“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.”
V
“She has escaped from my Asylum!”
I cannot say with truth that the terrible inference which those words
suggested flashed upon me like a new revelation. Some of the strange
questions put to me by the woman in white, after my ill-considered
promise to leave her free to act as she pleased, had suggested the
conclusion either that she was naturally flighty and unsettled, or that
some recent shock of terror had disturbed the balance of her faculties.
But the idea of absolute insanity which we all associate with the very
name of an Asylum, had, I can honestly declare, never occurred to me,
in connection with her. I had seen nothing, in her language or her
actions, to justify it at the time; and even with the new light thrown
on her by the words which the stranger had addressed to the policeman,
I could see nothing to justify it now.
What had I done? Assisted the victim of the most horrible of all false
imprisonments to escape; or cast loose on the wide world of London an
unfortunate creature, whose actions it was my duty, and every man’s
duty, mercifully to control? I turned sick at heart when the question
occurred to me, and when I felt self-reproachfully that it was asked
too late.
In the disturbed state of my mind, it was useless to think of going to
bed, when I at last got back to my chambers in Clement’s Inn. Before
many hours elapsed it would be necessary to start on my journey to
Cumberland. I sat down and tried, first to sketch, then to read—but the
woman in white got between me and my pencil, between me and my book.
Had the forlorn creature come to any harm? That was my first thought,
though I shrank selfishly from confronting it. Other thoughts followed,
on which it was less harrowing to dwell. Where had she stopped the cab?
What had become of her now? Had she been traced and captured by the men
in the chaise? Or was she still capable of controlling her own actions;
and were we two following our widely parted roads towards one point in
the mysterious future, at which we were to meet once more?
It was a relief when the hour came to lock my door, to bid farewell
to London pursuits, London pupils, and London friends, and to be in
movement again towards new interests and a new life. Even the bustle
and confusion at the railway terminus, so wearisome and bewildering at
other times, roused me and did me good.
My travelling instructions directed me to go to Carlisle, and then to
diverge by a branch railway which ran in the direction of the coast.
As a misfortune to begin with, our engine broke down between Lancaster
and Carlisle. The delay occasioned by this accident caused me to be too
late for the branch train, by which I was to have gone on immediately.
I had to wait some hours; and when a later train finally deposited me
at the nearest station to Limmeridge House, it was past ten, and the
night was so dark that I could hardly see my way to the pony-chaise
which Mr. Fairlie had ordered to be in waiting for me.
The driver was evidently discomposed by the lateness of my arrival. He
was in that state of highly respectful sulkiness which is peculiar to
English servants. We drove away slowly through the darkness in perfect
silence. The roads were bad, and the dense obscurity of the night
increased the difficulty of getting over the ground quickly. It was,
by my watch, nearly an hour and a half from the time of our leaving
the station before I heard the sound of the sea in the distance, and
the crunch of our wheels on a smooth gravel drive. We had passed one
gate before entering the drive, and we passed another before we drew
up at the house. I was received by a solemn man-servant out of livery,
was informed that the family had retired for the night, and was then
led into a large and lofty room where my supper was awaiting me, in a
forlorn manner, at one extremity of a lonesome mahogany wilderness of
dining-table.
I was too tired and out of spirits to eat or drink much, especially
with the solemn servant waiting on me as elaborately as if a small
dinner party had arrived at the house instead of a solitary man. In
a quarter of an hour I was ready to be taken up to my bedchamber.
The solemn servant conducted me into a prettily furnished room—said,
“Breakfast at nine o’clock, sir”—looked all round him to see that
everything was in its proper place, and noiselessly withdrew.
“What shall I see in my dreams to-night?” I thought to myself, as I
put out the candle; “the woman in white? or the unknown inhabitants of
this Cumberland mansion?” It was a strange sensation to be sleeping in
the house, like a friend of the family, and yet not to know one of the
inmates, even by sight!