, when and how I
please—I have a friend in London who will be glad to receive
me—I want nothing else—will you promise?"
She looked anxiously up and down the road; shifted her bag
again from one hand to the other; repeated the words, "Will
you promise?" and looked hard in my face, with a pleading fear
and confusion that it troubled me to see.
What could I do? Here was a stranger utterly and helplessly
at my mercy—and that stranger a forlorn woman. No house
was near; no one was passing whom I could consult; and no
earthly right existed on my part to give me a power of control
over her, even if I had known how to exercise it. I trace these
lines, self-distrustfully, with the shadows of after-events darkening the very paper I write on; and still I say, what could I do?
What I did do, was to try and gain time by questioning her.
"Are you sure that your friend in London will receive you at
such a late hour as this?" I said.
"Quite sure. Only say you will let me leave you when and how
I please—only say you won't interfere with me. Will you
promise?"
As she repeated the words for the third time, she came close
to me and laid her hand, with a sudden gentle stealthiness, on
my bosom—a thin hand; a cold hand (when I removed it with
mine) even on that sultry night. Remember that I was young;
remember that the hand which touched me was a woman's.
"Will you promise?"
"Yes."
One word! The little familiar word that is on everybody's lips,
every hour in the day. Oh me! and I tremble, now, when I write
it.
We set our faces towards London, and walked on together in
the first still hour of the new day—I, and this woman, whose
name, whose character, whose story, whose objects in life,
whose very presence by my side, at that moment, were fathomless mysteries to me. It was like a dream. Was I Walter
Hartright? Was this the well-known, uneventful road, where
holiday people strolled on Sundays? Had I really left, little
more than an hour since, the quiet, decent, conventionally domestic atmosphere of my mother's cottage? I was too be wildered too conscious also of a vague sense of something
like self-reproach—to speak to my strange companion for some
minutes. It was her voice again that first broke the silence
between us.
"I want to ask you something," she said suddenly. "Do you
know many people in London?"
"Yes, a great many."
"Many men of rank and title?" There was an unmistakable
tone of suspicion in the strange question. I hesitated about answering it.
"Some," I said, after a moment's silence.
"Many"—she came to a full stop, and looked me searchingly
in the face—"many men of the rank of Baronet?"
Too much astonished to reply, I questioned her in my turn.
"Why do you ask?"
"Because I hope, for my own sake, there is one Baronet that
you don't know."
"Will you tell me his name?"
"I can't—I daren't—I forget myself when I mention it." She
spoke loudly and almost fiercely, raised her clenched hand in
the air, and shook it passionately; then, on a sudden, controlled
herself again, and added, in tones lowered to a whisper "Tell
me which of them YOU know."
I could hardly refuse to humour her in such a trifle, and I
mentioned three names. Two, the names of fathers of families
whose daughters I taught; one, the name of a bachelor who
had once taken me a cruise in his yacht, to make sketches for
him.
"Ah! you DON'T know him," she said, with a sigh of relief.
"Are you a man of rank and title yourself?"
"Far from it. I am only a drawing-master."
As the reply passed my lips a little bitterly, perhaps she
took my arm with the abruptness which characterised all her
actions.
"Not a man of rank and title," she repeated to herself. "Thank
God! I may trust HIM."
I had hitherto contrived to master my curiosity out of consideration for my companion; but it got the better of me now.
"I am afraid you have serious reason to complain of some
man of rank and title?" I said. "I am afraid the baronet, whose
name you are unwilling to mention to me, has done you some
grievous wrong? Is he the cause of your being out here at this
strange time of night?"
"Don't ask me: don't make me talk of it," she answered. "I'm
not fit now. I have been cruelly used and cruelly wronged. You
will be kinder than ever, if you will walk on fast, and not speak
to me. I sadly want to quiet myself, if I can."
We moved forward again at a quick pace; and for half an
hour, at least, not a word passed on either side. From time to
time, being forbidden to make any more inquiries, I stole a look
at her face. It was always the same; the lips close shut, the
brow frowning, the eyes looking straight forward, eagerly and
yet absently. We had reached the first houses, and were close
on the new Wesleyan college, before her set features relaxed
and she spoke once more.
"Do you live in London?" she said.
"Yes." As I answered, it struck me that she might have
formed some intention of appealing to me for assistance or advice, and that I ought to spare her a possible disappointment
by warning her of my approaching absence from home. So I
added, "But to-morrow I shall be away from London for some
time. I am going into the country."
"Where?" she asked. "North or south?"
"North—to Cumberland."
"Cumberland!" she repeated the word tenderly. "Ah! wish I
was going there too. I was once happy in Cumberland."
I tried again to lift the veil that hung between this woman
and me.
"Perhaps you were born," I said, "in the beautiful Lake
country."
"No," she answered. "I was born in Hampshire; but I once
went to school for a little while in Cumberland. Lakes? I don't
remember any lakes. It's Limmeridge village, and Limmeridge
House, I should like to see again."
It was my turn now to stop suddenly. In the excited state of
my curiosity, at that moment, the chance reference to Mr.
Fairlie's place of residence, on the lips of my strange companion, staggered me with astonishment.
"Did you hear anybody calling after us?" she asked, looking
up and down the road affrightedly, the instant I stopped.
"No, no. I was only struck by the name of Limmeridge House.
I heard it mentioned by some Cumberland people a few days
since."
"Ah! not my people. Mrs. Fairlie is dead; and her husband is
dead; and their little girl may be married and gone away by
this time. I can't say who lives at Limmeridge now. If any more
are left there of that name, I only know I love them for Mrs.
Fairlie's sake."
She seemed about to say more; but while she was speaking,
we came within view of the turnpike, at the top of the Avenue
Road. Her hand tightened round my arm, and she looked
anxiously at the gate before us.
"Is the turnpike man looking out?" she asked.
He was not looking out; no one else was near the place when
we passed through the gate. The sight of the gas lamps and
houses seemed to agitate her, and to make her impatient.
"This is London," she said. "Do you see any carriage I can
get? I am tired and frightened. I want to shut myself in and be
driven away."
I explained to her that we must walk a little further to get to
a cab-stand, unless we were fortunate enough to meet with an
empty vehicle; and then tried to resume the subject of Cumberland. It was useless. That idea of shutting herself in, and being
driven away, had now got full possession of her mind. She
could think and talk of nothing else.
We had hardly proceeded a third of the way down the Avenue Road when I saw a cab draw up at a house a few doors below us, on the opposite side of the way. A gentleman got out
and let himself in at the garden door. I hailed the cab, as the
driver mounted the box again. When we crossed the road, my
companion's impatience increased to such an extent that she
almost forced me to run.
"It's so late," she said. "I am only in a hurry because it's so
late."
"I can't take you, sir, if you're not going towards Tottenham
Court Road," said the driver civilly, when I opened the cab
door. "My horse is dead beat, and I can't get him no further
than the stable."
"Yes, yes. That will do for me. I'm going that way I'm going
that way." She spoke with breathless eagerness, and pressed
by me into the cab.
I had assured myself that the man was sober as well as civil
before I let her enter the vehicle. And now, when she was
seated inside, I entreated her to let me see her set down safely
at her destination.
"No, no, no," she said vehemently. "I'm quite safe, and quite
happy now. If you are a gentleman, remember your promise.
Let him drive on till I stop him. Thank you oh! thank you,
thank you!"
My hand was on the cab door. She caught it in hers, kissed it,
and pushed it away. The cab drove off at the same moment I
started into the road, with some vague idea of stopping it
again, I hardly knew why—hesitated from dread of frightening
and distressing her—called, at last, but not loudly enough to attract the driver's attention. The sound of the wheels grew fainter in the distance—the cab melted into the black shadows on
the road—the woman in white was gone.
Ten minutes or more had passed. I was still on the same side
of the way; now mechanically walking forward a few paces;
now stopping again absently. At one moment I found myself
doubting the reality of my own adventure; at another I was perplexed and distressed by an uneasy sense of having done
wrong, which yet left me confusedly ignorant of how I could
have done right. I hardly knew where I was going, or what I
meant to do next; I was conscious of nothing but the confusion
of my own thoughts, when I was abruptly recalled to myself awakened, I might almost say—by the sound of rapidly
approaching wheels close behind me.
I was on the dark side of the road, in the thick shadow of
some garden trees, when I stopped to look round. On the opposite and lighter side of the way, a short distance below me, a
policeman was strolling along in the direction of the Regent's
Park.
The carriage passed me—an open chaise driven by two men.
"Stop!" cried one. "There's a policeman. Let's ask him."
The horse was instantly pulled up, a few yards beyond the
dark place where I stood.
"Policeman!" cried the first speaker. "Have you seen a woman pass this way?"
"What sort of woman, sir?"
"A woman in a lavender-coloured gown—"
"No, no," interposed the second man. "The clothes we gave
her were found on her bed. She must have gone away in the
clothes she wore when she came to us. In white, policeman. A
woman in white."
"I haven't seen her, sir."
"If you or any of your men meet with the woman, stop her,
and send her in careful keeping to that address. I'll pay all expenses, and a fair reward into the bargain."
The policeman looked at the card that was handed down to
him.
"Why are we to stop her, sir? What has she done?"
"Done! She has escaped from my Asylum. Don't forget; a woman in white. Drive on."