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 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 BY 
 
 WILKIE COLLINS, 
 
 AriHOK OF " THE DEAD SECRET," " AFTER DARK," ETC., ETC. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 THIRD EDITION. 
 
 LONDON: 
 SAMPSON LOW, SON, & CO., 47 LUDGATE HILL 
 
 1860. 
 
 \_Tlie Right of Translation is licscrvcd .']
 
 LCBfDOK ; I'KINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS. STAMl-OKD STaKKI
 
 t^3 
 
 O.I 
 
 TO 
 
 BKYAN WALLER PROCTER; 
 
 FR0:\1 ONE OF HIS YOUNGER BRETHREN IN LITERATURK, 
 WHO SINCERELY VALUES HIS FRIENDSHIP, 
 
 AND WHO GRATEFULLY REMEMBERS 
 :MANY HAPPY HOURS SPENT IN HIS HOUSE.
 
 PREFACE, 
 
 An experiment is attempted in this novel, which has 
 not (so far as I know) been hitherto tried in fiction. 
 The story of the book is told throughout by the 
 characters of the book. They are all placed in 
 different positions along the chain of events; and 
 they all take the chain up in turn, and carry it on 
 to the end. 
 
 If the execution of this idea had led to nothing 
 more than the attainment of mere novelty of form, 
 I should not have claimed a moment's attention for 
 it in this place. But the substance of the book, as 
 well as the form, has profited by it. It has forced 
 me to keep the story constantly moving forward ; 
 and it has afforded my characters a new opportunity 
 of expressing themselves, through the medium of 
 the written contributions which they are supposed to 
 make to the progress of the narrative. 
 
 In writing these prefatory lines, I cannot prevail 
 on myself to pass over in silence tlie warm welcome
 
 VI PREFACE. 
 
 which my story has met with, in its periodical 
 form, among English and American readers. In 
 the first place, that welcome has, I hope, justified 
 me for having accepted the serious literary responsi- 
 bility of appearing in the columns of ' All The Year 
 Round,' immediately after Mr. Charles Dickens had 
 occupied them with the most perfect work of con- 
 structive art that has ever proceeded from his pen. 
 In the second place, by frankly acknowledging the 
 recognition that I have obtained thus far, I provide 
 for myself an opportunity of thanking many corre- 
 spondents (to whom I am personally unknown) for 
 the hearty encouragement I received from them 
 while my work was in progress. Now, while the 
 visionary men and women, among whom I have 
 been living so long, are all leaving me, I remember 
 very gratefully that * Marian ' and ' Laura ' made 
 such warm friends in many quarters, that I was 
 peremptorily cautioned at a serious crisis in the 
 story, to be careful how I treated them — ^that 
 Mr. Fairlie found sympathetic fellow-sufferers, who 
 remonstrated with me for not making Christian 
 allowance for the state of his nerves — that Sir 
 Percival's ' secret * became sufficiently exasperating. 
 in course of time, to be made the subject of bets (all 
 of which I hereby declare to be ' off ' ) — and that 
 
 \ 
 
 %
 
 PEEFACE. VU 
 
 Count Fosco suggested metaphysical considerations 
 to the learned in such matters (which I don't quite 
 understand to this day), besides provoking numerous 
 inquiries as to the living model, from which he had 
 been really taken. I can only answer these last by 
 confessing that many models, some living, and some 
 dead, have * sat ' for him ; and by hinting that the 
 Count would not have been as true to nature as I 
 have tried to make him, if the range of my search 
 for materials had not extended, in his case as well as 
 in others, beyond the narrow human limit which is 
 represented by one man. 
 
 In presenting my book to a new class of readers, 
 in its complete form, I have only to say that it 
 has been carefully revised ; and that the divisions of 
 the chapters, and other minor matters of the same 
 sort, have been altered here and there, with a view to 
 smoothing and consolidating the story in its course 
 through these volumes. If the readers who have 
 waited until it was done, only prove to be as kind an 
 audience as the readers who followed it through its 
 weekly progress, * The Woman in White ' will be 
 the most precious impersonal Woman on the list of 
 my acquaintance. 
 
 Before I conclude, I am desirous of addressing one
 
 VIU PREFACE. 
 
 or two questions, of the most harmless and innocent 
 kind, to the Critics. 
 
 In the event of this book being reviewed, I venture 
 to ask whether it is possible to praise the writer, or 
 to blame him, without opening the proceedings by 
 telling his story at second-hand ? As that story is 
 written by me — with the inevitable suppressions 
 which the periodical system of publication forces on 
 the novelist — the telling it fills more than a thousand 
 closely printed pages. No small portion of this space 
 is occupied by hundreds of little * connecting links,' 
 of trifling value in themselves, but of the utmost 
 importance in maintaining the smoothness, the 
 reality, and the probability of the entire narrative. 
 If the critic tells the story luith these, can he do it in 
 his allotted page, or column, as the case may be ? If 
 he tells it tvithout these, is he doing a fellow-labourer 
 in another form of Art, the justice which writers owe 
 to one another ? And lastly, if he tells it at all, in 
 any way whatever, is he doing a service to the reader, 
 by destroying, beforehand, two main elements in the 
 attraction of all stories — the interest of curiosity, and 
 the excitement of surprise ? 
 
 llarley Street, London, 
 August 3, 18G0.
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 THE STOEY BEGUN 
 
 WALTER HARTRIGHT, 
 
 OF CLEMENT'S INN, TEACHER OF DRAWING, 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 I. 
 
 This is the story of what a Woman's patience can 
 endure, and of what a Man's resolution can achieve. 
 
 If the machinery of the Law could be depended on 
 to fathom every case of suspicion, and to conduct every 
 process of inquiry with moderate assistance only from 
 the lubricating influences of oil of gold, the events 
 which fill these pages might have claimed their share 
 of the public attention in a Court of Justice. 
 
 But the Law is still, in certain inevitable cases, the 
 pre-engaged servant of the long purse ; and the story 
 is left to be told, for the first time, in this place. As 
 the Judge might once have heard it, so the Reader 
 shall hear it now. No circumstance of importance, 
 from the beginning to the end of the disclosure, shall 
 be related on hearsay evidence. When the writer of 
 these introductory lines (Walter Hartright, by name) 
 happens to be more closely connected than others with 
 the incidents to be recorded, he will describe them in 
 his own person. When his experience fails, he will 
 retire from the position of narrator ; and his task will 
 be continued, from the point at which he has left it off, 
 
 B 2
 
 4 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 by other persons who can speak to the circumstances 
 under notice from their own knowledge, just as clearly 
 and positively as he has spoken before them. 
 
 Thus, the story here presented will be told by more 
 than one pen, as the story of an offence against the 
 laws is told in Court by more than one witness — with 
 the same object, in both cases, to present the truth 
 always in its most direct and most intelligible aspect ; 
 and to trace the course of one complete series of events, 
 by making the persons who have been most closely con- 
 nected with them, at each successive stage, relate their 
 own experience, word for word. 
 
 Let Walter Hartright, teacher of drawing, aged 
 tw^enty-eight years, be heard first.
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 II. 
 
 It was the last day of July. The long hot summer 
 was drawing to a close ; and we, the weary pilgrims of 
 the London pavement, were beginning to think of the 
 cloud-shadows on the corn-fields, and the autumn 
 breezes on the sea-shore. 
 
 For my own poor part, the fading summer left me out 
 of health, out of spirits, and, if the truth must be told, 
 out of money as well. During the past year, I had 
 not managed my professional resources as carefully as 
 usual ; and my extravagance now limited me to the 
 prospect of spending the autumn economically between 
 my mother's cottage at Hampstead, and my own 
 chambers in town. 
 
 The evening, I remember, was still and cloudy ; 
 the London air was at its heaviest ; the distant hum 
 of, the street-traffic was at its faintest ; the small pulse 
 of the life within me and the great heart of the city 
 around me seemed to be sinking in unison, languidly 
 and more languidly, with the sinking sun. I roused 
 myself from the book which I was dreaming over rather 
 than reading, and left my chambers to meet the cool
 
 D THE V/OMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 night air in the suburbs. It was one of the two even- 
 ings in every week which I was accustomed to spend 
 with my mother and ray sister. So I turned my steps 
 northward, in the direction of Hampstead. 
 
 Events which 1 have yet to relate, make it necessary 
 to mention in this place that my father had been dead 
 some years at the period of which I am now writing ; 
 and that my sister Sarah, and I, were the sole sur- 
 vivors of a family of five children. My father was a 
 drawing-master before me. His exertions had made 
 him highly successful in his profession ; and his affec- 
 tionate anxiety to provide for the future of those who 
 were dependent on his labours, had impelled him, from 
 the time of his marriage, to devote to the insuring of 
 his life a much larger portion of his income than most 
 men consider it necessary to set aside for that purpose. 
 Thanks to his admirable prudence and self-denial, my 
 mother and sister were left, after his death, as inde- 
 pendent of the world as they had been during his life- 
 time. I succeeded to his connexion, and had every 
 reason to feel grateful for the prospect that awaited 
 me at ray starting in life. 
 
 The quiet twilight was still trembling on the topmost 
 ridges of the heath ; and the view of London below jne 
 had sunk into a black gulf in the shadow of the cloudy 
 night, when I stood before the gate of my mother's 
 cottage. I had hardly rung the bell, before the house- 
 door was opened violently ; my worthy Italian friend, 
 Professor Pesca, appeared in the servant's place ; and
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 7 
 
 darted out joyously to receive me, with a shrill foreign 
 parody on an English cheer. 
 
 On his own account, and, I must be allowed to add, 
 on mine also, the Professor merits the honour of a 
 formal introduction. Accident has made him the 
 starting-point of the strange family story which it is 
 the purpose of these pages to unfold. 
 
 I had first become acquainted with my Italian friend 
 by meeting him at certain great houses, where he 
 taught his own language and I taught drawing. All 
 1 then knew of the history of his life was, that he 
 had once held a situation in the University of Padua ; 
 that he had left Italy for political reasons (the nature 
 of which he uniformly declined to mention to any 
 one) ; and that he had been for many years respectably 
 established in London as a teacher of languages. 
 
 Without being actually a dwarf — for he was per- 
 fectly well-proportioned from head to foot — Pesca was, 
 I think, the smallest human being I ever saw, out of a 
 show-room. Remarkable anywhere, by his personal 
 appearance, he was still further distinguished among 
 the rank and file of mankind, by the harmless eccen- 
 tricity of his character. The ruling idea of his life 
 appeared to be, that he was bound to show his grati- 
 tude to the country which had afforded him an asylum 
 and a means of subsistence, by doing his utmost to 
 turn himself into an Englishman. Not content with 
 paying the nation in general the compliment of In- 
 variably carrying an umbrella, and invariably wearing
 
 b THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 gaiters and a white hat, the Professor further aspired 
 to become an Englishman in his habits and amuse- 
 ments, as well as in his personal appearance. Finding 
 us distinguished, as a nation, by our love of athletic 
 exercises, the little man, in the innocence of his heart, 
 devoted himself impromptu to all our English sports 
 and pastimes, whenever he had the opportunity of 
 joining them ; firmly persuaded that he could adopt 
 our national amusements of the field, by an effort of 
 will, precisely as he had adopted our national gaiters 
 and our national white hat. 
 
 I had seen him risk his limbs blindly at a fox-hunt 
 and in a cricket-field ; and, soon afterwards, I saw 
 him risk his life, Justus blindly, in the sea at Brighton. 
 
 We had met there accidentally, and were bathing 
 together. If we had been engaged in any exercise 
 peculiar to my own nation, I should, of course, have 
 looked after Pesca carefully ; but, as foreigners are 
 generally quite as well able to take care of themselves 
 in the water as Englishmen, it never occurred to me 
 that the art of swimming might merely add one more 
 to the list of manly exercises which the Professor 
 believed that he could learn impromptu. Soon after 
 we had both struck out from shore, I stopped, finding 
 my friend did not gain on me, and turned round to 
 look for him. To my horror and amazement, I saw 
 nothing between me and the beach but two little white 
 arms which struggled for an instant above the surface 
 of the water, and then disappeared from view. When
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 9 
 
 I dived for him, the poor little man was lying quietly 
 coiled up at the bottom, in a hollow of shingle, looking 
 by many degrees smaller than I had ever seen him 
 look before. During the few minutes that elapsed 
 while I was taking him in, the air revived him, and he 
 ascended the steps of the machine with my assistance. 
 With the partial recovery of his animation came the 
 return of his wonderful delusion on the subject of 
 swimming. As soon as his chattering teeth would let 
 him speak, he smiled vacantly, and said he thought it 
 must have been the Cramp. 
 
 When he had thoroughly recovered himself and had 
 joined me on the beach, his warm Southern nature 
 broke through all artificial English restraints, in a 
 moment. He overwhelmed me with the wildest ex- 
 pressions of affection — exclaimed passionately, in his 
 exaggerated Italian way, that he would hold his life, 
 henceforth, at my disposal — and declared that he 
 should never be happy again, until he had found an 
 opportunity of proving his gratitude by rendering me 
 some service which I might remember, on my side, to 
 the end of my days. 
 
 I did my best to stop the torrent of his tears and 
 protestations, by persisting in treating the whole ad- 
 venture as a good subject for a joke ; and succeeded 
 at last, as I imagined, in lessening Pesca's over- 
 whelming sense of obligation to me. Little did I 
 think then — little did I think afterwards when our 
 pleasant holiday had drawn to an end — that the oppor- 
 
 B 3
 
 10 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 tunity of serving me for which my grateful companion 
 so ardently longed, was soon to come ; that he was 
 eagerly to seize it on the instant; and that, by so 
 doing, he was to turn the whole current of my exist- 
 ence into a new channel, and to alter me to myself 
 almost past recognition. 
 
 Yet, so it was. If I had not dived for Professor 
 Pesca, when he lay under water on his shingle bed, I 
 should, in all human probability, never have been con- 
 nected with the story which these pages will relate — 1 
 should never, perhaps, have heard even the name of 
 the woman, who has lived in all my thoughts, who has 
 possessed herself of all my energies, who has become 
 the one guiding influence that now directs the purpose 
 of my life.
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 11 
 
 III. 
 
 Pesca's face and manner, on the evening when we 
 confronted each other at my mother's gate, were more 
 than sufficient to inform me that something extraordi- 
 nary had happened. It was quite useless, however, to 
 ask him for an immediate explanation. I could only 
 conjecture, while he was dragging me in by both 
 hands, that (knowing my habits) he had come to th^ 
 cottage to make sure of meeting me that night, and 
 that he had some news to tell of an unusually agree- 
 able kind. 
 
 We both bounced into the parlour in a highly abrupt 
 and undignified manner. My mother sat by the open 
 window, laughing and fanning herself. Pesca was one 
 of her especial favourites ; and his wildest eccentri- 
 cities were always pardonable in her eyes. Poor dear 
 soul ! from the first moment when she found out that 
 the little Professor was deeply and gratefully attached 
 to her son, she opened her heart to him unreservedly, 
 and took all his puzzling foreign peculiarities for 
 granted, without so much as attempting to understand 
 any one of them.
 
 12 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 My sister Sarah, with all the advantages of youth, 
 was, strangely enough, less pliable. She did full 
 justice to Pesca's excellent qualities of heart ; but she 
 could not accept him implicitly, as my mother ac- 
 cepted him, for my sake. Her insular notions of 
 propriety rose in perpetual revolt against Pesca's 
 constitutional contempt for appearances ; and she was 
 always more or less undisguisedly astonished at her 
 mother's familiarity with the eccentric little foreigner. 
 I have observed, not only in my sister's case, but in 
 the instances of others, that we of the young generation 
 are nothing like so hearty and so impulsive as some of 
 our elders. I constantly see old people flushed and 
 excited by the prospect of some anticipated pleasure 
 which altogether fails to ruffle the tranquillity of their 
 serene grandchildren. Are we, I wonder, quite such 
 genuine boys and girls now as our seniors were, in 
 their time ? Has the great advance in education taken 
 rather too long a stride ; and are we, in these modern 
 days, just the least trifle in the world too well brought 
 up? 
 
 Without attempting to answ^er those questions 
 decisively, I may at least record that I never saw 
 my mother and my sister together in Pesca's society, 
 without finding my mother much the younger woman 
 of the two. On this occasion, for example, while the 
 old lady was laughing heartily over the boyish manner 
 in which we tumbled into the parlour, Sarah was 
 perturbedly picking up the broken pieces of a teacup.
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 13 
 
 which the Professor had knocked off the table in his 
 precipitate advance to meet me at the door. 
 
 " I don't know what would have happened, Walter," 
 said my mother, " if you had delayed much longer. 
 Pesca has been half-mad with impatience ; and I have 
 been half-mad with curiosity. The Professor has 
 brought some wonderful news with him, in which he 
 says you are concerned ; and he has cruelly refused to 
 give us the smallest hint of it till his friend Walter 
 appeared." 
 
 " Very provoking : it spoils the Set," murmured 
 Sarah to herself, mournfully absorbed over the ruins 
 of the broken cup. 
 
 While these words were being spoken, Pesca, happily 
 and fussily unconscious of the irreparable wrong which 
 the crockery had suffered at his hands, was dragging a 
 large arm-chair to the opposite end of the room, so as 
 to command us all three, in the character of a public 
 speaker addressing an audience. Having turned the 
 chair with its back towards us, he jumped into it on 
 his knee^, and excitably addressed his small congrega- 
 tion of three from an impromptu pulpit. 
 
 '* Now, my good dears," began Pesca (who always 
 said " good dears," when he meant " worthy friends "), 
 " listen to me. The time has come — I recite my good 
 news — I speak at last." 
 
 " Hear, hear 1" said my mother, humouring the joke. 
 
 " The next thing he will break, mamma," whispered 
 Sarah, " will be the back of the best arm-chair."
 
 14 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 " I go back into my life, and I address myself to 
 the noblest of created beings," continued Pesca, 
 vehemently apostrophizing my unworthy self, over the 
 top rail of the chair. " AVho found me dead at the 
 bottom of the sea (through Cramp) ; and who pulled 
 me up to the top ; and what did I say when I got into 
 my own life and my own clothes again ?" 
 
 " Much more than was at all necessary," I answered, 
 as doggedly as possible ; for the least encouragement 
 in connexion with this subject invariably let loose the 
 Professor's emotions in a flood of tears. 
 
 " I said," persisted Pesca, " that my life belonged 
 to my dear friend, Walter, for the rest of my days — 
 and so it does. I said that I should never be happy 
 again till I had found the opportunity of doing a good 
 Something for Walter — and I have never been con- 
 tented with myself till this most blessed day. Now," 
 cried the enthusiastic little man at the top of his voice, 
 " the overflowing happiness bursts out of me at every 
 pore of my skin, like a perspiration ; for on my faith, 
 and soul, and honour, the something is done at last, 
 and the only word to say now, is — Right-all-right !" 
 
 It may be necessary to explain, here, that Pesca 
 prided himself on being a perfect Englishman in his 
 language, as well as in his dress, manners, and amuse- 
 ments. Having picked up a few of our most familiar 
 colloquial expressions, he scattered them about over 
 his conversation whenever they happened to occur to 
 him, turning them, in his high relish for their sound
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 15 
 
 and his general ignorance of their sense, into com- 
 pound words and repetitions of his own, and always 
 running them into each other, as if they consisted of 
 one long syllable. 
 
 " Among the fine London houses where I teach the 
 language of my native country," said the Professor, 
 rushing into his long-deferred explanation without 
 another word of preface, " there is one, mighty fine, in 
 the big place called Portland. You all know where 
 that is ? Yes, yes — course-of-course. The fine house, 
 my good dears, has got inside it a fine family. A 
 Mamma, fair and fat ; three young Misses, fair and 
 fat ; two young Misters, fair and fat ; and a Papa, 
 the fairest and the fattest of all, who is a mighty 
 merchant, up to his eyes in gold — a fine man once, 
 but seeing that he has got a naked head and two 
 chins, fine no longer at the present time. Now 
 mind ! I teach the sublime Dante to the young 
 Misses, and ah ! — my-soul-bless-my-soul ! — it is not in 
 human language to say how the sublime Dante puzzles 
 the pretty heads of all three ! No matter — all in good 
 time — and the more lessons the better for me. Now 
 mind ! Imagine to yourselves that I am teaching the 
 young Misses to-day, as usual. We are all four of us 
 down together in the Hell of Dante. At the Seventh 
 Circle— but no matter for that: all the Circles are 
 alike to the three young Misses, fair and fat, — at the 
 Seventh Circle, nevertheless, my pupils are sticking 
 fast ; and I, to set them going again, recite, explain,
 
 16 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 and blow myself up red-hot with useless enthusiasm, 
 when — a creak of boots in the passage outside, and in 
 comes the golden Papa, the mighty merchant with the 
 naked head and the two chins. — Ha ! my good dears, 
 I am closer than you think for to the business, now. 
 Have you been patient so far ? or have you said to 
 yourselves, ' Deuce-what-the-deuce ! Pesca is long- 
 winded to-night ?' " 
 
 We declared that we were deeply interested. The 
 Professor went on : 
 
 " In his hand, the golden Papa has a letter ; and 
 after he has made his excuse for disturbing us in our 
 Infernal Region with the common mortal Business of 
 the house, he addresses himself to the three young 
 Misses, and begins, as you English begin everything 
 in this blessed world that you have to say, with a 
 great O. ' O, my dears,' says the mighty merchant, 
 
 ' I have got here a letter from my friend, Mr. , 
 
 (the name has slipped out of my mind ; but no matter ; 
 we shall come back to that : yes, yes — right-all- 
 right). So the Papa says, ' I have got a letter from 
 my friend, the Mister ; and he wants a recommend 
 from me, of a drawing-master, to go down to his 
 house in the country.' My-soul-bless-my-soul ! when 
 I heard the golden Papa say those words, if I had 
 been big enough to reach up to him, I should have 
 put ray arms round his neck, and pressed him to 
 my bosom in a long and grateful hug ! As it was, 
 I only bounced upon ray chair. My seat was on
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 17 
 
 thorns, and ray soul was on fire to speak ; but I held 
 my tongue, and let Papa go on. ' Perhaps you know,' 
 says this good man of money, twiddling his friend's 
 letter this way and that, in his golden fingers and 
 thumbs, ' perhaps you know, my dears, of a drawing- 
 master that I can recommend?' The three young Misses 
 all look at each other, and then say (with the indispen- 
 sable great O to begin) * O, dear no. Papa ! But here 
 
 is Mr. Pesca ' At the mention of myself I can 
 
 hold no longer — the thought of you, my good dears, 
 mounts like blood to my head — I start from my seat, 
 as if a spike had grown up from the ground through 
 the bottom of my chair — I address myself to the 
 mighty merchant, and I say (English phrase), ' Dear 
 sir, I have the man ! The first and foremost drawing- 
 master of the world ! Recommend him by the post 
 to-night, and send him off, bag and baggage (English 
 phrase again — ha?), send him off, bag and baggage, 
 by the train to-morrow !' ' Stop, stop,' says Papa, 
 * is he a foreigner, or an Englishman ?' ' English to 
 the bone of his back,' I answer. ' Respectable ?' says 
 Papa. ' Sir,' I say * (for this last question of his out- 
 rages me, and I have done being familiar with himj, 
 Sir ! the immortal fire of genius burns in this English- 
 man's bosom, and, what is more, his father had it 
 before him!' 'Never mind,' says the golden bar- 
 barian of a Papa, ' never mind about his genius, Mr. 
 Pesca. We don't want genius in this country, unless 
 it is accompanied by respectability — and then we are
 
 18 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 very glad to have it, very glad indeed. Can your 
 friend produce testimonials — letters that speak to his 
 character?' I wave my hand negligently. * Letters?' 
 I say. ' Ha ! my-soul-bless-my-soul ! I should think 
 so, indeed ! Volumes of letters and portfolios of 
 testimonials, if you like ?' ' One or two will do,' says 
 this man of phlegm and money. ' Let him send them 
 to me, with his name and address. And — stop, stop, 
 Mr. Pesca — before you go to your friend, you had 
 better take a note.' 'Bank-note !' I say, indignantly. 
 'No bank-note, if you please, till my brave English- 
 man has earned it first.' ' Bank-note !' says Papa, in 
 a great surprise, ' who talked of bank-note ? I mean 
 a note of the terms — a memorandum of what he is ex- 
 pected to do. Go on with your lesson, Mr. Pesca, and 
 I will give you the necessary extract from my friend's 
 letter.' Down sits the man of merchandise and money 
 to his pen, ink, and paper ; and down I go once again 
 into the Hell of Dante, with ray three young Misses 
 after rae. In ten minutes' time the note is written, 
 and the boots of Papa are creaking themselves away 
 in the passage outside. From that moment, on my 
 faith, and soui, and honour, I know nothing more ! 
 The glorious thought that I have caught my oppor- 
 tunity at last, and that my grateful service for my 
 dearest friend in the world is as good as done already, 
 flies up into my head and makes me drunk. How I 
 pull my young Misses and myself out of our Infernal 
 Region again, how my other business is done after-
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 19 
 
 wards, how my little bit of dinner slides itself down 
 my throat, I know no more than a man in the moon. 
 Enough for me, that here I am, with the mighty 
 merchant's note in my hand, as large as life, as hot as 
 tire, and as happy as a king ! Ha ! ha ! ha ! right- 
 right-right-all-right !" Here the Professor waved the 
 memorandum of terms over his head, and ended his 
 long and voluble narrative with his shrill Italian parody 
 on an English cheer. 
 
 My mother rose the moment he had done, with 
 flushed cheeks and brightened eyes. She caught the 
 little man warmly by both hands. 
 
 " My dear, good Pesca," she said, *' I never doubted 
 your true affection for Walter — but 1 am more than 
 ever persuaded of it now !" 
 
 " I am sure we are very much obliged to Professor 
 Pesca, for Walter's sake," added Sarah. She half 
 rose, while she spoke, as if to approach the arm-chair, 
 in her turn ; but, observing that Pesca was rapturously 
 kissing my mother's hands, looked serious, and re- 
 sumed her seat. "If the familiar little man treats 
 my mother in that way, how will he treat me f Faces 
 sometimes tell truth ; and that was unquestionably 
 the thought in Sarah's mind, as she sat down again. 
 
 Although I myself was gi'atefuUy sensible of the 
 kindness of Pesca's motives, my spirits were hardly 
 so much elevated as they ought to have been by the 
 prospect of future employment now placed before me. 
 When the Professor had quite done with my mother's
 
 20 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 hand, and when I had warmly thanked him for his in- 
 terference on my behalf, I asked to be allowed to look 
 at the note of terms which his respectable patron had 
 drawn up for my inspection. 
 
 Pesca handed me the paper, with a triumphant 
 flourish of the hand. 
 
 " Read !" said the little man, majestically. '' I 
 promise you, my friend, the writing of the golden Papa 
 speaks with a tongue of trumpets for itself." 
 
 The note of terms was plain, straightforward, and 
 comprehensive, at any rate. It informed me. 
 
 First, That Frederick Fairlie, Esquire, of Limme- 
 ridge House, Cumberland, wanted to engage the 
 services of a thoroughly competent drawing-master, for 
 a period of four months certain. 
 
 Secondly, That the duties which the master was 
 expected to perform would be of a twofold kind. He 
 was to superintend tiie instruction of two young ladies 
 in the art of painting in water-colours ; and he was to 
 devote his leisure time, afterwards, to the business of 
 repairing and mounting a valuable collection of draw- 
 ings, which had been suffered to fall into a condition 
 of total neglect. 
 
 Thirdly, That the terms offered to the person who 
 should undertake and properly perform these duties, 
 were four guineas a week ; that he was to reside at 
 Limmeridge House ; and that he was to be treated 
 there on the footing of a gentleman. 
 
 Fourthly, and lastly, That no person need think of
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 21 
 
 applying for this situation, unless he could furnish the 
 most unexceptionable references to character and abili- 
 ties. The references were to be sent to Mr. Fairlie's 
 friend in London, who was empowered to conclude all 
 necessary arrangements. These instructions were 
 followed by the name and address of Pesca's employer 
 in Portland-place — and there the note, or memo- 
 randum, ended. 
 
 The prospect which this offer of an engagement 
 held out was certainly an attractive one. The employ- 
 ment was likely to be both easy and agreeable ; it was 
 proposed to me at the autumn time of the year when I 
 was least occupied ; and the terms, judging by my 
 personal experience in my profession, were surprisingly 
 liberal. I knew this ; I knew that I ought to consider 
 myself very fortunate if I succeeded in securing the 
 offered employment — and yet, no sooner had I read 
 the memorandum than I felt an inexplicable unwilling- 
 ness within me to stir in the matter. I had never in 
 the whole of my previous experience found my duty 
 and my inclination so painfully and so unaccountably 
 at variance as I found them now. 
 
 " Oh, Walter, your father never had such a chance 
 as this !" said my mother, when she had read the note 
 of terms and had handed it back to me. 
 
 "Such distinguished people to know," remarked 
 Sirah, straightening herself in her chair; "and on 
 3ich gratifying terms of equality, too !" 
 
 " Yes, yes ; the terms, in every sense, are tempting
 
 22 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 enough," I replied, impatiently. ** But before I sena 
 in my testimonials, I should like a little time to con- 
 sider " 
 
 " Consider !" exclaimed my mother. " Why, Wal- 
 ter, what is the matter with you ?" 
 
 "Consider!" echoed my sister. "What a very 
 extraordinary thing to say, under the circumstances !" 
 
 " Consider !" chimed in the Professor. " What is 
 there to consider about? Answer me this! Have 
 you not been complaining of your health, and have you 
 not been longing for what you call a smack of the 
 country breeze ? Well ! there in your hand is the 
 paper that offers you perpetual choking mouthfuls of 
 country breeze, for four months' time. Is it not so ? 
 Ha ? Again — you want money. Well ! Is four 
 golden guineas a week nothing ? My-soul-bless-m 
 soul ! only give it to me — and my boots shall creak 
 like the golden Papa's, with a sense of the overpower- 
 ing richness of the man who walks in them ! Four 
 guineas a week, and, more than that, the charming 
 society of two young Misses; and, more than that, 
 your bed, your breakfast, your dinner, your gorging 
 English teas and lunches and drinks of foaming beer, 
 all for nothing — why, Walter, my dear good friend — 
 deuce-what-the-deuce ! — for the first time in my life I 
 have not eyes enough in my head to look, and wonder 
 at you !" 
 
 Neither my mother's evident astonishment at my 
 behaviour, ijor Pesca's fervid enumeration of the ad-
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 23 
 
 vantages offered to me by the new employment, had 
 any effect in shaking my unreasonable disinclination to 
 go to Limmeridge House. After starting all the petty 
 objections that I could think of to going to Cumber- 
 land ; and after hearing them answered, one after 
 another, to my own complete discomfiture, I tried to 
 set up a last obstacle by asking what was to become 
 of my pupils in London, while I was teaching Mr. 
 Fairlie's young ladies to sketch from nature. The 
 obvious answer to this was, that the greater part of 
 them would be away on their autumn travels, and 
 that the few who remained at home might be confided 
 to the care of one of my brother drawing-masters, 
 whose pupils I had once taken off his hands under 
 similar circumstances. My sister reminded me that 
 this gentleman had expressly placed his services at my 
 disposal, during the present season, in case I wished 
 to leave town ; my mother seriously appealed to me 
 not to let an idle caprice stand in the way of my own 
 interests and my own health ; and Pesca piteously en- 
 treated that I would not wound him to the heart, 
 by rejecting the first grateful offer of service that he 
 had been able to make to the friend who had saved 
 his life. 
 
 The evident sincerity and affection which inspired 
 these remonstrances would have influenced any man 
 with an atom of good feeling in his composition. Though 
 I could not conquer my own unaccountable perversity, I 
 had at least virtue enough to be heartily ashamed of
 
 24 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 it, and to end the discussion pleasantly by giving way, 
 and promising to do all that was wanted of me. 
 
 The rest of the evening passed merrily enough in 
 humorous anticipations of my coming life with the two 
 young ladies in Cumberland. Pesca, inspired by our 
 national grog, which appeared to get into his head, in 
 the most marvellous manner, five minutes after it had 
 gone down his throat, asserted his claims to be con- 
 sidered a complete Englishman by making a series of 
 speeches in rapid succession ; proposing my mother's 
 health, my sister's health, my health, and the healths, 
 in mass, of Mr. Fairlie and the two young Misses ; 
 pathetically returning thanks himself, immediately 
 afterwards, for the whole party. *' A secret, Walter," 
 said my little friend confidentially, as we walked home 
 together. "I am flushed by the recollection of my 
 own eloquence. My soul bursts itself with ambition. 
 One of these days, I go into your noble Parliament. 
 It is the dream of my whole life to be Honourable 
 Pesca, M.P. !" 
 
 The next morning I sent my testimonials to the 
 Professor's employer in Portland-place. Three days 
 passed ; and I concluded, with secret satisfaction, that 
 my papers had not been found sufficiently explicit. 
 On the fourth day, however, an answer came. It 
 announced that Mr. Fairlie accepted ray services, and 
 requested me to start for Cumberland immediately. 
 All the necessary instructions for my journey were 
 carefully and clearly added in a postscript.
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 25 
 
 I made my arrangements, unwillingly enough, for 
 leaving London early the next day. Towards evening 
 Pesca looked in, on his way to a dinner-party, to bid 
 me good-by. 
 
 " I shall dry my tears in your absence," said the 
 Professor, gaily, '' with this glorious thought. It is 
 my auspicious hand that has given the first push to 
 your fortune in the world. Go, my friend ! When 
 your sun shines in Cumberland (English proverb), in 
 the name of heaven, make your hay. Marry one of 
 the two young Misses ; become Honourable Hartright, 
 M.P. ; and when you are on the top of the ladder, 
 remember that Pesca, at the bottom, has done it all !" 
 I tried to laugh with ray little friend over his parting 
 jest, but my spirits were not to be commanded. Some- 
 thing jarred in me almost painfully, while he was speak- 
 ing his light farewell words. 
 
 When I was left alone again, nothing remained to 
 be done but to walk to the Hampstead Cottage and bid 
 my mother and Sarah good-by. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 26 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 IV. 
 
 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 Lon- 
 don ; then stopped and hesitated. 
 
 The moon was full and broad in the dark blue star- 
 less 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 ray 
 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 round-about way I could take ; 
 to follow the white winding paths across the lonely 
 heath ; and to approach London through its most open
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 27 
 
 suburb by striking into the Finchley-road, and so get- 
 ting 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, enjoy- 
 ing 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 re- 
 mained passively open to the impressions produced 
 by the view ; and I thought but little on any subject 
 — indeed, so far as ray 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 by-road, 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 fanci- 
 ful visions of Limmeridge House, of Mr. Fairlie, and of 
 the two ladies whose practice in the art of w^ater- 
 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 AVest End ; and the road back to London. 
 1 had mechanically turned in this latter direction, 
 and was strolling along the lonely high road — idly 
 
 c 2
 
 28 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 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 
 1 could discern distinctly by the moonlight, was a 
 colourless, youthful face, meagre and sharp to look 
 at, about the cheeks and chin , lai'ge, 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
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 29 
 
 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 expen- 
 sive materials. Her figure was slight, and rathe 
 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"
 
 30 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 " 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 Hamp- 
 stead, 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 
 })assed ; 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
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 31 
 
 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 explana- 
 tions. 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 tender- 
 ness 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. " 1 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 iate ? 
 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, w^hen 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.
 
 32 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 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 question- 
 ing 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 1 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 steal thiness, 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; remem- 
 ber 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
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 33 
 
 this woman, whose name, whose character, whost^ 
 story, whose objects in Hfe, 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 bewildered — 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 ?" 
 
 c 3
 
 34 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 "I can't — I daren't— I forget myself, when I men- 
 tion it." She spoke loudly and almost fiercely, raised 
 her clenched hand in the air, and shook it passionately ; 
 tlien, 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 dorit 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 liimP 
 
 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
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 35 
 
 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 be silent — 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 frown- 
 ing, 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 appeahng to me 
 for assistance or advice, and that I ought to spare her' 
 a possible disappointment by warning her of my ap- 
 proaching 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! I 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.
 
 36 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 " 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 Cumber- 
 land. 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.
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 37 
 
 *' 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 re- 
 sume 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."
 
 38 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 *' Yes, yes. That will do for me. I'm going that 
 way — I'm going that way." She spoke with breath- 
 less 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 w^heels 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.
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 39 
 
 or what I meant to do next; 1 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 strolhng 
 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 be- 
 yond 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, pohceman. A woman in white." 
 
 " I haven't seen her, sir." 
 
 " If you, or any of your men meet with the wpman, 
 stop her, and send her in careful keeping to that ad- 
 dress. I'll pay all expenses, and a fair reward into the 
 bargain."
 
 40 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 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."
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 41 
 
 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 connexion 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 unfor- 
 tunate creature, whose actions it was my duty, and
 
 42 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 every man's duty, mercifully to control? I turned 
 sick at heart when the question occurred to me, and 
 when I felt self-reproaclifully 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 
 t-he forlorn creature come to any harm ? That was 
 my first thought, though I shrank selfishly from con- 
 fronting 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
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 43 
 
 Carlisle, and then to diverge by a branch railway 
 which ran in the direction of the coast. As a mis- 
 fortune 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 late- 
 ness of my arrival. He was in that state of highly- 
 respectful sulkiness which is peculiar to English ser- 
 vants. 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 dis- 
 tance, 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.
 
 44 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 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 bed- 
 chamber. 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 !
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 45 
 
 VL 
 
 When I rose the next morning and drew up my blind, 
 the sea opened before me joyously under the broad 
 August sunlight, and the distant coast of Scotland 
 fringed the horizon with its lines of melting blue. 
 
 The view was such a surprise, and such a change to 
 me, after my weary London experience of brick and 
 mortar landscape, that I seemed to burst into a new 
 life and a new set of thoughts the moment I looked at 
 it. A confused sensation of having suddenly lost my 
 famiharity with the past, without acquiring any addi- 
 tional clearness of idea in reference to the present or 
 the future, took possession of my mind. Circumstances 
 that were but a few days old, faded back in my memory, 
 as if they had happened months and months since. 
 Pesca's quaint announcement of the means by which he 
 had procured me my present employment ; the farewell 
 evening I had passed with my mother and sister ; even 
 my mysterious adventure on the way home from 
 Hampstead, had all become like events which might 
 have occurred at some former epoch of my existence. 
 Although the woman in white was still in my mind,
 
 46 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 the image of her seemed to have grown dull and faint 
 already. 
 
 A little before nine o'clock, I descended to the 
 ground-floor of the house. The solemn man-servant 
 of the night before met me wandering among the 
 passages, and compassionately showed me the way to 
 the breakfast-room. 
 
 My first glance round me, as the man opened the 
 door, disclosed a well-furnished breakfast-table, stand- 
 ing in the middle of a long room, with many windows 
 in it. I looked from the table to the window farthest 
 from me, and saw a lady standing at it, with her back 
 turned towards me. The instant my eyes rested on 
 her, I was struck by the rare beauty of her form, and 
 by the unaffected grace of her attitude. Her figure 
 was tall, yet not too tall ; comely and well-developed, 
 yet not fat ; her head set on her shoulders with an 
 easy, pliant firmness ; her waist, perfection in the eyes 
 of a man, for it occupied its natural place, it filled out 
 its natural circle, it was visibly and delightfully un- 
 deformed by stays. She had not heard my entrance 
 into the room ; and I allowed myself the luxury of 
 admiring her for a few moments, before I moved one 
 of the chairs near me, as the least embarrassing means 
 of attracting her attention. She turned towards me 
 immediately. The easy elegance of every movement 
 of her limbs and body as soon as she began to advance 
 from the far end of the room, set me in a flutter of 
 expectation to see her face clearly. She left the
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 47 
 
 window — and I said to myself, The lady is dark. She 
 moved forward a few steps — and I said to myself, The 
 lady is young. She approached nearer — and I said to 
 myself (with a sense of surprise which words fail me to 
 express), The lady is ugly ! 
 
 Never was the old conventional maxim, that Nature 
 cannot err, more flatly contradicted — never was the 
 fair promise of a lovely figure more strangely and 
 startingly belied by the face and head that crowned it. 
 The lady's complexion was almost swarthy, and the dark 
 down on her upper lip was almost a moustache. She 
 had a large, firm, masculine mouth and jaw ; pro- 
 minent, piercing, resolute brown eyes ; and thick, 
 coal-black hair, growing unusually low down on her 
 forehead. Her expression — bright, frank, and intelli- 
 gent — appeared, while she was silent, to be altogether 
 wanting in those feminine attractions of gentleness and 
 pliability, without which the beauty of the handsomest 
 woman alive is beauty incomplete. To see such a 
 face as this set on shoulders that a sculptor would 
 have longed to model — to be charmed by the modest 
 graces of action through which the symmetrical limbs 
 betrayed their beauty when they moved, and then to 
 be almost repelled by the masculine form and mascu- 
 line look of the features in which the perfectly shaped 
 figure ended — was to feel a sensation oddly akin to 
 the helpless discomfort familiar to us all in sleep, when 
 we recognise yet cannot reconcile the anomalies and 
 contradictions of a dream.
 
 48 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 " Mr. Hartright ?" said the lady, interrogatively ; 
 her dark face lighting up with a smile, and softening 
 and growing womanly the moment she hegan to speak. 
 " We resigned all hope of you last night, and went to 
 bed as usual. Accept my apologies for our apparent 
 want of attention ; and allow me to introduce myself 
 as one of your pupils. Shall we shake hands? I 
 suppose we must come to it sooner or later — and why 
 not sooner ?" 
 
 These odd words of welcome were spoken in a clear, 
 ringing, pleasant voice. The offered hand — rather 
 large, but beautifully formed — was given to me with 
 the easy, unaffected self-reliance of a highly -bred 
 woman. We sat down together at the breakfast- table 
 in as cordial and customary a manner as if we had 
 known each other for years, and had met at Lim- 
 meridge House to talk over old times by previous 
 appointment. 
 
 "I hope you come here good-humouredly deter- 
 mined to make the best of your position," continued 
 the lady. " You will have to begin this morning by 
 putting up with no other company at breakfast than 
 mine. My sister is in her own room, nursing that 
 essentially feminine malady, a slight headache ; and 
 her old governess, Mrs. Vesey, is charitably attending 
 on her with restorative tea. My uncle, Mr. Fairlie, 
 never joins us at any of our meals : he is an invalid, 
 and keeps bachelor state in his own apartments. 
 There is nobody else in the h^use but me. Two
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 49 
 
 young ladies have been staying here, but they went 
 away yesterday, in despair ; and no wonder. All 
 through their visit (in consequence of Mr. Fairlie's 
 invalid condition) we produced no such convenience in 
 the house as a flirtable, danceable, small-talkable 
 creature of the male sex ; and the consequence was, 
 we did nothing but quarrel, especially at dinner-time. 
 How can you expect four women to dine together 
 alone every day, and not quarrel ? We are such 
 fools, we can't entertain each other at table. You see 
 I don't think much of my own sex, Mr. Hartright — 
 which will you have, tea or coffee ? — no woman does 
 think much of her own sex, although few of them 
 confess it as freely as I do. Dear me, you look 
 puzzled. Why ? Are you wondering what you will 
 have for breakfast ? or are you surprised at my care- 
 less way of talking ? In the first case, I advise you, 
 as a li*iend, to have nothing to do with that cold ham 
 at your elbow, and to wait till the omelette comes in. 
 In the second case, I will give you some tea to com- 
 pose your spirits, and do all a woman can (which is 
 very little, by-the-by) to hold my tongue." 
 
 She handed me my cup of tea, laughing gaily. Her 
 light flow of talk, and her lively familiarity of manner 
 with a total stranger, were accompanied by an un- 
 affected naturalness and an easy inborn confidence in 
 herself and her position, which would have secured her 
 the respect of the most audacious man breathing. 
 While it was impossible to be formal and reserved in 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 50 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 her company, it was more than impossible to take the 
 faintest vestige of a liberty with her, even in thought. 
 I felt this instinctively, even while I caught the in- 
 fection of her own bright gaiety of spirits — even while 
 I did my best to answer her in her own frank, lively 
 way. 
 
 " Yes, yes," she said, when I had suggested the 
 only explanation I could offer, to account for my per- 
 plexed looks, '' I understand. You are such a per- 
 fect stranger in the house, that you are puzzled by my 
 familiar references to the worthy inhabitants. Natural 
 enough : I ought to have thought of it before. At 
 any rate, I can set it right now. Suppose I begin 
 with myself, so as to get done with that part of the 
 subject as soon as possible? My name is Marian 
 Halcombe ; and I am as inaccurate, as women usually 
 are, in calling Mr. Fairlie my uncle, and Miss Fairlie 
 ray sister. My mother was twice married : the first 
 time to Mr. Halcombe, my father ; the second time to 
 Mr. Fairlie, my half-sister's father. Except that we 
 are both orphans, we are in every respect as unlike 
 each other as possible. My father was a poor man, 
 and Miss Fairlie's father was a rich man. I have got 
 nothing, and she has a fortune. I am dark and ugly, 
 and she is fair and pretty. Everybody thinks me 
 crabbed and odd (with perfect justice) ; and everybody 
 thinks her sweet-tempered and charming (with more 
 
 justice still). In short, she is an angel ; and I am 
 
 Try some of that marmalade, Mr. Hartright, and
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 51 
 
 finish the sentence, in the name of female propriety, 
 for yourself. What am I to tell you about Mr. 
 Fairlie? Upon my honour, I hardly know. He is 
 sure to send for you after breakfast, and you can 
 study him for yourself. In the mean time, I may in- 
 form you, first, that he is the late Mr. Fairlie's younger 
 brother ; secondly, that he is a single man ; and, 
 thirdly, that he is Miss Fairlie's guardian. I won't 
 live without her, and she can't live without me ; and 
 that is how I come to be at Limmeridge House. My 
 sister and I are honestly fond of each other ; which, 
 you will say, is perfectly unaccountable, under the cir- 
 cumstances, and I quite agree with you — but so it is. 
 You must please both of us, Mr. Hartright, or please 
 neither of us : and, what is still more trying, you will 
 be thrown entirely upon our society. Mrs. Vesey is 
 an excellent person, who possesses all the cardinal 
 virtues, and counts for nothing ; and Mr. FairHe is too 
 great an invalid to be a companion for anybody. I 
 don't know what is the matter with him, and the 
 doctors don't know what is the matter with him, and 
 he doesn't know himself what is the matter with him. 
 We all say it's on the nerves, and we none of us know 
 what we mean when we say it. However, I advise 
 you to humour his little peculiarities, when you see 
 him to-day. Admire his collection of coins, prints, 
 and water-colour drawings, and you will win his heart. 
 Upon my word, if you can be contented with a quiet 
 country hfe, I don't see why you should not get on 
 
 D 2
 
 52 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 very well here. From breakfast to lunch, Mr. Fairlie's 
 drawings will occupy you. After lunch, Miss Fairlie 
 and I shoulder our sketch-books, and go out to misre- 
 present nature, under your directions. Drawing is her 
 favourite whim, mind, not mine. Women can't draw 
 — their minds are too flighty, and their eyes are too 
 inattentive. No matter — my sister likes it; so I 
 waste paint and spoil paper, for her sake, as com- 
 posedly as any woman in England. As for the even- 
 ings, I think we can help you through them. Miss 
 Fairlie plays delightfully. For my own poor part, I 
 don't know one note of music from the other ; but I 
 can match you at chess, back-gammon, ecarte, and 
 (with the inevitable female drawbacks) even at billiards 
 as well. AVhat do you think of the programme? 
 Can you reconcile yourself to our quiet, regular life ? 
 or do you mean to be restless, and secretly thirst for 
 change and adventure, in the humdrum atmosphere of 
 Limmeridge House?" 
 
 She had run on thus far, in her gracefully bantering 
 way, with no other interruptions on my part than the 
 unimportant replies which politeness required of me. 
 The turn of the expression, however, in her last ques- 
 tion, or rather the one chance word, "adventure," 
 lightly as it fell from her lips, recalled my thoughts to 
 my meeting with the woman in white, and- urged me 
 to discover the connexion which the stranger's own re- 
 ference to Mrs. Fairlie informed me must once have 
 existed between the nameless fugitive from the
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 53 
 
 Asylum, and the former mistress of Limmeridge 
 House. 
 
 " Even if I were the most restless of mankind," I 
 said, " I should be in no danger of thirsting after 
 adventures for some time to come. The very night 
 before I arrived at this house, I met with an adven- 
 ture ; and the wonder and excitement of it, I can 
 assure you, Miss Halcombe, will last me for the whole 
 term of my stay in Cumberland, if not for a much 
 longer period." 
 
 " You don't say so, Mr. Hartright ! May I hear it ?" 
 
 " You have a claim to hear it. The chief person in 
 the adventure was a total stranger to me, and may 
 perhaps be a total stranger to you ; but she cer- 
 tainly mentioned the name of the late Mrs. Fairlie in 
 terms of the sincerest gratitude and regard." 
 
 " Mentioned my mother's name ! You interest me 
 indescribably. Pray go on." 
 
 I at once related the circumstances under which I 
 had met the woman in white, exactly as they had 
 occurred ; and I repeated what she had said to me 
 about Mrs. Fairlie and Limmeridge House, word for 
 word. 
 
 Miss Halcombe's bright resolute eyes looked eagerly 
 into mine, from the beginning of the narrative to the 
 end. Her face expressed vivid interest and astonish- 
 ment, but nothing more. She was evidently as far 
 from knowing of any clue to the mystery as I was 
 myself.
 
 54 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 *' Are you quite sure of those words referring to my 
 mother?" she asked. 
 
 " Quite sure," I replied. " Whoever she may be, 
 the woman was once at school in the village of Limme- 
 ridge, was treated with especial kindness by Mrs. 
 Fairlie, and, in grateful remembrance of that kindness, 
 feels an affectionate interest in all surviving members 
 of the family. She knew that Mrs. Fairlie and her 
 husband were both dead ; and she spoke of Miss 
 Fairlie as if they had known each other when they 
 were children." 
 
 " You said, I think, that she denied belonging to 
 this place ?" 
 
 " Yes, she told me she came from Hampshire." 
 
 " And you entirely failed to find out her name ?" 
 
 " Entirely." 
 
 " Very strange. I think you were quite justified, 
 Mr. Hartright, in giving the poor creature her liberty, 
 for she seems to have done nothing in your presence to 
 show herself unfit to enjoy it. But I wish you had 
 been a little more resolute about finding out her name. 
 We must really clear up this mystery, in some way. 
 You had better not speak of it yet to Mr. Fairlie, or 
 to my sister. They are both of them, I am certain, 
 quite as ignorant of who the woman is, and of what 
 her past history in connexion with us can be, as I am 
 myself. But they are also, in widely different ways, 
 rather nervous and sensitive; and you would only 
 fidget one and alarm the other to no purpose. As for
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 55 
 
 myself, I am all aflame with curiosity, and I devote 
 my whole energies to the business of discovery from 
 this moment. When my mother came here, after her 
 second marriage, she certainly established the village 
 school just as it exists at the present time. But the 
 old teachers are all dead, or gone elsewhere ; and no 
 enlightenment is to be hoped for from that quarter. 
 The only other alternative I can think of " 
 
 At this point we were interrupted by the entrance of 
 the servant, with a message from Mr. Fairlie, intimat- 
 ing that he would be glad to see me, as soon as I had 
 done breakfast. 
 
 " Wait in the hall," said Miss Halcombe, answer- 
 ing the servant for me, in her quick, ready way. 
 " Mr. Hartright will come out directly. I was about 
 to say," she went on, addressing me again, '' that my 
 sister and I have a large collection of my mother's 
 letters, addressed to my father and to hers. In the 
 absence of any other means of getting information, I 
 will pass the morning in looking over my mother^s cor- 
 respondence with Mr. Fairlie. He was fond of 
 London, and was constantly away from his country 
 home ; and she was accustomed, at such times, to 
 write and report to him how things went on at Limme- 
 ridge. Her letters are full of references to the school 
 in which she took so strong an interest ; and I think it 
 more than likely that I may have discovered something 
 whan we meet again. The luncheon hour is two, Mr. 
 Hartright. I shall have the pleasure of introducing
 
 56 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 you to my sister by that time, and we will occupy the 
 afternoon in driving round the neighbourhood and 
 showing you all our pet points of view. Till two 
 o'clock, then, farewell." 
 
 She nodded to me with the lively grace, the delight- 
 ful refinement of familiarity, which characterised all 
 that she did and all that she said ; and disappeared by 
 a door at the lower end of the room. As soon as she 
 had left me, I turned my steps towards the hall, and 
 followed the servant on my way, for the first time, to 
 the presence of Mr. Fairlie.
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 57 
 
 VII. 
 
 My conductor led me up-stairs into a passage which 
 took us back to the bedchamber in which I had slept 
 during the past night ; and opening the door next to 
 it, begged me to look in. 
 
 " I have my master's orders to show you your own 
 sitting-room, sir," said the man, " and to inquire if you 
 approve of the situation and the light." 
 
 I must have been hard to please, indeed, if I had 
 not approved of the room, and of everything about it. 
 The bow- window looked out on the same lovely view 
 which I had admired, in the morning, from my bed- 
 room. The furniture was the perfection of luxury and 
 beauty ; the table in the centre was bright with gaily 
 bound books, elegant conveniences for writing, and 
 beautiful flowers ; the second table near the window, 
 was covered with all the necessary materials for mount- 
 ing water-colour drawings, and had a little easel 
 attached to it, which I could expand or fold up at will ; 
 the walls were hung with gaily tinted chintz ; and the 
 floor was spread with Indian matting in maize-colour 
 and red. It was the prettiest and most luxurious little 
 
 D 3
 
 58 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 sitting-room I had ever seen ; and I admired it with 
 the warmest enthusiasm. 
 
 The solemn servant was far too highly trained to 
 hetray the slightest satisfaction. He bowed with icy 
 deference when my terms of eulogy we re all exhausted, 
 and silently opened the door for me to go out into the 
 passage again. 
 
 We turned a corner, and entered a long second pas- 
 sage, ascended a short flight of stairs at the end, 
 crossed a small circular upper hall, and stopped in 
 front of a door covered with dark baize. The servant 
 opened this door, and led me on a few yards to a 
 second ; opened that also, and disclosed two curtains 
 of pale sea-green silk hanging before us ; raised one 
 of them noiselessly; softly uttered the words, "Mr. 
 Hartright," and left me. 
 
 I found myself in a large, lofty room, with a mag- 
 nificent carved ceiling, and with a carpet over the 
 floor, so thick and soft that it felt like piles of velvet 
 under my feet. One side of the room was occupied by 
 a long bookcase of some rare inlaid wood that was 
 quite new to me. It was not more than six feet high, 
 and the top was adorned with statuettes in marble, 
 ranged at regular distances one from the other. On 
 the opposite side stood two antique cabinets ; and be- 
 tween them, and above them, hung a picture of the 
 Virgin and Child, protected by glass, and bearing 
 Raphael's name on the gilt tablet at the bottom of 
 the frame. On my right hand and on mv left, as I
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 59 
 
 stood inside the door, were chiffoniers and little stands 
 in buhl and marquetterie, loaded with figures in 
 Dresden china, with rare vases, ivory ornaments, and 
 toys and curiosities that sparkled at all points with 
 gold, silver, and precious stones. At the lower end 
 of the room, opposite to me, the windows were con- 
 cealed and the sunlight was tempered by large blinds 
 of the same pale sea-green colour as the curtains over 
 the door. The hght thus produced Was deliciously 
 soft, mysterious, and subdued ; it fell equally upon all 
 the objects in the room ; it helped to intensify the 
 deep silence, and the air of profound seclusion that 
 possessed the place ; and it surrounded, with an appro- 
 priate halo of repose, the solitary figure of the master 
 of the house, leaning back, listlessly composed, in a 
 large easy-chair, with a reading-easel fastened on one 
 of its arms, and a little table on the other. 
 
 If a man's personal appearance, when he is out of 
 his dressing-room, and when he has passed forty, can 
 be accepted as a safe guide to his time of life — which 
 is more than doubtful — Mr. Fairlie's age, when I saw 
 him, might have been reasonably computed at over 
 fifty and under sixty years. His beardless face was 
 thin, worn, and transparently pale, but not wrinkled ; 
 his nose was high and hooked ; his eyes were of a dim 
 grayish blue, large, prominent, and rather red round 
 the rims of the eyelids ; his hair was scanty, soft to 
 look at, and of that hght sandy colour which is the 
 last to disclose its own changes towards gray. He
 
 60 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 was dressed in a dark frock-coat, of some substance 
 much thinner than cloth, and in waistcoat and trousers 
 of spotless white. His feet were effeminately small, 
 and were clad in buff-coloured silk stockings, and 
 little womanish bronze-leather slippers. Two rings 
 adorned his white delicate hands, the value of which 
 even my inexperienced observation detected to be all 
 but priceless. Upon the whole, he had a frail, 
 languidly-fretful, over-refined look — something singu- 
 larly and unpleasantly delicate in its association with a 
 man, and, at the same time, something which could by 
 no possibility have looked natural and appropriate if it 
 had been transferred to the personal appearance of a 
 woman. My morning's experience of Miss Halcombe 
 had predisposed me to be pleased with everybody in 
 the house ; but my sympathies shut themselves up 
 resolutely at the first sight of Mr. Fairlie. 
 
 On approaching nearer to him, I discovered that he 
 was not so entirely without occupation as I had at first 
 supposed. Placed amid the other rare and beautiful 
 objects on a large round table near him, was a dwarf 
 cabinet in ebony and silver, containing coins of all 
 shapes and sizes, set out in little drawers lined with 
 dark purple velvet. One of these drawers lay on the 
 small table attached to his chair ; and near it were 
 some tiny jewellers' brushes, a washleather "stump," 
 and a little bottle of liquid, all waiting to be used in 
 various ways for the removal of any accidental im- 
 purities which might be discovered on the coins. His
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 61 
 
 frail white fingers were listlessly toying with something 
 which looked, to my uninstructed eyes, like a dirty 
 pewter medal with ragged edges, when I advanced 
 within a respectful distance of his chair, and stopped 
 to make my bow. 
 
 " So glad to possess you at Limmeridge, Mr. Hart- 
 right," he said, in a querulous, croaking voice, which 
 combined, in anything but an agreeable manner, a 
 discordantly high tone with a drowsily languid utter- 
 ance. " Pray sit down. And don't trouble yourself 
 to move the chair, please. In the wretched state of 
 my nerves, movement of any kind is exquisitely painful 
 to me. Have you seen your studio ? Will it do ?" 
 
 " I have just come from seeing the room, Mr. 
 Fairlie ; and I assure you " 
 
 He stopped me in the middle of the sentence, by 
 closing his eyes, and holding up one of his white hands 
 imploringly. I paused in astonishment; and the 
 croaking voice honoured me with this explanation : 
 
 " Pray excuse me. But could you contrive to speak 
 in a lower key ? In the wretched state of my nerves, 
 loud sound of any kind is indescribable torture to me. 
 You will pardon an invalid ? I only say to you what 
 the lamentable state of my health obliges me to 
 say to everybody. Yes. And you really like the 
 room i 
 
 '* I could wish for nothing prettier and nothing more 
 comfortable," I answered, dropping my voice, and be- 
 ginning to discover already that Mr. Fairlie's selfish
 
 62 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 affectation and Mr. Fairlie's wretched nerves meant 
 one and the same thing. 
 
 " So glad. You will find your position here, Mr. 
 Hartright, properly recognized. There is none of the 
 horrid English barbarity of feeling about the social 
 position of an artist, in this house. So much of my 
 early life has been passed abroad, that I have quite 
 cast my insular skin in that respect. I wish I could 
 say the same of the gentry — detestable word, but 1 
 suppose I must use it — of the gentry in the neighbour- 
 hood. They are sad Goths in Art, Mr. Hartright. 
 People, I do assure you, who would have opened their 
 eyes in astonishment, if they had seen Charles the 
 Fifth pick up Titian's brush for him. Do you mind 
 putting this tray of coins back in the cabinet, and 
 giving me the next one to it ? In the wretched state of 
 my nerves, exertion of any kind is unspeakably dis- 
 agreeable to me. Yes. Thank you." 
 
 As a practical commentary on the liberal social 
 theory which he had just favoured me by illustrating, 
 Mr. Fairlie's cool request rather amused me. I put 
 back one drawer and gave him the other, with all pos- 
 sible politeness. He began trifling with the new set 
 of coins and the little brushes immediately ; languidly 
 looking at them and admiring them all the time he 
 was speaking to me. 
 
 " A thousand thanks and a thousand excuses. Do 
 you like coins ? Yes. So glad we have another taste 
 in common besides our taste for Art. Now, about the
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 63 
 
 pecuniary arrangements between us— do tell me — are 
 they satisfactory?" 
 
 " Most satisfactory, Mr. Fairlie." 
 
 " So glad. And — what next ? Ah ! I remember. 
 Yes. In reference to the consideration which you are 
 good enough to accept for giving me the benefit of 
 your accomplishments in art, my steward will wait on 
 you at the end of the first week, to ascertain your 
 wishes. And — what next? Curious, is it not? I 
 had a great deal more to say ; and I appear to have 
 quite forgotten it. Do* you mind touching the bell? 
 In that corner. Yes. Thank you." 
 
 I rang ; and a new servant noiselessly made his 
 appearance — a foreigner, with a set smile and per- 
 fectly brushed hair — a valet every inch of him. 
 
 " Louis," said Mr. Fairlie, dreamily dusting the 
 tips of his fingers with one of the tiny brushes for the 
 coins, " I made some entries in my tablettes this morn- 
 ing. Find my tablettes. A thousand pardons, Mr. 
 Hartright, I'm afraid I bore you." 
 
 As he wearily closed his eyes again, before I could 
 answer, and as he did most assuredly bore me, I sat 
 silent, and looked up at the Madonna and Child by 
 Raphael. In the mean time, the valet left the room, 
 and returned shortly with a little ivory book. Mr. 
 Fairlie, after first relieving himself by a gentle sigh, 
 let the book drop open with one hand, and held up the 
 tiny brush with the other, as a sign to the servant to 
 wait for further orders.
 
 64 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 " Yes. Just so !" said Mr. Fairlie, consulting the 
 tablettes. " Louis, take down that portfolio." He 
 pointed, as he spoke, to several portfolios placed near 
 the window, on mahogany stands. "No. Not the 
 one with the green back — that contains my Rembrandt 
 etchings, Mr. Hartright. Do you like etchings ? Yes ? 
 So glad we have another taste in common. The port- 
 folio with the red back, Louis. Don't drop it! You 
 have no idea of the tortures I should suffer, Mr. Hart- 
 right, if Louis dropped that portfolio. Is it safe on 
 the chair? Do you think it safe, Mr. Hartright? 
 Yes ? So glad. Will you oblige me by looking at 
 the drawings, if you really think they are quite safe. 
 Louis, go away. What an ass you are. Don't you 
 see me holding the tablettes ? Do you suppose I want 
 to hold them? Then why not relieve me of the 
 tablettes without being told? A thousand pardons, 
 Mr. Hartright ; servants are such asses, are they not ? 
 Do tell me — what do you think of the drawings ? 
 They have come from a sale in a shocking state — I 
 thought they smelt of horrid dealers' and brokers' 
 fingers when I looked at them last. Can you under- 
 take them ?" 
 
 Although my nerves were not delicate enough to 
 detect the odour of plebeian fingers which had offended 
 Mr. Fairlie's nostrils, my taste was sufficiently educated 
 to enable me to appreciate the value of the drawings, 
 while I turned them over. They were, for the most 
 part, really fine specimens of English water-colour
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 65 
 
 Art ; and they had deserved much better treatment 
 at the hands of their former possessor than they ap- 
 peared to have received. 
 
 *' The drawings," I answered, '' require careful 
 straining and mounting ; and, in ray opinion, they are 
 well worth " 
 
 " I beg your pardon," interposed Mr. Fairlie. *' Do 
 you mind my closing my eyes while you speak ? Even 
 this light is too much for them. Yes ?" 
 
 " I was about to say that the drawings are well 
 worth all the time and trouble " 
 
 Mr. Fairhe suddenly opened his eyes again, and 
 rolled them with an expression of helpless alarm in 
 the direction of the window. 
 
 " I entreat you to excuse me, Mr. Hartright," he 
 said, in a feeble flutter. " But surely I hear some 
 horrid children in the garden — my private garden — 
 below r 
 
 "I can't say, Mr. Fairlie. I heard nothing my- 
 self." 
 
 " Oblige me — you have been so very good in 
 humouring my poor nerves — oblige me by lifting up 
 a corner of the blind. Don't let the sun in on me, 
 Mr. Hartright ! Have you got the blind up ? Yes ? 
 Then will you be so very kind as to look into the 
 garden and make quite sure?" 
 
 I complied with this new request. The garden was 
 carefully walled in, all round. Not a human creature, 
 large or small, appeared in any part of the sacred
 
 6Q THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 seclusion. I reported that gratifying fact to Mr. 
 Fairlie. 
 
 " A thousand thanks. My fancy, I suppose. There 
 are no children, thank Heaven, in the house ; but the 
 servants (persons born without nerves) will encourage 
 the children from the village. Such brats — oh, dear 
 me, such brats ! Shall I confess it, Mr. Hartright ? 
 — I sadly want a reform in the construction of children. 
 Nature's only idea seems to be to make them machines 
 for the production of incessant noise. Surely our 
 delightful Raffaello's conception is infinitely prefer- 
 able r 
 
 He pointed to the picture of the Madonna, the 
 upper part of which represented the conventional 
 cherubs of Italian Art, celestially provided with sitting 
 accommodation for their chins, on balloons of buff- 
 coloured cloud. 
 
 " Quite a model family !" said Mr. Fairlie, leering 
 at the cherubs. "Such nice round faces, and such 
 nice soft wings, and — nothing else. No dirty little 
 legs to run about on, and no noisy little lungs to 
 scream with. How immeasurably superior to the 
 existing construction 1 I will close my eyes again, if 
 you will allow me. And you really can manage the 
 drawings ? So glad. Is there anything else to settle ? 
 if there is, I think I have forgotten it. Shall we ring 
 for Louis again ?" 
 
 Being, by this time, quite as anxious, on my side, 
 as Mr. Fairlie evidently was on his, to brinsr the inter-
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 67 
 
 view to a speedy conclusion, I thought I would try to 
 render the summoning of the servant unnecessary, by 
 offering the requisite suggestion on my own responsi- 
 bility. 
 
 " The only point, Mr. Fairlie, that remains to be 
 discussed," I said, " refers, I think, to the instruction 
 in sketching which I am engaged to communicate to 
 the two young ladies." 
 
 "Ah! just so," said Mr. Fairlie. "I wish I felt 
 strong enough to go into that part of the arrangement 
 — but I don't. The ladies, who profit by your kind 
 services, Mr. Hartright, must settle, and decide, and 
 so on, for themselves. My niece is fond of your 
 charming art. She knows just enough about it to be 
 conscious of her own sad defects. Please take pains 
 with her. Yes. Is there anything else ? No. We 
 quite understand each other — don't we? I have no 
 right to detain you any longer from your delightful 
 pursuit — have I? So pleasant to have settled every- 
 thing — such a sensible relief to have done business. 
 Do you mind ringing for Louis to carry the portfolio 
 to your own room ?" 
 
 " I will carry it there, myself, Mr. Fairlie, if you 
 will allow me." 
 
 " Will you really ? Are you strong enough ? How 
 nice to be so strong ! Are you sure you won't drop it ? 
 So glad to possess you at Limmeridge, Mr. Hartright. 
 I am such a sufferer that I hardly dare hope to enjoy 
 much of your society. Would you mind taking great
 
 68 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 pains not to let the doors bang, and not to drop the port- 
 folio ? Thank you. Gently with the curtains, please 
 — the slightest noise from them goes through me like 
 a knife. Yes. Grood morning !" 
 
 When the sea-green curtains were closed, and when 
 the two baize doors were shut behind me, I stopped 
 for a moment in the little circular hall beyond, and 
 drew a long, luxurious breath of relief. It was like 
 coming to the surface of the water, after deep diving, 
 to find myself once more on the outside of Mr. Fairlie's 
 room. 
 
 As soon as I was comfortably established for the 
 morning in my pretty little studio, the first resolution 
 at which I arrived was to turn my steps no more in 
 the direction of the apartments occupied by the master 
 of the house, except in the very improbable event of 
 his honouring me with a special invitation to pay him 
 another visit. Having settled this satisfactory plan of 
 future conduct, in reference to Mr. Fairlie, I soon 
 recovered the serenity of temper of which my em- 
 ployer's haughty familiarity and impudent politeness 
 had, for the moment, deprived me. The remaining 
 hours of the morning passed away pleasantly enough, 
 in looking over the drawings, arranging them in sets, 
 trimming their ragged edges, and accomplishing the 
 other necessary preparations in anticipation of the busi- 
 ness of mounting them. I ought, perhaps, to have 
 made more progress than this ; but, as the luncheon-
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 69 
 
 time drew near, I grew restless and unsettled, and felt 
 unable to fix my attention on work, even though that 
 work was only of the humble manual kind. 
 
 At two o'clock, I descended again to the breakfast- 
 room, a little anxiously. Expectations of some interest 
 were connected with my approaching reappearance in 
 that part of the house. My introduction to Miss 
 Fairlie was now close at hand ; and, if Miss Hal- 
 combe's search through her mother's letters had pro- 
 duced the result which she anticipated, the time had 
 come for clearing up the mystery of the woman in 
 white.
 
 70 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 When I entered the room, I found Miss Halcombe 
 and an elderly lady seated at the luncheon-table. 
 
 The elderly lady, when I was presented to her, 
 proved to be Miss Fairlie's former governess, Mrs. 
 Vesey, who had been briefly described to me by my 
 lively companion at the breakfast- table, as possessed 
 of "all the cardinal virtues, and counting for nothing." 
 I can do little more than offer my humble testimony to 
 the truthfulness of Miss Halcombe's sketch of the old 
 lady's character. Mrs. Vesey looked the personifica- 
 tion of human composure, and female amiability. A 
 calm enjoyment of a calm existence beamed in drowsy 
 smiles on her plump, placid face. Some of us rush 
 through life ; and some of us saunter through life. 
 Mrs. Vesey sat through life. Sat in the house, early 
 and late ; sat in the garden ; sat in unexpected 
 window-seats in passages ; sat (on a camp-stool) when 
 her friends tried to take her out walking ; sat before 
 she looked at anything, before she talked of anything, 
 before she answered. Yes, or No, to the conmionest 
 question — always with the same serene smile on her
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 71 
 
 lips, the same vacantly attentive turn of her head, the 
 same snugly-comfortable position of her hands and 
 arms, under every possible change of domestic circum- 
 stances. A mild, a compliant, an unutterably tranquil 
 and harmless old lady, who never by any chance 
 suggested the idea that she had been actually alive 
 since the hour of her birth. Nature has so much to 
 do in this world, and is engaged in generating such a 
 vast variety of co-existent productions, that she must 
 surely be now and then too flurried and confused to 
 distinguish between the different processes that she is 
 carrying on at the same time. Starting from this 
 point of view, it will always remain my private per- 
 suasion that Nature was absorbed in making cabbages 
 when Mrs. Vesey was born, and that the good lady 
 suffered the consequences of a vegetable preoccupation 
 in the mind of the Mother of us all. 
 
 " Now, Mrs. Vesey," said Miss Halcombe, looking 
 brighter, sharper, and readier than ever, by contrast 
 with the undemonstrative old lady at her side, " what 
 will you have ? A cutlet ?" 
 
 Mrs. Vesey crossed her dimpled hands on the 
 edge of the table ; smiled placidly ; and said, " Yes, 
 dear." 
 
 "What is that opposite 'Mr. Hartright? Boiled 
 chicken, is it not ? I thought you liked boiled chicken 
 better than cutlet, Mrs. Vesey ?" 
 
 Mrs. Vesey took her dimpled hands off the edge of 
 the table and crossed them on her lap instead ; nodded
 
 72 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 contemplatively at the boiled chicken, and said, " Yes, 
 dear." 
 
 " Well, but which will you have, to-day ? Shall 
 Mr. Hartright give you some chicken ? or shall I 
 give you some cutlet ?" 
 
 Mrs. Vesey put one of her dimpled hands back 
 again on the edge of the table ; hesitated drowsily ; 
 and said, " Which you please, dear." 
 
 " Mercy on me ! it's a question for your taste, my 
 good lady, not for mine. Suppose you have a little of 
 both ? and suppose you begin with the chicken, be- 
 cause Mr. Hartright looks devoured by anxiety to 
 carve for you." 
 
 Mrs. Vesey put the other dimpled hand back on the 
 edge of the table ; brightened dimly, one moment ; 
 went out again^ the next ; bowed obediently ; and said, 
 " If you please, sir." 
 
 Surely a mild, a compliant, an unutterably tranquil 
 and harmless old lady ? But enough, perhaps, for the 
 present, of Mrs. Vesey. 
 
 All this time, there were no signs of Miss Fairlie. 
 We finished our luncheon ; and still she never ap- 
 peared. Miss Halcombe, whose quick eye nothing 
 escaped, noticed the looks> that I cast, from time to 
 time^ in the direction of the door. 
 
 " I understand you, Mr. Hartright," she said ; 
 " you are wondering what has become of your other 
 pupil. She has been down stairs, and has got over
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 73 
 
 her headache ; but has not sufficiently recovered her 
 appetite to join us at lunch. If you will put your- 
 self under my charge, I think I can undertake to find 
 her somewhere in the garden." 
 
 She took up a parasol, lying on a chair near her, 
 and led the way out, by a long window at the bottom 
 of the room, which opened on to the lawn. It is 
 almost unnecessary to say that we left Mrs. Vesey 
 still seated at the table, with her dimpled hands still 
 crossed on the edge of it ; apparently settled in that 
 position for the rest of the afternoon. 
 
 As we crossed the lawn, Miss Halcombe looked at 
 me significantly, and shook her head. 
 
 "That mysterious adventure of yours," she said, 
 "still remains involved in its own appropriate mid- 
 night darkness. I have been all the morning looking 
 over my mother's letters, and I have made no dis- 
 coveries yet. However, don't despair, Mr. Hartright. 
 This is a matter of curiosity ; and you have got a 
 woman for your ally. Under such conditions success 
 is certain, sooner or later. The letters are not ex- 
 hausted. I have three packets still left, and you may 
 confidently rely on my spending the whole evening over 
 them." 
 
 Here, then, was one of my anticipations of the 
 morning still unfulfilled. I began to wonder, next, 
 whether my introduction to Miss Fairlie would dis- 
 appoint the expectations that I had been forming of 
 her since breakfast-time. 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 74 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 " And how did you get on with Mr. Fairlie ?" in- 
 quired Miss Halcombe, as we left the lawn and turned 
 into a shrubbery. " Was he particularly nervous 
 this morning? Never mind considering about your 
 answer, Mr. Hartright. The mere fact of your 
 being obliged to consider is enough for me. I see in 
 your face that he was particularly nervous ; and, as I 
 am amiably unwilling to throw you into the same con- 
 dition, I ask no more." 
 
 We turned off into a winding path while she was 
 speaking, and approached a pretty summer-house, 
 built of wood, in the form of a miniature Swiss chalet. 
 The one room of the summer-house, as we ascended the 
 steps at the door, was occupied by a young lady. She 
 was standing near a rustic table, looking out at the 
 inland view of moor and hill presented by a gap in the 
 trees, and absently turning over the leaves of a little 
 sketch-book that lay at her side. This was Miss Fairlie. 
 
 How can I describe her ? How can I separate her 
 from my own sensations, and from all that has happened 
 in the later time ? How can I see her again as she 
 looked when my eyes first rested on her — as she should 
 look, now, to the eyes that are about to see her in 
 these pages ? 
 
 The water-colour drawing that I made of Laura 
 Fairlie, at an after period, in the place and attitude in 
 which I first saw her, lies on my desk while I write. I 
 look at it, and there dawns upon me brightly, from the 
 dark greenish-brown background of the summer-house.
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 75 
 
 a light, youthful figure, clothed in a simple muslin 
 dress, the pattern of it formed by broad alternate 
 strips of delicate blue and white. A scarf of the 
 same material sits crisply and closely round her 
 shoulders, and a little straw hat of the natural colour, 
 plainly and sparingly trimmed with ribbon to match 
 the gown, covers her head, and throws its soft pearly 
 shadow over the upper part of her face. Her hair is 
 of so faint and pale a brown — not flaxen, and yet 
 almost as light ; not golden, and yet almost as glossy 
 — that it nearly melts, here and there, into the shadow 
 of the hat. It is plainly parted and drawn back over 
 her ears, and the line of it ripples naturally as it crosses 
 her forehead. The eyebrows are rather darker than 
 the hair; and the eyes are of that soft, limpid, tur- 
 quoise blue, so often sung by the poets, so seldom seen 
 in real life. Lovely eyes in colour, lovely eyes in form 
 — large and tender and quietly thoughtful — but beau- 
 tiful above all things in the clear truthfulness of look 
 that dwells in their inmost depths, and shines through 
 all their changes of expression with the light of a 
 purer and a better world. The charm — most gently 
 and yet most distinctly expressed — which they shed 
 over the whole face, so covers and transforms its little 
 natural human blemishes elsewhere, that it is diffi- 
 cult to estimate the relative merits and defects of the 
 other features. It is hard to see that the lower part 
 of the face is too delicately refined away towards the 
 chin to be in full and fair proportion with the upper 
 
 E 2
 
 76 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 part; that the nose, in escaping the aquiline bend 
 (always hard and cruel in a woman, no matter how 
 abstractedly perfect it may be), has erred a little in 
 the other extreme, and has missed the ideal straight- 
 ness of line ; and that the sweet, sensitive lips are 
 subject to a slight nervous contraction, when she 
 smiles, which draws them upward a little at one 
 corner, towards the cheek. It might be possible to 
 note these blemishes in another woman's face, but it 
 is not easy to dwell on them in hers, so subtly -are they 
 connected with all that is individual and characteristic 
 in her expression, and so closely does the expression 
 depend for its full play and life, in every other feature, 
 on the moving impulse of the eyes. 
 
 Does my poor portrait of her, my fond, patient 
 labour of long and happy days, show me these things ? 
 Ah, how few of them are in the dim mechanical draw- 
 ing, and how many in the mind with which I regard 
 it ! A fair, delicate girl, in a pretty light dress, 
 trifling with the leaves of a sketch-book, while she 
 looks up from it with truthful, innocent blue eyes— 
 that is all the drawing can say ; all, perhaps, that even 
 the deeper reach of thought and pen can say in their 
 language, either. The woman who first gives life, 
 light, and form to our shadowy conceptions of beauty, 
 fills a void in our spiritual nature that has remained 
 unknown to us till she appeared. Sympathies that lie 
 too deep for words, too deep almost for thoughts, are 
 touched, at such times, by other charms than those
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 77 
 
 which the senses feel and which the resources of ex- 
 pression can realise. The mystery which underlies 
 the beauty of women is never raised above the reach of 
 all expression until it has claimed kindred with the 
 deeper mystery in our own souls. Then, and then 
 only, has it passed beyond the narrow region on which 
 light falls, in this world, from the pencil and the 
 pen. 
 
 Think of her as you tliought of the first woman who 
 quickened the pulses within you that the rest of her 
 sex had no art to stir. Let the kind, candid blue eyes 
 meet yours, as they met mine, with the one matchless 
 look which we both remember so well. Let her voice 
 speak the music that you once loved best, attuned as 
 sweetly to your ear as to mine. Let her footstep, as 
 she comes and goes, in these pages, be like that other 
 footstep to whose airy fall your own heart once beat 
 time. Take her as the visionary nursling of your own 
 fancy ; and she will grow upon you, all the more 
 clearly, as the living woman who dwells in mine. 
 
 Among the sensations that crowded on me, when 
 my eyes first looked upon her — familiar sensations 
 which we all know, which spring to life in most of our 
 hearts, die again in so many, and renew their bright 
 existence in so few — there was one that troubled and 
 perplexed me ; one that seemed strangely inconsistent 
 and unaccountably out of place in Miss Fairlie's pre- 
 sence. 
 
 Mingling with the vivid impression produced by the
 
 78 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 charm of her fair face and head, her sweet expression, 
 and her winning simplicity of manner, was another im- 
 pression, which, in a shadowy way, suggested to me 
 the idea of something wanting. At one time it seemed 
 like something wanting in her ; at another, like some- 
 thing wanting in myself, which hindered me from un- 
 derstanding her as I ought. The impression was 
 always strongest, in the most contradictory manner, 
 when she looked at me ; or, in other words, when I 
 was most conscious of the harmony and charm of her 
 face, and yet, at the same time, most troubled by the 
 sense of an incompleteness which it was impossible to 
 discover. Something wanting, something wanting — 
 and where it was^ and what it was, I could not say. 
 
 The effect of this curious caprice of fancy (as I 
 thought it then) was not of a nature to set me at my 
 ease, during a first interview with Miss Fairlie. The 
 few kind words of welcome which she spoke found me 
 hardly self-possessed enough to thank her in the cus- 
 tomary phrases of reply. Observing my hesitation, 
 and no doubt attributing it, naturally enough, to some 
 momentary shyness on my part, Miss Halcombe took 
 the business of talking, as easily and readily as usual, 
 into her own hands. 
 
 " Look there, Mr. Hartright," she said, pointing to 
 the sketch-book on the table, and to the little delicate 
 wandering hand that was still trifling with it. "Surely 
 you will acknowledge that your model pupil is found 
 at last ? The moment she hears that you are in the
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 79 
 
 house, she seizes her inestimable sketch-book, looks 
 universal Nature straight in the face, and longs to 
 begin !" 
 
 Miss Fairlie laughed with a ready good-humour, 
 which broke out as brightly as if it had been part of 
 the sunshine above us, over her lovely face. 
 
 " I must not take credit to myself where no credit 
 is due," she said, her clear, truthful blue eyes looking 
 alternately at Miss Halcombe and at me. " Fond as 
 I am of drawing, I am so conscious of my own igno- 
 rance that I am more afraid than anxious to begin. 
 Now I know you are here, Mr. Hartright, I find my- 
 self looking over my sketches, as I used to look over 
 my lessons when I was a little girl, and when I was 
 sadly afraid that I should turn out not fit to be 
 heard." 
 
 She made the confession very prettily and simply, 
 and, with quaint, childish earnestness, drew the sketch- 
 book away close to her own side of the table. Miss 
 Halcombe cut the knot of the little embarrassment 
 forthwith, in her resolute, downright way. 
 
 " Good, bad, or indifferent," she said, " the pupil's 
 sketches must pass through the fiery ordeal of the 
 master's judgment — and there's an end of it. Sup- 
 pose we take them with us in the carriage, Laura, and 
 let Mr. Hartright see them, for tbe first time, under 
 circumstances of perpetual jolting and interruption ? 
 If we can only confuse him all through the drive, 
 between Nature as it is, when he looks up at the view,
 
 80 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 and Nature as it is not, when he looks down again at 
 our sketch-books, we shall drive him into the last des- 
 perate refuge of paying us compliments, and shall slip 
 through his professional fingers with our pet feathers 
 of vanity all unruffled." 
 
 "I hope Mr. Hartright will pay me no compli- 
 ments," said Miss Fairlie, as we all left the summer- 
 house. 
 
 " May I venture to inquire why you express that 
 hope ?" I asked. 
 
 " Because I shall believe all that you say to me," 
 she answered, simply. 
 
 In those few words she unconsciously gave me the 
 key to her whole character ; to that generous trust in 
 others which, in her nature, grew innocently out of the 
 sense of her own truth. I only knew it intuitively then. 
 I know it by experience now. 
 
 We merely waited to rouse good Mrs. Vesey from the 
 place which she still occupied at the deserted luncheon- 
 table, before we entered the open carriage for our 
 promised drive. The old lady and Miss Halcombe 
 occupied the back seat ; and Miss Fairlie and I sat 
 together in front, with the sketch-book open between 
 us, fairly exhibited at last to my professional eyes. 
 All serious criticism on the drawings, even if I had 
 been disposed to volunteer it, was rendered impossible 
 by Miss Halcombe's lively resolution to see nothing 
 but the ridiculous side of the Fine Arts, as practised 
 by herself, her sister, and ladies in general. I can
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 81 
 
 remember the conversation that passed far more easily 
 than the sketches that I mechanically looked over. 
 That part of the talk, especially, in which Miss Fairlie 
 took any share is still as vividly impressed on my 
 memory as if I had heard it only a few hours ago. 
 
 Yes ! let me acknowledge that, on this first day, I 
 let the charm of her presence lure me from the recol- 
 lection of myself and my position. The most trifling 
 of the questions that she put to me, on the subject of 
 using her pencil and mixing her colours ; the slightest 
 alterations of expression in the lovely eyes that looked 
 into mine, with such an earnest desire to learn all that 
 I could teach, and to discover all that I could show, 
 attracted more of my attention than the finest view we 
 passed through, or the grandest changes of light and 
 shade, as they flowed into each other over the waving 
 moorland and the level beach. At any time, and 
 under any circumstances of human interest, is it not 
 strange to see how little real hold the objects of the 
 natural world amid which we live can gain on our 
 hearts and minds ? We go to Nature for comfort in 
 trouble, and sympathy in joy, only in books. Admira- 
 tion of those beauties of the inanimate world, which 
 modern poetry so largely and so eloquently describes, 
 is not, even in the best of us, one of the original 
 instincts of our nature. As children, we none of us 
 possess it. No uninstructed man or woman possesses 
 it. Those whose lives are most exclusively passed 
 amid the ever-changing wonders of sea and land are 
 
 E 3
 
 82 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 also those who are most universally insensible to every 
 aspect of Nature not directly associated with the 
 human interest of their calling. Our capacity of 
 appreciating the beauties of the earth we live on is, in 
 truth, one of the civilised accomplishments which we 
 all learn, as an Art ; and, more, that very capacity is 
 rarely practised by any of us except when our minds 
 are most indolent and most unoccupied. How much 
 share have the attractions of Nature ever had in the 
 pleasurable or painful interests and emotions of our- 
 selves or our friends? What space do they ever 
 occupy in the thousand little narratives of personal 
 experience which pass every day by word of mouth 
 from one of us to the other ? All that our minds can 
 compass, all that our hearts can learn, can be accom- 
 plished with equal certainty, equal profit, and equal 
 satisfaction to ourselves, in the poorest as in the richest 
 prospect that the face of the earth can show. There 
 is surely a reason for this want of inborn sympathy 
 between the creature and the creation around it, a 
 reason which may perhaps be found in the widely dif- 
 fering destinies of man and his earthly sphere. The 
 grandest mountain prospect that the eye can range 
 over is appointed to annihilation. The smallest human 
 interest that the pure heart can feel is appointed to 
 immortality. 
 
 We had been out nearly three hours, when the car- 
 riage again passed through the gates of Limmeridge 
 House.
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 83 
 
 On our way back, I had let the ladies settle for 
 themselves the first point of view which they were to 
 sketch, under my instructions, on the afternoon of the 
 next day. When they withdrew to dress for dinner, 
 and when I was alone again in my little sitting-room, 
 my spirits seemed to leave me on a sudden. I felt ill 
 at ease and dissatisfied with myself, I hardly knew 
 why. Perhaps I was now conscious, for the first time, 
 of having enjoyed our drive too much in the character 
 of a guest, and too little in the character of a drawing- 
 master. Perhaps that strange sense of something 
 wanting, either in Miss Fairlie or in myself, which had 
 perplexed me when I was first introduced to her, 
 haunted me still. Anyhow, it was a relief to mj 
 spirits when the dinner-hour called me out of my soli- 
 tude, and took me back to the society of the ladies of 
 the house. 
 
 I was struck, on entering the drawing-room, by the 
 curious contrast, rather in material than in colour, of 
 the dresses which they now wore. While Mrs. Vesey 
 and Miss Halcombe were richly clad (each in the 
 manner most becoming to her age), the first in silver- 
 gray, and the second in that delicate primrose-yellow 
 colour which matches so well with a dark complexion 
 and black hair, Miss Fairlie was unpretendingly and 
 almost poorly dressed in plain white muslin. It was spot- 
 lessly pure ; it was beautifully put on ; but still it was 
 the sort of dress which the wife or daughter of a poor 
 man might have worn ; and it made her, so far as
 
 84 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 externals went, look less affluent in circumstances than 
 her own governess. At a later period, when I learnt 
 to know more of Miss Fairlie's character, I discovered 
 that this curious contrast, on the wrong side, was due 
 to her natural delicacy of feeling and natural intensity 
 of aversion to the slightest personal display of her own 
 wealth. Neither Mrs. Vesey nor Miss Halcombe 
 could ever induce her to let the advantage in dress 
 desert the two ladies who were poor, to lean to the side 
 of the one lady who was rich. 
 
 When the dinner was over, we returned together to 
 the drawing-room. Although Mr. Fairlie (emulating 
 the magnificent condescension of the monarch who had 
 picked up Titian's brush for him) had instructed his 
 butler to consult my wishes in relation to the wine 
 that I might prefer after dinner, I was resolute enough 
 to resist the temptation of sitting in solitary grandeur 
 among bottles of my own choosing, and sensible 
 enough to ask the ladies' permission to leave the table 
 with them habitually, on the civilised foreign plan, 
 during the period of my residence at Limmeridge 
 House. 
 
 The drawing-room, to which we had now withdrawn 
 for the rest of the evening, was on the ground-floor, 
 and was of the same shape and size as the breakfast- 
 room. Large glass doors at the lower end opened on 
 to a terrace, beautifully ornamented along its whole 
 length with a profusion of flowers. The soft, hazy 
 twilight was just shading leaf and blossom alike into
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 85 
 
 harmony with its own sober hues, as we entered the 
 room ; and the sweet evening scent of the flowers met 
 us with its fragrant welcome through the open glass 
 doors. Good Mrs. Vesey (always the first of the 
 party to sit down) took possession of an arm-chair in a 
 corner, and dozed off comfortably to sleep. At my 
 request, Miss Fairlie placed herself at the piano. As 
 I followed her to a seat near the instrument, I saw 
 Miss Halcombe retire into a recess of one of the side 
 windows, to proceed with the search through her 
 mother's letters by the last quiet rays of the evening 
 light. 
 
 How vividly that peaceful home-picture of the 
 drawing-room comes back to me while I write ! From 
 the place where I sat I could see Miss Halcombe's 
 graceful figure, half of it in soft light, half in myste- 
 rious shadow, bending intently over the letters in her 
 lap ; while, nearer to me, the fair profile of the player 
 at the piano was just delicately defined against the 
 faintly deepening background of the inner wall of the 
 room. Outside, on the terrace, the clustering flowers 
 and long grasses and creepers waved so gently in the 
 light evening air, that the sound -of their rustling never 
 reached us. The sky was without a cloud ; and the 
 dawning mystery of moonlight began to tremble already 
 in the region of the eastern heaven. The sense of 
 peace and seclusion soothed all thought and feeling 
 into a rapt, unearthly repose; and the balmy quiet 
 that deepened ever with the deepening light, seemed
 
 86 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 to hover over us with a gentler influence still, when 
 there stole upon it from the piano the heavenly tender- 
 ness of the music of Mozart. It was an evening of 
 sights and sounds never to forget. 
 
 We all sat silent in the places we had chosen — Mrs. 
 Vesey still sleeping, Miss Fairlie still playing, Miss 
 Halcombe still reading — till the light failed us. By 
 this time the moon had stolen round to the terrace, 
 and soft, mysterious rays of light were slanting already 
 across the lower end of the room. The change from 
 the twilight obscurity was so beautiful, that we ba- 
 nished the lamps, by common consent, when the servant 
 brought them in ; and kept the large room unlighted, 
 except by the glimmer of the two candles at the 
 piano. 
 
 For half an hour more, the music still went on. 
 After that, the beauty of the moonlight view on the 
 terrace tempted Miss Fairlie out to look at it ; and I 
 followed her. When the candles at the piano had 
 been lighted, Miss Halcombe had changed her place, 
 so as to continue her examination of the letters by 
 their assistance. We left her, on a low chair, at one 
 side of the instrument, so absorbed over her reading 
 that she did not seem to notice when we moved. 
 
 We had been out on the terrace together, just in 
 front of the glass doors, hardly so long as five minutes, 
 I should think ; and Miss Fairlie was, by my advice, 
 just tying her white handkerchief over her head as 
 a precaution against the night air — when I heard Miss
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 87 
 
 Halcorabe's voice — low, eager, and altered from its 
 natural lively tone — pronounce my name. 
 
 " Mr. Hartright," she said, " will you come here for 
 a minute ? I want to speak to you." 
 
 I entered the room again immediately. The piano 
 stood about half way down along the inner wall. On 
 the side of the instrument farthest from the terrace, 
 Miss Halcorabe was sitting with the letters scattered 
 on her lap, and with one in her hand selected from 
 them, a,nd held close to the candle. On the side 
 nearest to the terrace there stood a low ottoman, on 
 which I took my place. In this position, I was not far 
 from the glass doors ; and I could see Miss Fairlie 
 plainly, as she passed and repassed the opening on to 
 the terrace ; walking slowly from end to end of it in 
 the full radiance of the moon. 
 
 " I want you to listen while I read the concluding 
 passages in this letter," said Miss Halcombe. " Tell 
 me if you think they throw any light upon your strange 
 adventure on the road to London. The letter is 
 addressed by my mother to her second husband, Mr. 
 Fairlie ; and the date refers to a period of between 
 eleven and twelve years since. At that time, Mr. and 
 Mrs. Fairlie, and my half-sister Laura, had been living 
 for years in this house ; and I was away from them, 
 completing my education at a school in Paris." 
 
 She looked and spoke earnestly, and, as I thought, 
 a little uneasily, as well. At the moment when she 
 raised the letter to the candle before beginning to read
 
 00 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 it, Miss Fairlie passed us on the terrace, looked in 
 for a moment, and, seeing that we were engaged, 
 slowly walked on. 
 
 Miss Halcombe began to read, as follows : 
 
 " * You will be tired, my dear Philip, of hearing 
 perpetually about my schools and my scholars. Lay 
 the blame, pray, on the dull uniformity of life at 
 Limmeridge, and not on me. Besides, this time, 
 
 1 have something really interesting to tell you about 
 a new scholar. 
 
 " * You know old Mrs. Kempe, at the village shop. 
 Well, after years of ailing, the doctor has at last given 
 her up, and she is dying slowly, day by day. Her 
 only living relation, a sister, arrived last week to take 
 care of her. This sister comes all the way from 
 Hampshire — her name is Mrs. Catherick. Four days 
 ago Mrs. Catherick came here to see me, and brought 
 her only child with her, a sweet little girl about a year 
 older than our darling Laura ' " 
 
 As the last sentence fell from the reader's lips, 
 Miss Fairlie passed us on the terrace once more. She 
 was softly singing to herself one of the melodies which 
 she had been playing earlier in the evening. Miss 
 Halcombe waited till she had passed out of sight 
 again ; and then went on with the letter : 
 
 ^* ' Mrs. Catherick is a decent, well-behaved, re- 
 spectable woman ; middle aged, and with the remains
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 89 
 
 of having been moderately, only moderately, nice- 
 looking. There is something in her manner and her 
 appearance, however, which I can't make out. She 
 is reserved about herself to the point of downright 
 secrecy; and there is a look in her face — I can't 
 describe it — which suggests to me that she has some- 
 thing on her mind. She is altogether what you would 
 call a walking mystery. Her errand at Limmeridge 
 House, however, was simple enough. When she left 
 Hampshire to nurse her sister, Mrs. Kempe, through 
 her last illness, she had been obliged to bring her 
 daughter with her, through having no one at home to 
 take care of the little girl. Mrs. Kempe may die in 
 a week's time, or may linger on for months ; and Mrs. 
 Catherick's object was to ask me to let her daughter, 
 Anne, have the benefit of attending my school ; subject 
 to the condition of her being removed from it to go 
 home again with her mother, after Mrs. Kempe's death. 
 I consented at once ; and when Laura and I went out 
 for our walk, we took the little girl (who is just eleven 
 years old) to the school, that very day.' " 
 
 Once more. Miss Fairlie's figure, bright and soft 
 in its snowy muslin dress — her face prettily framed by 
 the white folds of the handkerchief which she had tied 
 under her chin — passed by us in the moonlight. Once 
 more. Miss Halcombe waited till she was out of sight ; 
 and then went on : 
 
 " ' I have taken a violent fancy, Philip, to my new
 
 90 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 scholar, for a reason which I mean to keep till the last 
 for the sake of surprising you. Her mother having 
 told me as little about the child as she told me of 
 herself, I was left to discover (which I did on the first 
 day when we tried her at lessons) that the poor little 
 thing's intellect is not developed as it ought to be at 
 her age. Seeing this, I had her up to the house the 
 next day, and privately arranged with the doctor to 
 come and watch her and question her, and tell me 
 what he thought. His opinion is that she will grow 
 out of it. But he says her careful bringing-up at 
 school is a matter of great importance just now, 
 because her unusual slowness in acquiring ideas im- 
 plies an unusual tenacity in keeping them, when they 
 are once received into her mind. Now, my love, you 
 must not imagine, in your off-hand way, that I have 
 been attaching myself to an idiot. This poor little 
 Anne Catherick is a sweet, affectionate, grateful girl ; 
 and says the quaintest, prettiest things (as you shall 
 judge by an instance), in the most oddly sudden, sur- 
 prised, half-frightened way. Although she is dressed 
 very neatly, her clothes show a sad want of taste 
 in colour and pattern. So I arranged, yesterday, 
 that some of our darling Laura's old white frocks and 
 white hats should be altered for Anne Catherick ; 
 explaining to her that little girls of her complexion 
 looked neater and better all in white than in anything 
 else. She hesitated and seemed puzzled for a minute ; 
 then flushed up, and appeared to understand. Her
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 91 
 
 little hand clasped mine suddenly. She kissed it, 
 Philip ; and said (oh, so earnestly !), " I will always 
 wear white as long as I live. It will help me to 
 remember you, ma'am, and to think thatl am pleasing 
 you still, when I go away and see you no more." 
 This is only one specimen of the quaint things she says 
 so prettily. Poor little soul ! • She shall have a stock 
 of white frocks, made with good deep tucks, to let out 
 for her as she grows ' " 
 
 Miss Halcombe paused, and looked at me across 
 the piano. 
 
 " Did the forlorn woman whom you met in the high 
 road seem young?" she asked. "Young enough to 
 be two or three-and-twenty ?" 
 
 " Yes, Miss Halcombe, as young as that." 
 
 " And she was strangely dressed, from head to foot, 
 all in white ?" 
 
 " All in white." 
 
 While the answer was passing my lips. Miss Fairlie 
 glided into view on the terrace, for the third time. 
 Instead of proceeding on her walk, she stopped, with 
 her back turned towards us; and, leaning on the 
 balustrade of the terrace, looked down into the garden 
 beyond. My eyes fixed upon the white gleam of her 
 muslin gown and head-dress in the moonlight, and 
 a sensation, for which I can find no name — a sensation 
 that quickened my pulse, and raised a fluttering at my 
 heart — began to steal over me.
 
 92 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 "All in white?" Miss Halcombe repeated. **The 
 most important sentences in the letter, Mr. Hartright, 
 are those at the end, which 1 will read to you imme- 
 diately. But I can't help dwelling a little upon the 
 coincidence of the white costume of the woman you 
 met, and the white frocks which produced that strange 
 answer from my mother's little scholar. The doctor 
 may have been wrong when he discovered the child's 
 defects of intellect, and predicted that she would ' grow 
 out of them.^ She may never have grown out of them ; 
 and the old grateful fancy about dressing in white, 
 which was a serious feeling to the girl, may be a 
 serious feeling to the woman still." 
 
 I said a few words in answer — I hardly know what. 
 All my attention was concentrated on the white gleam 
 of Miss Fairlie's muslin dress. 
 
 "Listen to the last sentences of the letter," said 
 Miss Halcombe. " I think they will surprise you." 
 
 As she raised the letter to the light of the candle. 
 Miss Fairlie turned from the balustrade, looked doubt- 
 fully up and down the terrace, advanced a step 
 towards the glass doors, and then stopped, facing us. 
 
 Meanwhile, Miss Halcombe read me the last sen- 
 tences to which she had referred ; 
 
 " ' And now, my love, seeing that I am at the end 
 of my paper, now for the real reason, the surprising 
 reason, for my fondness for little Anne Catherick. 
 My dear Philip, although she is not half so pretty, she
 
 THE WOMAIT IN WHITE. 93 
 
 is, nevertheless, by one of those extraordinary caprices 
 of accidental resemblance which one sometimes sees, 
 the living likeness, in her hair, her complexion, the 
 colour of her eyes, and the shape of her face ' " 
 
 I started up from the ottoman, before Miss Hal- 
 combe could pronounce the next words. A thrill of 
 the same feeling which ran through me when the touch 
 was laid upon my shoulder on the lonely high-road, 
 chilled me again. 
 
 There stood Miss Fairlie, a white figure, alone 
 in the moonlight ; in her attitude, in the turn of her 
 head, in her complexion, in the shape of her face, the 
 living image, at that distance and under those circum- 
 stances, of the woman in white ! The doubt which 
 had troubled my mind for hours and hours past, flashed 
 into conviction in an instant. That " something want- 
 ing " was my own recognition of the ominous likeness 
 between the fugitive from the asylum and my pupil at 
 Limmeridge House. 
 
 " You see it !" said Miss Halcombe. She dropped 
 the useless letter, and her eyes flashed as they met 
 mine. " You see it now, as my mother saw it eleven 
 years since !" 
 
 " I see it — more unwillingly than I can say. To 
 associate that forlorn, friendless, lost woman, even by 
 an accidental likeness only, with Miss Fairlie, seems 
 like casting a shadow on the future of the bright 
 creature who stands looking at us now. Let me 
 lose the impression again, as soon as possible. Call
 
 94 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 her in, out of the dreary moonlight — pray call 
 her in !" 
 
 " Mr. Hartright, you surprise me. Whatever 
 women may be, I thought that men, in the nineteenth 
 century, were above superstition." 
 
 " Pray call her in !" 
 
 "Hush, hush! She is coming of her own accord. 
 Say nothing in her presence. Let this discovery of 
 the likeness be kept a secret between you and me. 
 Come in, Laura ; come in, and wake Mrs. Vesey with 
 the piano. Mr. Hartright is petitioning for some more 
 music, and he wants it, this time, of the lightest and 
 liveliest kind.'*
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 95 
 
 IX, 
 
 So ended my eventful first day at Limmerldge House. 
 Miss Halcombe and I kept our secret. After the 
 discovery of the likeness no fresh light seemed destined 
 to break over the mystery of the woman in white. At 
 the first safe opportunity Miss Halcombe cautiously 
 led her half-sister to speak of their mother, of old 
 times, and of Anne Catherick. Miss Fairlie's recol- 
 lections of the little scholar at Limmeridge were, 
 however, only of the most vague and general kind. 
 She remembered the likeness between herself and her 
 mother's favourite pupil, as something which had been 
 supposed to exist in past times ; but she did not refer 
 to the gift of the white dresses, or to the singular form 
 of words in which the child had artlessly expressed her 
 gratitude for them. She remembered that Anne had 
 remained at Limmeridge for a few months only, and 
 had then left it to go back to her home in Hampshire ; 
 but she could not say whether the mother and daughter 
 had ever returned, or had ever been heard of after- 
 wards. No further search, on Miss Halcombe's part, 
 through the few letters of Mrs. Fairlie's writing which
 
 96 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 she had left unread, assisted in clearing up the uncer- 
 tainties still left to perplex us. We had identified the 
 unhappy woman whom I had met in the night-time, 
 with Anne Catherick — we had made some advance, at 
 least, towards connecting the probably defective con- 
 dition of the poor creature's intellect with the peculiarity 
 of her being dressed all in white, and with the con- 
 tinuance, in her maturer years, of her childish gratitude 
 towards Mrs. Fairlie — and there, so far as we knew at 
 that time, our discoveries had ended. 
 
 The days passed on, the weeks passed on ; and the 
 track of the golden autumn wound its bright way 
 visibly through the green summer of the trees. Peaceful, 
 fast-flowing, happy time ! my story glides by you now, 
 as swiftly as you once glided by me. Of all the trea- 
 sures of enjoyment that you poured so freely into my 
 heart, how much is left me that has purpose and value 
 enough to be written on this page ? Nothing but the 
 saddest of all confessions that a man can make — the 
 confession of his own folly. 
 
 The secret which that confession discloses rhould be 
 told with little effort, for it has indirectly escaped me 
 already. The poor weak w^ords which have failed to 
 describe Miss Fairlie, have succeeded in betraying the 
 sensations she awakened in me. It is so with us all. 
 Our words are giants when they do us an injury, and 
 dwarfs when they do us a service. 
 
 I loved her.
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 97 
 
 Ah ! how well I know all the sadness and all the 
 mockery that is contained in those three words. I can 
 sigh over my mournful confession with the tenderest 
 woman who reads it and pities me. I can laugh at it 
 as bitterly as the hardest man who tosses it from him 
 in contempt. I loved her ! Feel for me, or despise 
 me, I confess it with the same immovable resolution to 
 own the truth. 
 
 Was there no excuse for me? There was some 
 excuse to be found, surely, in the conditions under 
 which my term of hired service was passed at Limme- 
 ridge House. 
 
 My morning hours succeeded each other calmly in 
 the quiet and seclusion of my own room. I had just 
 work enough to do, in mounting my employer's draw- 
 ings, to keep my hands and eyes pleasurably employed, 
 while my mind was left free to enjoy the dangerous 
 luxury of its own unbridled thoughts. A perilous 
 solitude, for it lasted long enough to enervate, not 
 long enough to fortify me. A perilous solitude, for it 
 was followed by afternoons and evenings spent, day 
 after day and week after week, alone in the society of 
 two women, one of whom possessed all the accomplish- 
 ments of grace, wit, and high-breeding, the other all 
 the charms of beauty, gentleness, and simple truth, 
 that can purify and subdue the lieart of man. Not a 
 day passed, in that dangerous intimacy of teacher and 
 pupil, in which my hand was not close to Miss Fairlie's ; 
 my cheek, as we bent together over her sketch-book, 
 VOL. I. F
 
 98 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 almost touching hers. The more attentively she 
 watched every movement of my brush, the more closely 
 I was breathing the perfume of her hair, and the warm 
 fragrance of her breath. It was part of my service, to 
 live in the very light of her eyes — at one time to be 
 bending over her, so close to her bosom as to tremble 
 at the thought of touching it ; at another, to feel her 
 bending over me, bending so close to see what I was 
 about, that her voice sank low when she spoke to me, 
 and her ribbons brushed my cheek in the wind before 
 she could draw them back. 
 
 The evenings which followed the sketching excur- 
 sions of the afternoon, varied, rather than checked, 
 these innocent, these inevitable familiarities. My 
 natural fondness for the music which she played with 
 such tender feeling, such delicate womanly taste, and 
 her natural enjoyment of giving me back, by the 
 practice of her art, the pleasure which I had offered to 
 her by the practice of mine, only wove another tie 
 which drew us closer and closer to one another. The 
 accidents of conversation ; the simple habits which 
 regulated even such a little thing as the position of 
 our places at table ; the play of Miss Halcombe's ever- 
 ready raillery, always directed against my anxiety, as 
 teacher, while it sparkled over her enthusiasm as pupil ; 
 the harmless expression of poor Mrs. Vesey's drowsy 
 approval which connected Miss Fairlie and me as two 
 model young people who never disturbed her — every 
 one of these trifles, and many more, combined to fold
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 99 
 
 US together in the same domestic atmosphere, and to 
 lead us both insensibly to the same hopeless end. 
 
 I should have remembered my position, and have 
 put myself secretly on my guard. I did so ; but not 
 till it was too late. All the discretion, all the experi- 
 ence, which had availed me with other women, and 
 secured me against other temptations, failed me with 
 her. It had been my profession, for years past, to be 
 in this close contact with young girls of all ages, and 
 of all orders of beauty. I had accepted the position 
 as part of my calling in life ; I had trained myself to 
 leave all the sympathies natural to my age in my em- 
 ployer's outer hall, as coolly as I left my umbrella 
 there before I went up-stairs. I had long since learnt 
 to understand, composedly and as a matter of course, 
 that my situation in life was considered a guarantee 
 against any of my female pupils feeling more than the 
 most ordinary interest in me, and that I was admitted 
 among beautiful and captivating women, much as a 
 harmless domestic animal is admitted among them. 
 This guardian experience I had gained early ; this 
 guardian experience had sternly and strictly guided 
 me straight along my own poor narrow path, without 
 once letting me stray aside, to the right hand or to the 
 left. And now, I and my trusty talisman were parted 
 for the first time. Yes, my hardly-earned self-control 
 was as completely lost to me as if I had never possessed 
 it ; lost to me, as it is lost every day to other men, in 
 other critical situations, where women are concerned. 
 
 F 2
 
 100 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 I know, now, that I should have questioned myself 
 from the first. I should have asked why any room in 
 the house was better than home to me when she entered 
 it, and barren as a desert when she went out again — 
 v.hy I always noticed and remembered the little changes 
 in her dress that I had noticed and remembered in no 
 other woman^s before — why I saw her, heard her, and 
 touched her (when we shook hands at night and morn- 
 ing) as I had never seen, heard, and touched any other 
 woman in my life ? I should have looked into my own 
 heart, and found this new growth springing up there, 
 and plucked it out while it was young. Why was this 
 easiest, simplest work of self-culture always too much 
 for me ? The explanation has been written already in 
 the three words that were many enough, and plain 
 enough, for my confession. I loved her. 
 
 The days passed, the weeks passed ; it was approach- 
 ing the third month of my stay in Cumberland. The 
 delicious monotony of life in our calm seclusion, flowed 
 on with me like a smooth stream with a swimmer who 
 glides down the current. All memory of the past, all 
 thought of the future, all sense of the falseness and 
 hopelessness of my own position, lay hushed within me 
 into deceitful rest. Lulled by the Syren-song that my 
 own heart sung to me, with eyes shut to all sight, and 
 ears closed to all sound of danger, I drifted nearer and 
 nearer to the fatal rocks. The w^arning that aroused 
 nie at last, and startled me into sudden, self-accusing 
 consciousness of my own weakness, was the plainest,
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 101 
 
 the truest, the kindest of all warnings, for it came 
 silently from her. 
 
 We had parted one night, as usual. No word had 
 fallen from my lips, at that time or at any time before 
 it, that could betray me, or startle her into sudden 
 knowledge of the truth. But, when we met again in 
 the morning, a change had come over her — a change 
 that told me all. 
 
 I shrank then — I shrink still — from invading the 
 innermost sanctuary of her heart, and laying it open 
 to others, as I have laid open my own. Let it be 
 enough to say that the time when she first surprised 
 my secret, was, I firmly believe, the time when she 
 first surprised her own, and the time, also, when she 
 changed towards me in the interval of one night. Her 
 nature, too truthful to deceive others, was too noble to 
 deceive itself. When the doubt that I had hushed 
 asleep, first laid its weary weight on her heart, the 
 true face owned all, and said, in its own frank simple 
 language — I am sorry for him ; I am sorry for myself. 
 It said this, and more, which I could not then inter- 
 pret. I understood but too well the change in her 
 manner, to greater kindness and quicker readiness in 
 interpreting all my wishes, before others — to constraint 
 and sadness, and nervous anxiety to absorb herself in 
 the first occupation she could seize on, whenever we 
 happened to be left together alone. I understood why 
 the sweet sensitive lips smiled so rarely and so re- 
 strainedly now ; and why the clear blue eyes looked at
 
 102 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 me, sometimes with the pity of an angel, sometimes 
 with the innocent perplexity of a child. But the change 
 meant more than this. There was a coldness in her 
 hand, there was an unnatural immobility in her face, 
 there was in all her movements the mute expression of 
 constant fear and clinging self-reproach. The sensa- 
 tions that I could trace to herself and to me, the un- 
 acknowledged sensations that we were feeling in 
 common, were not these. There were certain elements 
 of the change in her that were still secretly drawing us 
 together, and others that were, as secretly, beginning 
 to drive us apart. 
 
 In my doubt and perplexity, in my vague suspicion 
 of something hidden which I was left to find by my 
 own unaided efforts, I examined Miss Halcombe's looks 
 and manner for enlightenment. Living in such intimacy 
 as ours, no serious alteration could take place in any 
 one of us which did not sympathetically affect the 
 others. The change in Miss Fairlie was reflected in 
 her half-sister. Although not a word escaped Miss 
 Halcombe which hinted at an altered state of feeling 
 towards myself, her penetrating eyes had contracted a 
 new habit of always watching me. Sometimes, the 
 look was like suppressed anger ; sometimes, like sup- 
 pressed dread ; sometimes, like neither — like nothing, in 
 short, which I could understand. A week elapsed, leav- 
 ing us all three still in this position of secret constraint 
 towards one another. My situation, aggravated by the 
 sense of my own miserable weakness and forgetfulness
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 103 
 
 of myself, now too late awakened in me, was becoming 
 intolerable. I felt that I must cast off the oppression 
 under which I was living, at once and for ever — yet 
 how to act for the best, or what to say first, was more 
 than I could tell. 
 
 From this position of helplessness and humiliation, I 
 was rescued by Miss Halcombe. Her lips told me the 
 bitter, the necessary, the unexpected truth ; her hearty 
 kindness sustained me under the shock of hearing it 
 her sense and courage turned to its right use an even 
 which threatened the worst that could happen, to me 
 and to others, in Limmeridge House.
 
 104 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 X. 
 
 It was on a Thursday in the week, and nearly at the 
 end of the third month of my sojourn in Cumberland. 
 
 In the morning, when I went down into the break- 
 fast-room, at the usual hour. Miss Halcombe, for the 
 first time since I had known her, was absent from her 
 customary place at the table. 
 
 Miss Fairlie was out on the lawn. She bowed to 
 me, but did not come in. Not a word had dropped 
 from my lips, or from hers that could unsettle either 
 of us — and yet the same unacknowledged sense of 
 embarrassment made us shrink alike from meeting one 
 another alone. She waited on the lawn ; and I waited 
 in the breakfast-room, till Mrs. Vesey or Miss Hal- 
 combe came in. How quickly I should have joined 
 her : how readily we should have shaken hands, and 
 glided into our customary talk, only a fortnight ago ! 
 
 In a few minutes. Miss Halcombe entered. She had 
 a preoccupied look, and she made her apologies for 
 being late, rather absently. 
 
 " I have been detained," she said, " by a consultation
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 105 
 
 with Mr. Fairlie on a domestic matter which he wished 
 to speak to me about." 
 
 Miss Fairlie came in from the garden ; and the 
 usual morning greeting passed between us. Her hand 
 struck colder to mine than ever. She did not look at 
 me ; and she was very pale. Even Mrs. Vesey noticed 
 it, when she entered the room a moment after. 
 
 " 1 suppose it is the change in the wind," said the 
 old lady. " The winter is coming — ah, my love, the 
 winter is coming soon !" 
 
 In her heart and in mine it had come already ! 
 
 Our morning meal — once so full of pleasant good- 
 humoured discussions of the plans for the day — was 
 short and silent. Miss Fairlie seemed to feel the 
 oppression of the long pauses in the conversation ; and 
 looked appealingly to her sister to fill them up. Miss 
 Halcombe, after once or twice hesitating and checking 
 herself, in a most uncharacteristic manner, spoke at 
 last. 
 
 " 1 have seen your uncle this morning, Laura," she 
 said. "He thinks the purple room is the one that 
 ought to be got ready ; and he confirms what I told 
 you. Monday is the day — not Tuesday." 
 
 While these words were being spoken, Miss Fairlie 
 looked down at the table beneath her. Her fingers 
 moved nervously among the crumbs that were scattered 
 on the cloth. The paleness on her cheeks spread to 
 her lips, and the lips themselves trembled visibly. I 
 was not the only person present who noticed this. Miss 
 
 F 3
 
 ]06 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 Halcombe saw it, too ; and at once set us the example 
 of rising from table. 
 
 Mrs. Vesey and Miss Fairlie left the room together. 
 The kind sorrowful blue eyes looked at me, for a 
 moment, with the prescient sadness of a coming and a 
 long farewell. I felt the answering pang in my own 
 heart — the pang that told me I must lose her soon, 
 and love her the more unchangeably for the loss. 
 
 I turned towards the garden, when the door had 
 closed on her. Miss Halcombe was standing with her 
 hat in her hand, and her shawl over her arm, by the 
 large window that led out to the lawn, and was looking 
 at me attentively. 
 
 " Have you any leisure time to spare," she asked, 
 " before you begin to work in your own room ?" 
 
 " Certainly, Miss Halcombe. I have always time 
 at your service." 
 
 *' I want to say a word to you in private, Mr. Hart- 
 right. Get your hat, and come out into the garden. 
 We are not likely to be disturbed there at this hour in 
 the morning." 
 
 As we stepped out on to the lawn, one of the under- 
 gardeners — a mere lad — passed us on his way to the 
 house, with a letter in his hand. Miss Halcombe 
 stopped him. 
 
 " Is that letter for me ?" she asked. 
 
 " Nay, miss ; it's just said to be for Miss Fairlie," 
 answered the lad, holding out the letter as he 
 spake.
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 107 
 
 Miss Halcombe took it from him, and looked at the 
 address. 
 
 " A strange handwriting," she said to herself. 
 " Who can Laura's correspondent be ? Where did 
 you get this ?" she continued, addressing the gardener. 
 
 " Well, miss," said the lad, " I just got it from a 
 woman." 
 
 "What woman?" 
 
 " A woman well stricken in age." 
 
 " Oh, an old woman. Any one you knew ?" 
 
 "I canna' tak' it on mysel' to say that she was 
 other than a stranger to me." 
 
 " Which way did she go ?" 
 
 " That gate," said the under-gardener, turning 
 with great deliberation towards the south, and embrac- 
 ing the whole of that part of England with one com- 
 prehensive sweep of his arm. 
 
 " Curious," said Miss Halcombe ; " I suppose it 
 must be a begging-letter. There," she added, hand- 
 ing the letter back to the lad, " take it to the house, 
 and give it to one of the servants. And now, Mr. 
 Hartright, if you have no objection, let us walk this 
 way." 
 
 She led me across the lawn, along the same path by 
 which I had followed her on the day after my arrival at 
 Limmeridge. At the little summer-house in ^hich 
 Laura Fairlie and I had first seen each other, she 
 stopped, and broke the silence which she had steadily 
 maintained while we were walking together.
 
 108 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 " What I have to say to }0Uj I can say here." 
 
 With those words, she entered the summer-house, 
 took one of the chairs at the little round table inside, 
 and signed to me to take the other. I suspected what 
 was coming when she spoke to me in the breakfast- 
 room; I felt certain of it now. 
 
 " Mr. Hartright," she said, " I am going to begin 
 by making a frank avowal to you. I am going to say 
 — without phrase-making, which I detest ; or paying 
 compliments, which I heartily despise — that I have 
 come, in the course of your residence with us, to feel 
 a strong friendly regard for you. I was predisposed in 
 your favour when you first told me of your conduct to- 
 wards that unhappy woman whom you met under such 
 remarkable circumstances. Your management of the 
 affair might not have been prudent ; but it showed the 
 self-control, the delicacy, and the compassion of a 
 man who was naturally a gentleman. It made me 
 expect good things from you; and you have not dis- 
 appointed my expectations." 
 
 She paused — but held up her hand at the same time, 
 as a sign that she awaited no answer from me before 
 she proceeded. When I entered the summer-house, 
 no thought was in me of the woman in white. But, 
 now. Miss Halcombe's own words had put the memory 
 of my adventure back in my mind. It remained there 
 throughout the interview — remained, and not without 
 a result. 
 
 " As your friend," she proceeded, " I am going to
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 109 
 
 tell you, at once, in ray own plain, blunt, downright 
 language, that I have discovered your secret — without 
 help, or hint, mind, from any one else. Mr. Hartright, 
 you have thoughtlessly allowed yourself to form an 
 attachment — a serious and devoted attachment, I am 
 afraid — to my sister^ Laura. 1 don't put you to the 
 pain of confessing it, in so many words, because I see 
 and know that you are too honest to deny it. I don't 
 even blame you — I pity you for opening your heart to 
 a hopeless affection. You have not attempted to take 
 any underhand advantage — you have not spoken to my 
 sister in secret. You are guilty of weakness and want 
 of attention to your own best interests, but of nothing 
 worse. If you had acted, in any single respect, less 
 delicately and less modestly, I should have told you to 
 leave the house, without an mstant's notice, or an 
 instant's consultation of anybody. As it is, I blame 
 the misfortune of your years and your position — I don't 
 blame you. Shake hands — I have given you pain ; 
 I am going to give you more ; but there is no help for 
 it — shake hands with your friend, Marian Halcombe, 
 first." 
 
 The sudden kindness — the warm, high-minded, 
 fearless sympathy which met me on such mercifully- 
 equal terms, which appealed with such delicate and 
 generous abruptness straight to my heart, my honour, 
 and my courage, overcame me in an instant. I tried 
 to look at her, when she took my hand, but' my eyes 
 were dim. I tried to thank her, but my voice failed me.
 
 110 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 " Listen to me/' she said, considerately avoiding all 
 notice of my loss of self-control. " Listen to me, and 
 let us get it over at once. It is a real true relief to 
 me that I am not obliged, in what I have now to say, 
 to enter into the question — the hard and cruel question 
 as I think it — of social inequalities. Circumstances 
 which will try you to the quick, spare me the un- 
 gracious necessity of paining a man who has lived in 
 friendly intimacy under the same roof with myself by 
 any humiliating reference to matters of rank and sta- 
 tion. You must leave Limmeridge House, Mr. 
 Hartright, before more harm is done. It is my duty 
 to say that to you ; and it would be equally my duty 
 to say it, under precisely the same serious necessity, if 
 you were the representative of the oldest and wealthiest 
 family in England. You must leave us, not because 
 you are a teacher of drawing " 
 
 She vraited a moment ; turned her face full on me ; 
 and, reaching across the table, laid her hand firmly on 
 my arm. 
 
 " Not because you are a teacher of drawing," she 
 repeated, " but because Laura Fairlie is engaged to 
 be married." 
 
 The last word went like a bullet to my heart. My 
 arm lost all sensation of the hand that grasped it. I 
 never moved and never spoke. The sharp autumn 
 breeze that scattered the dead leaves at our feet, came 
 as cold to me, on a sudden, as if my own mad hopes 
 were dead leaves, too, whirled away by the wind like
 
 THE WOM^iN IN WHITE. Ill 
 
 the rest. Hopes ! Betrothed, or not betrothed, she 
 was equally far from me. Would other men have 
 remembered that in my place ? Not if they had loved 
 her as I did. 
 
 The pang passed ; and nothing but the dull numb- 
 ing pain of it remained. I felt Miss Halcombe's hand 
 again, tightening its hold on my arm — I raised my 
 head, and looked at her. Her large black eyes were 
 rooted on me, watching the white change on my face, 
 which I felt, and which she saw. 
 
 " Crush it !" she said. " Here, where you first saw 
 her, crush it ! Don't shrink under it like a woman. 
 Tear it out ; trample it under foot like a man !" 
 
 The suppressed vehemence with which she spoke ; 
 the strength which her will — concentrated in the look 
 she fixed on me, and in the hold on my arm that she 
 had not yet relinquished — communicated to mine, 
 steadied me. We both waited for a minute, in silence. 
 At the end of that time, I had justified her generous 
 faith in my manhood ; I had, outwardly at least, re- 
 covered my self-control. 
 
 " Are you yourself again ?" 
 
 "Enough myself, Miss Halcombe, to ask your 
 pardon and hers. Enough myself, to be guided by 
 your advice, and to prove my gratitude in that way, if 
 I can prove it in no other." 
 
 *' You have proved it already," she answered, " by 
 those words. Mr. Hartright, concealment is at an end 
 between us. I cannot afiect to hide from yoUy what my
 
 112 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 sister has unconsciously shown to me. You must 
 leave us for her sake, as well as for your own. Your 
 presence here, your necessary intimacy with us, harm- 
 less as it has been, God knows, in all other respects, 
 has unsteadied her and made her wretched. I, who 
 love her better than my own life — I, who have learnt 
 to believe in that pure, noble, innocent nature as I 
 believe in my religion — know but too well the secret 
 misery of self-reproach that she has been suffering, 
 since the first shadow of a feeling disloyal to her mar- 
 riage engagement entered her heart in spite of her. I 
 don't say — it would be useless to attempt to say it, after 
 what has happened — that her engagement has ever had 
 a strong hold on her affections. It is an engagement 
 of honour, not of love — her father sanctioned it on his 
 death-bed, two years since — she herself neither wel- 
 comed it, nor shrank from it — she was content to make 
 it. Till you came here, she was in the position of 
 hundreds of other women, who marry men without 
 being greatly attracted to them or greatly repelled by 
 them, and who learn to love them (when they don't 
 learn to hate !) after marriage, instead of before. I 
 hope more earnestly than words can say — and you 
 should have the self-sacrificing courage to hope too — 
 that the new thoughts and feelings which have dis- 
 turbed the old calmness and the old content, have not 
 taken root too deeply to be ever removed. Your 
 absence (if I had less belief in your honour, and your 
 courage, and your sense, I should not trust to them as
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 113 
 
 I am trusting now) — your absence will help my efforts ; 
 and time will help us all three. It is something to 
 know that my first confidence in you was not all mis- 
 placed. It is something to know that you will not be 
 less honest, less manly, less considerate towards the 
 pupil w hose relation to yourself you have had the mis- 
 fortune to forget, than towards the stranger and the 
 outcast whose appeal to you was not made in 
 vain." 
 
 Again the chance reference to the woman in white ! 
 Was there no possibility of speaking of Miss Fairlie 
 and of me without raising the memory of Anne Cathe- 
 rick, and setting her between us like a fatality that it 
 was hopeless to avoid ? 
 
 " Tell me what apology I can make to Mr. Fairlie 
 for breaking my engagement," I said. " Tell me 
 when to go after that apology is accepted. I promise 
 implicit obedience to you and to your advice." 
 
 " Time is, every way, of importance," she answered. 
 " You heard me refer this morning to Monday next, 
 and to the necessity of setting the purple room in order. 
 The visitor whom we expect on Monday " 
 
 I could not wait for her to be more explicit. Know- 
 ing what I knew now, the memory of Mi*s Fairlie's 
 look and manner at the breakfast-table told me that 
 the expected visitor at Limmeridge House was her 
 future husband. I tried to force it back ; but some- 
 thing rose within me at that moment stronger than my 
 own will ; and I interrupted Miss Halcombe.
 
 114 THE W0M.V2^ IN WHITE. 
 
 *' Let me go to-day," I said, bitterly. " The sooner 
 the better." 
 
 " No ; not to-day," she replied. *' The only reason 
 you can assign to Mr. Fairlie for your departure, 
 before the end of your engagement, must be that an 
 unforeseen necessity compels you to ask his permission 
 to return at once to London. You must wait till to- 
 morrow to tell him that, at the time when the post 
 comes in, because he will then understand the sudden 
 change in your plans, by associating it with the arrival 
 of a letter from London. It is miserable and sicken- 
 ing to descend to deceit, even of the most harmless 
 kind — but I know Mr. Fairlie, and if you once excite 
 his suspicions that you are trifling with him, he will 
 refuse to release you. Speak to him on Friday morn- 
 ing ; occupy yourself afterwards (for the sake of your 
 own interests with your employer), in leaving your 
 unfinished work in as little confusion as possible ; and 
 quit this place on Saturday. It will be time enough, 
 then, Mr. Hartright, for you, and for all of us." 
 
 Before I could assure her that she might depend on 
 my acting in the strictest accordance with her wishes, 
 we were both startled by advancing footsteps in the 
 shrubbery. Some one was coming from the house to 
 seek for us ! I felt the blood rush into my cheeks, 
 and then leave them again. Could the third person 
 who was fast approaching us, at such a time and under 
 such circumstances, be Miss Fairlie ? 
 
 It was a relief— so sadly, so hopelessly was my
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 115 
 
 position towards her changed already — it was abso- 
 lutely a relief to me, when the person who had 
 disturbed us appeared at the entrance of the sum- 
 mer-house, and proved to be only Miss Fairlie's 
 maid. 
 
 "Could I speak to you for a moment, miss?" said 
 the girl, in rather a flurried, unsettled manner. 
 
 Miss Halcombe descended the steps into the shrub- 
 bery, and walked aside a few paces with the maid. 
 
 Left by myself, my mind reverted, with a sense of 
 forlorn wretchedness which it is not in any words that 
 I can find to describe, to my approaching reteirn to the 
 solitude and the despair of my lonely London home. 
 Thoughts of my kind old mother, and of my sister, 
 who had rejoiced with her so innocently over my pros- 
 pects in Cumberland — thoughts whose long banish- 
 ment from my heart it was now my shame and my 
 reproach to realise for the first time — came back to 
 me with the loving mournfulness of old, neglected 
 friends. My mother and my sister, what would they 
 feel when I returned to them from my broken engage- 
 ment, with the confession of my miserable secret — they 
 who had parted from me so hopefully on that last 
 happy night in the Hampstead cottage ! 
 
 Anne Catherick again ! Even the memory of the 
 farewell evening with my mother and my sister could 
 not return to me now, unconnected with that other 
 memory of the moonlight walk back to London. 
 What did it mean ? Were that woman and I to meet
 
 IIG THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 once more? It was possible, at the least. Did she 
 know that I lived in London ? Yes ; I had told her 
 so, either before or after that strange question of hers, 
 when she had asked me so distrustfully if I knew many 
 men of the rank of Baronet. Either before or after — 
 my mind was not calm enough, then, to remember 
 which. 
 
 A few minutes elapsed before Miss Halcombe dis- 
 missed the maid and came back to me. She, too, 
 looked flurried and unsettled, now. 
 
 " We have arranged all that is necessary, Mr. Hart- 
 right," shi said. "We have understood each other, 
 as friends should ; and we may go back at once to the 
 house. To tell you the truth, I am uneasy about 
 Laura. She has sent to say she wants to see me 
 directly ; and the maid reports that her mistress is 
 apparently very much agitated by a letter that she has 
 received this morning — the same letter, no doubt, 
 which I sent on to the house before we came 
 here." 
 
 We retraced our steps together hastily along the 
 shrubbery path. Although Miss Halcombe had ended 
 all that she thought it necessary to say, on her side, I 
 had not ended all that I wanted to say on mine. 
 From the moment when I had discovered that the 
 expected visitor at Limmeridge was Miss Fairlie's 
 future husband, I had felt a bitter curiosity, a burning 
 envious eagerness, to know who he was. It was pos- 
 sible that a future opportunity of putting the question
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 117 
 
 might not easily offer ; so I risked asking it on our 
 way back to the house. 
 
 " Now that you are kind enough to tell me we have 
 understood each other, Miss Halcombe," I said ; " now 
 that you are sure of my gratitude for your forbearance 
 and my obedience to your wishes, may I venture to 
 ask who" — (I hesitated ; I had forced myself to think 
 of him, but it was harder still to speak of him, as her 
 promised husband) — *'who the gentlemen engaged to 
 Miss Fairlie, is ?" 
 
 Her mind was evidently occupied with the message 
 she had received from her sister. She answered, in a 
 hasty, absent way : 
 
 " A gentleman of large property, in Hampshire." 
 
 Hampshire ! Anne Catherick's native place. Again, 
 and yet again, the woman in white. There was a 
 fatality in it. 
 
 "And his name?" I said, as quietly and indiffer- 
 ently as I could. 
 
 " Sir Percival Glyde." 
 
 Sir — Sir Percival! Anne Catherick's question — 
 that suspicious question about the men of the rank of 
 Baronet whom I might happen to know — had hardly 
 been dismissed from my mind by Miss Halcombe's 
 return to me in the summer-house, before it was 
 recalled again by her own answer. I stopped suddenly, 
 and looked at her. 
 
 "Sir Percival Glyde," she repeated, imagining 
 that I had not heard her former reply.
 
 118 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 " Knight, or Baronet ?" I asked, with an agitation 
 that I could hide no longer. 
 
 She paused for a moment, and then answered, 
 rather coldly : 
 
 " Baronet, of course."
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 119 
 
 XL 
 
 Not a word more was said, on either side, as we 
 walked back to the house. Miss Halcombe hastened 
 immediately to her sister's room ; and I withdrew to my 
 studio to set in order all of Mr. Fairlie's drawings that 
 I had not yet mounted and restored before I resigned 
 them to the care of other hands. Thoughts that I had 
 hitherto restrained, thoughts that made my position 
 harder than ever to endure, crowded on me now that I 
 was alone. 
 
 She was engaged to be married ; and her future 
 husband was Sir Percival Glyde. A man of the 
 rank of baronet, and the owner of property in Hamp- 
 shire. 
 
 There were hundreds of baronets in England, and 
 dozens of landowners in Hampshire. Judging by the 
 ordinary rules of evidence, I had not the shadow of a 
 reason, thus far, for connecting Sir Percival Glyde with 
 the suspicious words of inquiry that had been spoken to 
 me by the woman in white. And yet, I did connect him 
 with them. Was it because he had now become asso- 
 ciated in my mind with Miss Fairlie ; Miss Fairlie being
 
 120 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 in her turn, associated with Anne Catherick, since the 
 night when I had discovered the ominous likeness between 
 them ? Had the events of the morning so unnerved me 
 already that I was at the mercy of any delusion which 
 common chances and common coincidences might sug- 
 gest to my imagination ? Impossible to say. I could 
 only feel that what had passed between Miss Halcombe 
 and myself, on our way from the summer-house, had 
 affected me very strangely. The foreboding of some un- 
 discoverable danger lying hid from us all in the dark- 
 ness of the future, was strong on me. The doubt 
 whether I was not linked already to a chain of events 
 which even my approaching departure from Cumber- 
 land would be powerless to snap asunder — the doubt 
 whether we any of us saw the end as the end would 
 really be — gathered more and more darkly over my 
 mind. Poignant as it was, the sense of suffering 
 caused by the miserable end of my brief, presumptuous 
 love, seemed to be blunted and deadened by the still 
 stronger sense of something obscurely impending, 
 something invisibly threatening, that Time was hold- 
 ing over our heads. 
 
 I had been engaged with the drawings little more 
 than half an hour, when there was a knock at the 
 door. It opened, on my answering ; and, to my sur- 
 prise, Miss Halcombe entered the room. 
 
 Her manner was angry and agitated. She caught 
 up a chair for herself, before I could give her one ; 
 and sat down in it, close at my side.
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 121 
 
 " Mr. Hartright," she said, " I had hoped that all 
 painful subjects of conversation were exhausted be- 
 tween us, for to-day at least. But it is not to be 
 so. There is some underhand villany at work to 
 frighten my sister about her approaching marriage. 
 You saw me send the gardener on to the house, with 
 a letter addressed, in a strange handwriting, to Miss 
 Fairlie?" 
 
 " Certainly." 
 
 " That letter is an anonymous letter — a vile attempt 
 to injure Sir Percival Glyde in my sister's estimation. 
 It has so agitated and alarmed her that I have had the 
 greatest possible difficulty in composing her spirits 
 sufficiently to allow me to leave her room and come 
 here. I know this is a family matter on which I ought 
 not to consult you, and in which you can feel no con- 
 cern or interest " 
 
 " I beg your pardon. Miss Halcombe. I feel the 
 strongest possible concern and interest in anything 
 that affects Miss Fairlie's happiness or yours." 
 
 " I am glad to hear you say so. You are the only 
 person in the house, or out of it, who can advise me. 
 Mr. Fairlie, in his state of health and with his horror 
 of difficulties and mysteries of all kinds, is not to be 
 thought of. The clergyman is a good, weak man, who 
 knows nothing out of the routi neof his duties ; and 
 our neighbours are just the sort of comfortable, jog- 
 trot acquaintances whom (me cannot disturb in times 
 of trouble and danger. What I want to know is this : 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 i**- 
 
 122 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 ought I, at once, to take such steps as I can to dis- 
 cover the writer of the letter ? or ought I to wait, and 
 apply to Mr. Fairlie's legal adviser to-morrow ? It is 
 a question — perhaps a very important one — of gaining 
 or losing a day. Tell me what you think, Mr. Hart- 
 right. If necessity had not already obliged me to 
 take you into my confidence under very delicate cir- 
 cumstances, even my helpless situation would, perhaps, 
 be no excuse for me. But, as things are, I cannot 
 surely be wrong, after all that has passed between us, 
 in forgetting that you are a friend of only three 
 months' standing." 
 
 She gave me the letter. It began abruptly, with- 
 out any preliminary form of address, as follows : 
 
 " Do you believe in dreams ? I hope, for your 
 own sake, that you do. See what Scripture says 
 about dreams and their fulfilment (Genesis xl. 8., xli. 
 25 ; Daniel iv. 18-25) ; and take the warning I send 
 you before it is too late. 
 
 " Last night, I dreamed about you. Miss Fairlie. 
 I dreamed that I was standing inside the communion 
 rails of a church : I on one side of the altar-table, and 
 the clergyman, with his surplice and his prayer-book, 
 on the other. 
 
 " After a time, there walked towards us, down the 
 aisle of the church, a man and a woman, coming to be 
 married. You were the woman. You looked so 
 pretty and innocent in your beautiful white silk dress,
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 123 
 
 and your long white lace veil, that my heart felt for 
 you and the tears came into my eyes. 
 
 " They were tears of pity, young lady, that heaven 
 blesses ; and, instead of falling from my eyes like the 
 every-day tears that we all of us shed, they turned 
 into two rays of light which slanted nearer and nearer 
 to the man standing at the altar with you, till they 
 touched his breast. The two rays sprang in arches 
 like two rainbows, between me and him. I looked 
 along them ; and I saw down into his inmost heart. 
 
 " The outside of the man you were marrying was 
 fair enough to see. He was neither tall, nor short — 
 he was a little below the middle size. A light, active, 
 high-spirited man — about five-and forty years old, to 
 look at. He had a pale face, and was bald over the 
 forehead, but had dark hair on the rest of his head. 
 His beard was shaven on his chin, but was let to grow, 
 of a fine rich brown, on his cheeks and his upper lip. 
 His eyes were brown too, and very bright ; his nose 
 straight and handsome and delicate enough to have 
 done for a woman's. His hands the same. He was 
 troubled from time to time with a dry hacking cough ; 
 and when he put up his white right hand to his mouth, 
 he showed the red scar of an old wound across the 
 back of it. Have I dreamt of the right man ? You 
 know best, Miss Fairlie ; and you can say if I was 
 deceived or not. Read, next, what I saw beneath 
 the outside — I entreat you, read, and profit. 
 
 " I looked along the two rays of light ; and I saw 
 
 G 2
 
 124 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 down into his inmost heart. It was black as night ; and 
 on it were written, in the red flaming letters which are 
 the handwriting of the fallen angel : * Without pity 
 and without remorse. He has strewn with misery the 
 paths of others, and he will live to strew with misery 
 the path of this woman by his side.' I read that ; and 
 then the rays of light shifted and pointed over his 
 shoulder ; and there, behind him, stood a fiend, laugh- 
 ing. And the rays of light shifted once more, and 
 pointed over your shoulder; and there, behind you, 
 stood an angel weeping. And the rays of light shifted 
 for the third time, and pointed straight between you 
 and that man. They widened and widened, thrusting 
 you both asunder, one from the other. And the 
 clergyman looked for the marriage-service in vain : 
 it was gone out of the book, and he shut up the leaves, 
 and put it from him in despair. And I woke with my 
 eyes full of tears and my heart beating — for / believe 
 in dreams. 
 
 " Believe, too. Miss Fairlie — I beg of you, for your 
 own sake, believe as I do. Joseph and Daniel, and 
 others in Scripture, believed in dreams. Inquire into 
 the past life of that man with the scar on his hand, 
 before you say the words that make you his miserable 
 wife. I don't give you this warning on my account, 
 but on yours. I have an interest in your well-being 
 that will live as long as I draw breath. Your mother's 
 daughter has a tender place in my heart — for your 
 mother was my first, my best, my only friend."
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 125 
 
 There, the extraordinary letter ended, without 
 signature of any sort. 
 
 The handwriting afforded no prospect of a clue. It 
 was traced on ruled lines, in the cramped, conventional, 
 copybook character, technically termed " small hand." 
 It was feeble and faint, and defaced by blots, but had 
 otherwise nothing to distinguish it. 
 
 " That is not an illiterate letter," said Miss Hal- 
 combe, " and, at the same time, it is surely too inco- 
 herent to be the letter of an educated person in the 
 higher ranks of life. The reference to the bridal 
 dress and veil, and other little expressions, seem to 
 point to it as the production of some woman. What 
 do you think, Mr. Hartright ?" 
 
 " I think so too. It seems to me to be not only the 
 letter of a woman, but of a woman whose mind must 
 be " 
 
 " Deranged ?" suggested Miss Halcombe. " It 
 struck me in that light, too." 
 
 I did not answer. While I was speaking, my eyes 
 rested on the last sentence of the letter : " Your 
 mother's daughter has a tender place in my heart — for 
 your mother was my first, my best, my only friend." 
 Those words and the doubt which had just escaped 
 me as to the sanity of the writer of the letter, acting 
 together on my mind, suggested an idea, which I was 
 literally afraid to express openly, or even to encourage 
 secretly. I began to doubt whether my own faculties 
 were not in danger of losing their balance. It seemed
 
 126 THE WOMAN IN AYHITE. 
 
 almost like a monomania to be tracing back everything 
 strange that happened, everything unexpected that was 
 said, always to the same hidden source and the same 
 sinister influence. I resolved, this time, in defence of 
 my own courage and my own sense, to come to no 
 decision that plain fact did not warrant, and to turn 
 my back resolutely on everything that tempted me in 
 the shape of surmise. 
 
 *' If we have any chance of tracing the person who 
 has written this," I said, returning the letter to 
 Miss Halcombe, " there can be no harm in seizing our 
 opportunity the moment it offers. I think we ought 
 to speak to the gardener again about the elderly 
 woman who gave him the letter, and then to continue 
 our inquiries in the village. But first let me ask a 
 question. You mentioned just now the alternative 
 of consulting Mr. Fairlie's legal adviser to-morrow. 
 Is there no possibility of communicating with him 
 earlier ? Why not to-day ?" 
 
 " T can only explain," replied Miss Halcombe, " by 
 entering into certain particulars, connected with my 
 sister's marriage engagement, which I did not think it 
 necessary or desirable to mention to you this morning. 
 One of Sir Percival Glyde's objects in coming here, on 
 Monday, is to fix the period of his marriage, which has 
 hitherto been left quite unsettled. He is anxious that 
 the event should take place before the end of the year." 
 
 " Does Miss Fairlie know of that wish ?" I asked, 
 eagerly.
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 127 
 
 " She has no suspicion of it ; and, after what has 
 happened, I shall not take the responsibility upon 
 myself of enlightening her. Sir Percival has only 
 mentioned his views to Mr. Fairlie, who has told me 
 himself that he is ready and anxious, as Laura's 
 guardian, to forward them. He has written to 
 London, to the family solicitor, Mr. Gilmore. Mr. 
 Gilmore happens to be away in Glasgow on business ; 
 and he has replied by proposing to stop at Limmeridge 
 House, on his way back to town. He will arrive 
 to-morrow, 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 to-morrow ? 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 anony- 
 mous letter contained. What if those wild accusations 
 rested on a foundation of truth ? What if their truth
 
 JI28 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 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 pro- 
 priety 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. Hart- 
 right, 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 Clyde's name is not men- 
 tioned, I know — but does that description at all re- 
 semble him ?" 
 
 '* Accurately ; even in stating his age to be forty- 
 five—" 
 
 Forty-five ; and she was not yet twenty-one ! Men
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 129 
 
 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 travel- 
 ling 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 
 
 G 3
 
 130 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 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 follow^ed 
 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 tow^ards 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.
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 131 
 
 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 direc- 
 tion in which she was proceeding when they last saw 
 her, these tbree 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 intelHgent man 
 in the place. 
 
 " I am afraid the schoolmaster must have been 
 occupied with his scholars," said Miss Halcombe,,
 
 132 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 "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 worst 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 stand- 
 ing up on the stool there in disgrace. He has been 
 punished, not because he said he saw a ghost last
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 133 
 
 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 school- 
 master, " 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 dis- 
 appearance 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 delibera- 
 tion 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.
 
 134: THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 "We came here to ask you a question, Mr. 
 Dempster," said Miss Halcombe, addressing the 
 schoohnaster ; " and we little expected to find you 
 occupied in exorcising a ghost. What does it all 
 mean ? What has really happened ?" 
 
 " That wicked boy has been frightening the whole 
 school, Miss Halcombe, by declaring that he saw a 
 ghost yesterday evening," answered the master. " And 
 he still persists in his absurd story, in spite of all that 
 I can say to him." 
 
 " Most extraordinary," said Miss Halcombe. " I 
 should not have thought it possible that any of the 
 boys had imagination enough to see a ghost. This is 
 a new accession indeed to the hard labour of forming 
 the youthful mind at Limmeridge — and I heartily wish 
 you well through it, Mr. Dempster. In the mean time, 
 let me explain why you see me here, and what it is I 
 want." 
 
 She then put the same question to the schoolmaster, 
 which we had asked already of almost every one else 
 in the village. It was met by the same discouraging 
 answer. Mr. Dempster had not set eyes on the 
 stranger of whom we were in search. 
 
 " We may as well return to the house, Mr. Hart- 
 right," said Miss Halcombe ; "the information we 
 want is evidently not to be found." 
 
 She had bowed to Mr. Dempster, and was about to 
 leave the schoolroom, when the forlorn position of 
 Jacob Postlethwaite, piteously sniffing on the stool of
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 135 
 
 penitence, attracted her attention as she passed him, 
 and made her stop good-humouredly to speak a word 
 to the little prisoner before she opened the door. 
 
 " You foolish boy," she said, " why don't you beg 
 Mr. Dempster's pardon, and hold your tongue about 
 the ghost?" 
 
 " Eh ! — but I saw t' ghaist," persisted Jacob Postle- 
 thwaite, with a stare of terror and a burst of tears. 
 
 " Stuff and nonsense ! You saw nothing of the kind. 
 Ghost indeed ! What ghost " 
 
 " I beg you pardon. Miss Halcombe," interposed 
 the schoolmaster, a little uneasily—" but I think you 
 had better not question the boy. The obstinate folly 
 of his story is beyond all belief ; and you might lead 
 him into ignorantly " 
 
 " Ignorantly, what ?" inquired Miss Halcombe, 
 sharply. 
 
 "Ignorantly shocking your feelings," said Mr. 
 Dempster, looking very niuch discomposed. 
 
 " Upon my word, Mr. Dempster, you pay my feel- 
 ings a great compliment in thinking them weak enough 
 to be shocked by such an urchin as that !" She turned 
 with an air of satirical defiance to little Jacob, and 
 began to question him directly. " Come !" she said ; 
 " I mean to know all about this. You naughty boy, 
 when did you see the ghost !" 
 
 " Yester'een, at the gloaming," replied Jacob. 
 
 " Oh ! you saw it yesterday evening, in the twilight ? 
 And what was it like ?"
 
 136 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 " Arl in white — as a ghaist should be," answered 
 the ghost-seer, with a confidence beyond his years. 
 
 " And where was it ?" 
 
 '' Away yander, in t' kirkyard — where a ghaist ought 
 to be." 
 
 " As a * ghaist ' should be — where a * ghaist ' ought 
 to be — why, you little fool, you talk as if the manners 
 and customs of ghosts had been familiar to you from 
 your infancy 1 You have got your story at your 
 fingers' end, at any rate. I suppose I shall hear next 
 that you can actually tell me whose ghost it 
 was ?" 
 
 " Eh ! but I just can," replied Jacob, nodding his 
 head with an air of gloomy triumph. 
 
 Mr. Dempster had already tried several times to 
 speak, while Miss Halcombe was examining his pupil ; 
 and he now interposed resolutely enough to make him- 
 self heard. 
 
 "Excuse me, Miss Halcombe," he said, "if I 
 venture to say that you are only encouraging the boy 
 by asking him these questions." 
 
 " I will merely ask one more, Mr. Dempster, and 
 then I shall be quite satisfied. Well," she continued, 
 turning to the boy, " and whose ghost was it?" 
 
 " T' ghaist of Mistress Fairlie," answered Jacob in 
 a whisper. 
 
 The effect which this extraordinary reply produced 
 on Miss Halcombe, fully justified the anxiety which 
 the schoolmaster had shown to prevent her from hear-
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 137 
 
 ing it. Her face crimsoned with indignation — she 
 turned upon little Jacob with an angry suddenness 
 which terrified him into a fresh burst of tears — opened 
 her lips to speak to him — then controlled herself — and 
 addressed the master instead of the boy. 
 
 " It is useless/' she said, " to hold such a child as 
 that responsible for what he says. I have little doubt 
 that the idea has been put into his head by others. If 
 there are people in this village, Mr. Dempster, who 
 have forgotten the respect and gratitude due from 
 every soul in it to my mother's memory, I will find 
 them out ; and, if I have any influence with Mr. 
 Fairlie, they shall suffer for it." 
 
 " I hope — indeed, I am sure, Miss Halcombe — that 
 you are mistaken," said the schoolmaster. "The 
 matter begins and ends with the boy's own perversity 
 and folly. He saw, or thought he saw, a woman in 
 white, yesterday evening, as he was passing the church- 
 yard ; and the figure, real or fancied, was standing by 
 the marble cross, which he and every one else in Lim- 
 meridge knows to be the monument over Mrs. Fairlie's 
 grave. These two circumstances are surely sufficient 
 to have suggested to the boy himself the answer which 
 has so naturally shocked you ?" 
 
 Although Miss Halcombe did not seem to be con- 
 vinced, she evidently felt that the schoolmaster's state- 
 ment of the case was too sensible to be openly com- 
 bated. She merely replied by thanking him for his 
 attention, and by promising to see him again when her
 
 138 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 doubts were satisfied. This said, she bowed, and led 
 the way out of the schooh'oom. 
 
 Throughout the whole of this strange scene, I had 
 stood apart, listening attentively, and drawing my own 
 conclusions. As soon as we were alone again. Miss 
 Halcombe asked me if I had formed any opinion on 
 what I had heard. 
 
 " A very strong opinion," I answered ; " the boy's 
 story, as I believe, has a foundation in fact. I confess 
 T am anxious to see the monument over Mrs. Fairlie's 
 grave, and to examine the ground about it." 
 
 *' You shall see the grave." 
 
 She paused after making that reply, and reflected 
 a little as we walked on. " What has happened in the 
 schoolroom," she resumed, " has so completely dis- 
 tracted my attention from the subject of the letter, that 
 I feel a little bewildered when I try to return to it. 
 Must we give up all idea of making any further in- 
 quiries, and wait to place the thing in Mr. Gilmore's 
 hands, to-morrow?" 
 
 ** By no means. Miss Halcombe. What has hap- 
 pened in the schoolroom encourages me to persevere 
 in the investigation." 
 
 " Why does it encourage you ?" 
 
 " Because it strengthens a suspicion I felt, when you 
 gave me the letter to read." 
 
 " I suppose you had your reasons, Mr. Hartright, 
 for concealing that suspicion from me till this mo- 
 ment ?"
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 139 
 
 '' I was afraid to encourage it in myself. I thought 
 it was utterly preposterous — I distrusted it as the 
 result of some perversity in my own imagination. But 
 I can do so no longer. Not only the boy's own answers 
 to your questions, but even a chance expression that 
 dropped from the schoolmaster's lips in explaining his 
 story, have forced the idea back into ray miiid. Events 
 may yet prove that idea to be a delusion, Miss Hal- 
 combe ; but the belief is strong in me, at this moment, 
 that the fancied ghost in the churchyard, and the 
 writer of the anonymous letter, are one and the same 
 person." 
 
 She stopped, turned pale, and looked me eagerly in 
 the face. 
 
 " What person ?" 
 
 " The schoolmaster unconsciously told you. When 
 he spoke of the figure that the boy saw in the church- 
 yard, he called it * a woman in white.' " 
 
 " Not Anne Catherick !" 
 
 " Yes, Anne Catherick." 
 
 She put her hand through my arm, and leaned on it 
 heavily. 
 
 *' I don't know why," she said, in low tones, " but 
 there is something in this suspicion of yours that seems 
 
 to startle and unnerve me. I feel " She stopped, 
 
 and tried to laugh it off. *' Mr. Hartright," she went 
 on, " I will show you the grave, and then go back at 
 once to the house. I had better not leave Laura too 
 long alone. I had better go back, and sit with her."
 
 140 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 We were close to the churchyard when she spoke. 
 The church, a dreary building of gray stone, was situ- 
 ated in a little valley, so as to be sheltered from the 
 bleak winds blowing over the moorland all round it. 
 The burial-ground advanced, from the side of the 
 church, a little way up the slope of the hill. It was 
 surrounded by a rough, low stone wall, and was bare 
 and open to the sky, except at one extremity, where a 
 brook trickled down the stony hill side, and a clump of 
 dwarf trees threw their narrow shadows over the short, 
 meagre grass. Just beyond the brook and the trees, 
 and not far from one of the three stone stiles which 
 afforded entrance, at various points, to the churchyard, 
 rose the white marble cross that distinguished Mrs. 
 Fairlie's grave from the humbler monuments scattered 
 about it. 
 
 '' I need go no farther with you," said Miss Hal- 
 combe, pointing to the grave. " You will let me know 
 if you find anything to confirm the idea you have just 
 mentioned to me. Let us meet again at the house." 
 
 She left me. I descended at once to the churchyard, 
 and crossed the stile which led directly to Mrs. Fair- 
 lie's grave. 
 
 The grass about it was too short, and the gi^ound 
 too hard, to show any marks of footsteps. Disappointed 
 thus far, I next looked attentively at the cross, and at 
 the square block of marble below it, on which the in- 
 scription was cut. 
 
 The natural whiteness of the cross was a little
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 141 
 
 clouded, here and there, by weather-stains ; and rather 
 more than one half of the square block beneath it, on 
 the side which bore the inscription, was in the same 
 condition. The other half, however, attracted my 
 attention at once by its singular freedom from stain or 
 impurity of any kind. I looked closer, and saw that it 
 had been cleaned — recently cleaned, in a downward di- 
 rection from top to bottom. The boundary line between 
 the part that had been cleaned and the part that had 
 not, was traceable wherever the. inscription left a blank 
 space of marble — sharply traceable as a line that had 
 been produced by artificial means. Who had begun the 
 cleansing of the marble, and who had left it unfinished ? 
 
 I looked about me, wondering how the question was 
 to be solved. No sign of a habitation could be dis- 
 cerned from the point at which 1 was standing : the 
 burial-ground was left in the lonely possession of the 
 dead. I returned to the church, and walked round it 
 till I came to the back of the building ; then crossed 
 the boundary wall beyond, by another of the stone 
 stiles ; and found myself at the head of a path leading 
 down into a deserted stone quarry. Against one side 
 of the quarry a little two room cottage was built ; and 
 just outside the door an old woman was engaged in 
 washing 
 
 I walked up to her, and entered into conversation 
 about the church and burial-ground. She was ready 
 enough to talk ; and almost the first words she said in- 
 formed me that her husband filled the two offices of
 
 142 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 clerk and sexton. I said a few words next in praise of 
 Mrs. Fairlie's monument. The old woman shook her 
 head, and told me I had not seen it at its best. It was 
 her husband's business to look after it ; but he had 
 been so ailing and weak, for months and months past, 
 that he had hardly been able to crawl into church on 
 Sundays to do his duty ; and the monument had been 
 neglected in consequence. He was getting a little 
 better now ; and, in a week or ten days' time, he hoped 
 to be strong enough to set to work and clean it. 
 
 This information — extracted from a long rambling 
 answer, in the broadest Cumberland dialect — told me 
 all that 1 most wanted to know. I gave the poor woman 
 a trifle, and returned at once to Limmeridge House. 
 
 The partial cleansing of the monument had evidently 
 been accomplished by a strange hand. Connecting 
 what I had discovered, thus far, with what I had sus- 
 pected after hearing the story of the ghost seen at 
 twilight, I wanted nothing more to confirm my resolu- 
 tion to watch Mrs. Fairlie's grave, in secret, that even- 
 ing ; returning to it at sunset, and waiting within sight 
 of it till the night fell. The work of cleansing the 
 monument had been left unfinished ; and the person 
 by whom it had been begun might return to complete it. 
 
 On getting back to the house, I informed Miss 
 Halcombe of what I intended to do. She looked sur- 
 prised and uneasy, while I was explaining my purpose ; 
 but she made no positive objection to the execution of 
 it. She only said, " I hope it may end well." Just
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 143 
 
 as she was leaving me again, I stopped her to inquire, 
 as calmly as I could, after Miss Fairlie's health. She 
 was in better spirits ; and Miss Halcorabe hoped she 
 might be induced to take a little walking exercise 
 while the afternoon sun lasted. 
 
 I returned to my own room, to resume setting the 
 drawings in order. It was necessary to do this, and 
 doubly necessary to keep my mind employed on any 
 thing that would help to distract my attention from 
 myself, and from the hopeless future that lay before 
 me. From time to time, I paused in my work to look 
 out of window and watch the sky as the sun sank 
 nearer and nearer to the horizon. On one of those 
 occasions I saw a figure on the broad gravel walk 
 under my window. It was Miss Fairlie. 
 
 I had not seen her since the morning ; and I had 
 hardly spoken to her then. Another day at Limme- 
 ridge was all that remained to me ; and after that day 
 my eyes might never look on her again. This thought 
 was enough to hold me at the window. I had suffi- 
 cient consideration for her, to arrange the blind so that 
 she might not see me if she looked up ; but I had no 
 strength to resist the temptation of letting my eyes, at 
 least, follow her as far as they could on her walk. 
 
 She was dressed in a brown cloak, with a plain black 
 silk gown under it. On her head was the same simple 
 straw hat which she had worn on the morning when we 
 first met. A veil was attached to it now, which hid 
 her face from me. By her side, trotted a little Italian
 
 144 THE WOMAl^ IN WHITE. 
 
 greyhound, the pet companion of all her walks, smartly 
 dressed in a scarlet cloth wrapper, to keep the sharp air 
 from his delicate skin. She did not seem to notice the 
 dog. She walked straight forward, with her head 
 drooping a little, and her arms folded in her cloak. 
 The dead leaves which had whirled in the wind before 
 me, when I had heard of her marriage engagement in 
 the morning, whirled in the wind before her, and rose 
 and fell and scattered themselves at her feet, as she 
 walked on in the pale waning sunlight. The dog 
 shivered and trembled, and pressed against her dress 
 impatiently for notice and encouragement. But she 
 never heeded him. She walked on, farther and farther 
 away from me, with the dead leaves whirling about 
 her on the path — walked on, till my aching eyes 
 could see her no more, and I was left alone again with 
 my own heavy heart. 
 
 In another hour's time, I had done my work, and 
 the sunset was at hand. I got my hat and coat in the 
 hall, and slipped out of the house without meeting 
 any one. 
 
 The clouds were wild in the western heaven, and 
 the wind blew chill from the sea. Far as the shore 
 was, the sound of the surf swept over the intervening 
 moorland, and beat drearily in my ears, when I 
 entered the churchyard. Not a living creature was in 
 sight. The place looked lonelier than ever, as I chose 
 my position, and waited and watched, with my eyes 
 on the white cross that rose over Mrs. Fairlie's grave.
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 145 
 
 XIII, 
 
 The exposed situation of the churchyard had obliged 
 me to be cautious in choosing the position that I was 
 to occupy. 
 
 The main entrance to the church was on the side 
 next to the burial-ground ; and the door was screened 
 by a porch walled in on either side. After some 
 little hesitation, caused by natural reluctance to 
 conceal myself, indispensable as that concealment was 
 to the object in view, I had resolved on entering the 
 porch. A loophole window was pierced in each of its 
 side walls. Through one of these windows I could 
 see Mrs. Fairlie's grave. The other looked towards 
 the stone quarry in which the sexton's cottage was 
 built. Before me, fronting the porch entrance, was a 
 patch of bare burial-ground, a line of low stone wall, 
 and a strip of lonely brown hill, with the sunset clouds 
 sailing heavily over it before the strong, steady wind. 
 No living creature was visible or audible — no bird flew 
 by me ; no dog barked from the sexton's cottage. 
 The pauses in the dull beating of the surf, were filled 
 up by the dreary rustling of the dwarf trees near the 
 VOL. I. H
 
 146 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 grave, and the cold faint bubble of the brook over 
 its stony bed. A dreary scene and a dreary hour. 
 My spirits sank fast at I counted out the minutes of 
 the evening in my hiding-place under the church 
 porch. 
 
 It was not twilight yet — the light of the setting sun 
 still lingered in the heavens, and little more than the 
 first half-hour of my solitary watch had elapsed — when 
 I heard footsteps, and a voice. The footsteps were 
 approaching from the other side of the church ; and 
 the voice was a woman's. 
 
 " Don't you fret, my dear, about the letter," said 
 the voice. " I gave it to the lad quite safe, and the 
 lad he took it from me without a word. He went his 
 way and I went mine ; and not a living soul followed 
 me, afterwards — that I'll warrant." 
 
 These words strung up my attention to a pitch of 
 expectation that was almost painful. There was 
 a pause of silence, but the footsteps still advanced. 
 In another moment, two persons, both women, passed 
 within my range of view from the porch window. 
 They were walking straight towards the grave ; and 
 therefore they had their backs turned towards me. 
 
 One of the women was dressed in a bonnet and 
 shawl. 1'he other wore a long travelling-cloak of a 
 dark blue colour, with the hood drawn over her head. 
 A few inches of her gown were visible below the cloak. 
 My heart beat fast as I noted the colour — it was 
 white.
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 147 
 
 After advancing about half-way between the church 
 and the grave, they stopped; and the woman in the 
 cloak turned her head towards her companion. But 
 her side face, which a bonnet might now have allowed 
 me to see, was hidden by the heavy, projecting edge 
 of the hood. 
 
 " Mind you keep that comfortable warm cloak on," 
 said the same voice which I had already heard — the 
 voice of the woman in the shawl. ^' Mrs. Todd is 
 right about your looking too particular, yesterday, all 
 in white. I'll walk about a little, while you're here ; 
 churchyards being not at all in my way, whatever they 
 may be in yours. Finish what you want to do, before 
 I come back ; and let us be sure and get home again 
 before night." 
 
 With those words, she turned about, and retracing 
 her steps, advanced with her face towards me. It was 
 the face of an elderly woman, brown, rugged, and 
 healthy, with nothing dishonest or suspicious in the 
 look of it. Close to the church, she stopped to pull 
 her shawl closer round her. 
 
 " Queer," she said to herself, "always queer, with 
 her whims and her ways, ever since I can remember 
 her. Harmless, though — as harmless, poor soul, as a 
 little child." 
 
 She sighed ; looked about the burial-ground ner- 
 vously ; shook her head as if the dreary prospect by 
 no means pleased her ; and disappeared round the 
 corner of the church. 
 
 H 2
 
 148 THE ^VOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 I doubted for a moment whether I ought to follow 
 and speak to her, or not. My intense anxiety to find 
 myself face to face with her companion helped me to 
 decide in the negative. I could ensure seeing the 
 v.oman in the shawl by waiting near the churchyard 
 until she came back — although it seemed more than 
 doubtful whether she could give me the information of 
 which I was in search. The person who had delivered 
 the letter was of little consequence. The person who 
 had written it was the one centre of interest, and the 
 one source of information ; and that person I now felt 
 convinced was before me in the churchyard. 
 
 While these ideas were passing through my mind, 
 I saw the w^oman in the cloak approach close to the 
 grave, and stand looking at it for a little while. She 
 then glanced all round her, and, taking a white linen 
 cloth or handkerchief from under her cloak, turned 
 aside towards the brook. The little stream ran into 
 the churchyard under a tiny archway in the bottom of 
 the wall, and ran out again, after a winding course of 
 a few dozen yards, under a similar opening. She 
 dipped the cloth in the water, and returned to the 
 grave. I saw her kiss the white cross ; then kneel 
 down before the inscription, and apply her wet cloth to 
 the cleansing of it. 
 
 After considering how I could show myself with the 
 least possible chance of frightening her, I resolved to 
 c TOSS the wall before me, to skirt round it outside, and 
 to enter the churchyard again by the stile near the
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 149 
 
 grave, in order that she might see me as I approached. 
 She was so absorbed over her employment that she 
 did not hear me coming until I had stepped over the 
 stile. Then, she looked up, started to her feet with 
 a faint cry, and stood facing me in speechless and 
 motionless terror. 
 
 " Don't be frightened," I said. " Surely, you re- 
 member me ?" 
 
 I stopped while I spoke — then advanced a few steps 
 gently — then stopped again — and so approached by 
 little and little, till I was close to her. If there had 
 been any doubt still left in my mind, it must have 
 been now set at rest. There, speaking affrightedly 
 for itself— there was the same face confronting me 
 over Mrs. Fairlie's grave, which had first looked 
 into mine on the high-road by night. 
 
 " You remember me ?" T said. " We met very 
 late, and I helped you to find the way to London. 
 Surely you have not forgotten that ?" 
 
 Her features relaxed, and she drew a heavy breath 
 of relief. I saw the new life of recognition stirring 
 slowly under the deathlike stillness which fear had set 
 on her face. 
 
 " Don't attempt to speak to me, just yet," I went 
 on. "Take time to recover yourself — take time to 
 feel quite certain that I am a friend." 
 
 " You are very kind to me," she murmured. " As 
 kind now, as you were then." 
 
 She stopped, and I kept silence on my side. I was
 
 150 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 rxot granting time for composure to her only, I was 
 gaining time also for myself. Under the wan, wild 
 evening light, that woman and I were met together 
 again ; a grave between us, the dead about us, the 
 onesome hills closing us round on every side. The 
 time, the place, the circumstances under which we 
 now stood face to face in the evening stillness of that 
 dreary valley ; the life-long interests which might 
 hang suspended on the next chance words that passed 
 between us ; the sense that, for aught I knew to the 
 contrary, the whole future of Laura Fairlie's life 
 might be determined, for good or for evil, by my win- 
 ning or losing the confidence of the forlorn creature 
 who stood trembling by her mother's grave — all 
 threatened to shake the steadiness and the self-control 
 on which every inch of the progress I might yet make 
 now depended. I tried hard, as I felt this, to possess 
 myself of all my resources ; I did my utmost to turn 
 the few moments for reflection to the best account. 
 
 " Are you calmer, now ?" I said, as soon as I 
 thought it time to speak again. " Can you talk to 
 me, without feeling frightened, and without forgetting 
 that I am a friend ?" 
 
 " How did you come here ?" she asked, without 
 noticing what I had just said to her. 
 
 " Don't you remember my telling you, when we 
 last met, that I was going to Cumberland ? I have 
 been in Cumberland ever since ; I have been staying 
 all the time at Limmeridge House."
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 151 
 
 " At Limmeridge House !" Her pale face brightened 
 as she repeated the words ; her wandering eyes fixed 
 on me with a sudden interest. " Ah, how happy you 
 must have been !" she said, looking at me eagerly, 
 without a shadow of its former distrust left in her 
 expression. 
 
 I took advantage of her newly-aroused confidence in 
 me, to observe her face, with an attention and a 
 curiosity which I had hitherto restrained myself from 
 showing, for caution's sake. I looked at her, with my 
 mind full of that other lovely face which had so omi- 
 nously recalled her to my memory on the terrace by 
 moonlight. I had seen Anne Catherick's likeness in 
 Miss Fairlie. I now saw Miss Fairlie's likeness in 
 Anne Catherick — saw it all the more clearly because 
 the points of dissimilarity between the two were pre- 
 sented to me as well as the points of resemblance. 
 In the general outline of the countenance and general 
 proportion of the features ; in the colour of the hair 
 and in the little nervous uncertainty about the lips ; 
 in the height and size of the figure, and the carriage 
 of the head and body, the .likeness appeared even 
 more startling than I had ever felt it to be yet. But 
 there the resemblance ended, and the dissimilarity, 
 in details began. The delicate beauty of Miss Fair- 
 lie's complexion, the transparent clearness of her eyes, 
 the smooth purity of her skin, the tender bloom of 
 colour on her lips, were all missing from the worn, 
 weary face that was now turned towards mine. Al-
 
 152' THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 though I hated myself even for thinking such a thing, 
 still, while I looked at the woman before me, the idea 
 would force itself into my mind that one sad change, 
 in the future, was all that was wanting to make the 
 likeness complete, which I now saw to be so imperfect 
 in detail. If ever "sorrow and suffering set their pro- 
 faning marks on the youth and beauty of Miss Fairlie's 
 face, then, and then only, Anne Catherick and she 
 would be the twin-sisters of chance resemblance, the 
 living reflexions of one another. 
 
 I shuddered at the thought. There was something 
 horrible in the blind, unreasoning distrust of the 
 future which the mere passage of it through my mind 
 seemed to imply. It was a welcome interruption to 
 be roused by feeling Anne Catherick's hand laid on 
 my shoulder. The touch was as stealthy and as 
 sudden as that other touch, which had petrified me 
 from head to foot on the night when we first met. 
 
 "You are looking at me; and you are thinking of 
 something," she said, with her strange, breathless 
 rapidity of utterance. " What is it ?" 
 
 " Nothing extraordinary," 1 answered. ** I was 
 only wondering how you came here." 
 
 " I came with a friend who is very good to me. I 
 have only been here two days." 
 
 " And you found your way to this place yester- 
 day ?" 
 
 " How do you know that ?" 
 
 " I only guessed it."
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITH. 153 
 
 She turned from me, and knelt down before the 
 inscription once more. 
 
 " Where should I go, if not here ?" she said. '* The 
 friend who was better than a mother to me, is the only 
 friend I have to visit at Limmeridge. Oh, it makes 
 my heart ache to see a stain on her tomb ! It ought 
 to be kept white as snow, for her sake. I was tempted 
 to begin cleaning it yesterday; and I can't help 
 coming back to go on wdth it to-day. Is there any- 
 thing wrong in that ? I hope not. Surely nothing 
 can be wrong that I do for Mrs. Fairlie's sake ?" 
 
 The old grateful sense of her benefactress's kindness 
 was evidently the ruling idea still in the poor creature' s 
 mind — the narrow mind which had but too plainly 
 opened to no other lasting impression since that first 
 impression of her younger and happier days. I saw 
 that my best chance of winning her confidence lay in 
 encouraging her to proceed with the artless employ- 
 ment which she had come into the burial-ground to 
 pursue. She resumed it at once, on my telling her 
 she might do so ; touching the hard marble as tenderly 
 as if it had been a sentient thing, and whispering the 
 words of the inscription to herself, over and over again, 
 as if the lost days of her girlhood had returned and 
 she was patiently learning her lesson once more at 
 Mrs. Fairlie's knees. 
 
 " Should you wonder very much," I said, preparing 
 the way as cautiously as I could for the questions that 
 were to come, " if I owned that it is a satisfaction tt) 
 
 H 3
 
 154 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 me, as well as a surprise, to see you here ? I felt 
 very uneasy about you after you left me in the cab." 
 
 She looked up quickly and suspiciously. 
 
 '' Uneasy," she repeated. " Why ?" 
 
 "A strange thing happened, after we parted, that 
 night. Two men overtook me in a chaise. They did 
 not see where I was standing ; but they stopped near 
 me, and spoke to a policeman, on the other side of the 
 way." 
 
 She instantly suspended her employment. The 
 hand holding the damp cloth with which she had been 
 cleaning the inscription, dropped to her side. The 
 other hand grasped the marble cross at the head of 
 the grave. Her face turned towards me slowly, with 
 the blank look of terror set rigidly on it once more. I 
 went on at all hazards ; it was too late now to draw 
 back. 
 
 " The two men spoke to the policeman," I said, 
 "and asked him if he had seen you. He had not seen 
 you ; and then one of the men spoke again, and said 
 you had escaped from his Asylum." 
 
 She sprang to her feet, as if my last words had set 
 the pursuers on her track. 
 
 " Stop ! and hear the end," I cried. " Stop ! and 
 you shall know how I befriended you. A word from 
 me would have told the men which way you had gone 
 — and I never spoke that word. I helped your escape 
 — I made it safe and certain. Think, try to think. 
 Try to understand what I tell you."
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 155 
 
 My manner seemed to influence her more than my 
 words. She made an effort to grasp the new idea. 
 Her hands shifted the damp cloth hesitatingly from 
 one to the other, exactly as they had shifted the little 
 travelling-bag on the night when I first saw her. 
 Slowly the purpose of my words seemed to force its 
 way through the confusion and agitation of her mind. 
 Slowly, her features relaxed, and her eyes looked at 
 me with their expression gaining in curiosity what it 
 was fast losing in fear. 
 
 " You don't think I ought to be back in the Asylum, 
 do you ?" she said. 
 
 " Certainly not. I am glad you escaped from it ; I 
 am glad I helped you." 
 
 " Yes, yes ; you did help me indeed ; you helped me 
 at the hard part," she went on, a little vacantly. " It 
 was easy to escape, or I should not have got away. 
 They never suspected me as they suspected the others. 
 I was so quiet, and so obedient, and so easily 
 frightened. The finding London was the hard part ; 
 and there you helped me. Did I thank you at the 
 time ? I thank you now, very kindly." 
 
 " Was the Asylum far from where you met me ? 
 Come 1 show that you believe me to be your friend, 
 and tell me where it was." 
 
 She mentioned the place— a private Asylum, as its 
 situation informed me ; a private Asylum not very far 
 from the spot where I had seen her — and then, with 
 evident suspicion of the use to which I might put her
 
 156 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 answer, anxiously repeated her former inquiry : " You 
 don't think I ought to be taken back, do you ?" 
 
 '' Once again, I ani glad you escaped ; I am glad 
 you prospered well, after you left me," I answered. 
 '* You said you had a friend in London to go to. Did 
 you find the friend ?" 
 
 " Yes. It was very late ; but there was a girl up 
 at needlework in the house, and she helped me to 
 rouse Mrs. Clements. Mrs. Clements is my friend. A 
 good, kind woman, but not like Mrs. Fairlie. Ah, no, 
 nobody is like Mrs. Fairlie !'^ 
 
 " Is Mrs. Clements an old friend of yours ? Have 
 you known her a long time ?" 
 
 " Yes; she was a neighbour of ours once, at home, 
 in Hampshire ; and liked me, and took care of me 
 when I was a little girl. Years ago, when she went 
 away from us, she wrote down in my prayer-book for 
 me, where she was going to live in London, and she 
 said, ' If you are ever in trouble, Anne, come to me. 
 I have no husband alive to say me nay, and no children 
 to look after ; and I will take care of you.' Kind 
 words, were they not? I suppose I remember them 
 because they were kind. It's little enough I remember 
 besides — little enough, little enough !" 
 
 " Had you no father or mother to take care of you ?" 
 
 " Father? I never saw him ; I never heard mother 
 speak of him. Father ? Ah, dear ! he is dead I 
 suppose." 
 
 " And your mother ?"
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 157 
 
 " I don't get on well with her. We are a trouble 
 and a fear to each other." 
 
 A trouble and a fear to each other ! At those 
 words, the suspicion crossed my mind for the first time, 
 that her mother might be the person who had placed 
 her under restraint. 
 
 " Don't ask me about mother," she went on. " I'd 
 rather talk of Mrs. Clements. Mrs. Clements is like 
 you, she doesn't think that I ought to be back in the 
 Asylum ; and she is as glad as you are that I escaped 
 from it. She cried over my misfortune, and said it 
 must be kept secret from everybody." 
 
 Her "misfortune." In what sense was she using 
 that word ? In a sense which might explain her 
 motive in writing the anonymous letter ? In a sense 
 which might show it to be the too common and too 
 customary motive that has led many a woman to inter- 
 pose anonymous hindrances to the marriage of the man 
 who has ruined her? I resolved to attempt the clear- 
 ing up of this doubt, before more words passed between 
 us on either side. 
 
 " What misfortune ?" I asked. 
 
 "The misfortune of my being shut up," she 
 answered, with every appearance of feeling surprised at 
 my question. " What other misfortune could there be ?" 
 
 I determined to persist, as delicately and forbear- 
 ingly as possible. It was of very great importance 
 that I should be absolutely sure of every step in the 
 investigation that I now gained in advance.
 
 158 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 " There is another misfortune," I said, " to which 
 a woman may be liable, and by which she may suffer 
 life-long sorrow and shame." 
 
 " What is it ?" she asked, eagerly. 
 
 "The misfortune of believing too innocently in her 
 own virtue, and in the faith and honoui* of the man she 
 loves," I answered. 
 
 She looked up at me, with the artless bewilderment 
 of a child. Not the slightest confusion or change of 
 colour ; not the faintest trace of any secret conscious- 
 ness of shame struggling to the surface, appeared in 
 her face — that face which betrayed every other emotion 
 with such transparent clearness. No words that ever 
 were spoken could have assured me, as her look and 
 manner now assured me, that the motive which I had 
 assigned for her writing the letter and sending it to 
 Miss Fairlie was plainly and distinctly the wrong one. 
 That doubt, at any rate, was now set at rest ; but the 
 very removal of it opened a new prospect of uncertainty. 
 The letter, as I knew from positive testimony, pointed 
 at Sir Percival Glyde, though it did not name him. 
 She must have had some strong motive, originating in 
 some deep sense of injury, for secretly denouncing him 
 to Miss Fairlie, in such terms as she had employed — 
 and that motive was unquestionably not to be traced 
 to the loss of her innocence and her character. What- 
 ever wrong he might have inflicted on her was not of 
 that nature. Of what nature could it be ? 
 
 '' I don't understand you,'' she said, after evidently
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 159 
 
 trying hard, and trying in vain to discover the meaning 
 of the words I had last said to her. 
 
 "Never mind," I answered. "Let us go on with 
 what we were talking about. Tell me how long you 
 stayed with Mrs. Clements in London, and how you 
 came here." 
 
 " How long ?" she repeated, " I stayed with Mrs. 
 
 Clements till we both came to this place, two days ago." 
 
 " You are living in the village, then ?" I said. " It 
 
 is strange I should not have heard of you, though you 
 
 have only been there two days." 
 
 " No, no ; not in the village. Three miles away at 
 a farm. Do you know the farm ? They call it Todd's 
 Corner." 
 
 I remembered the place perfectly; we had often 
 passed by it in our drives. It was one of the oldest 
 farms in the neighbourhood, situated in a solitary, 
 sheltered spot, inland at the junction of two hills. 
 
 "They are relations of Mrs. Clements at Todd's 
 Corner," she went on, " and they had often asked her 
 to go and see them. She said she would go, and take 
 me with her, for the quiet and the fresh air. It was 
 very kind, was it not ? I would have gone anywhere 
 to be quiet, and safe, and out of the way. But when 
 1 heard that Todd's Corner was near Limmeridge — 
 oh ! I was so happy I would have walked all the way 
 barefoot to get there, and see the schools and the village 
 and Limmeridge House again. They are very good 
 people at Todd's Corner. I hope I shall stay there a
 
 160 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 long time. There is only one thing I don't like about 
 them, and don't like about Mrs. Clements " 
 
 *' What is it ?" 
 
 " They will tease me about dressing all in white — 
 they say it looks so particular. How do they know ? 
 Mrs. Fairlie knew best. Mrs. Fairlie would never 
 have made me wear this ugly blue cloak. Ah ! she 
 was fond of white in her lifetime ; and here is white 
 stone about her grave — and I am making it whiter for 
 her sake. She often wore white herself; and she 
 always dressed her little daughter in white. Is Miss 
 Fairlie well and happy? Does she wear white now, as 
 she used when she was a girl ?" 
 
 Her voice sank when she put the questions about 
 Miss Fairlie ; and she turned her head farther and 
 farther away from me. I thought I detected, in the 
 alteration of her manner, an uneasy consciousness of 
 the risk she had run in sending the anonymous letter ; 
 and I instantly determined so to frame my answer as 
 to surprise her into owning it. 
 
 " Miss Fairlie is not very well or very happy this 
 morning," I said. 
 
 She murmured a few words ; but they were spoken 
 so confusedly, and in such a low tone, that I could not 
 even guess at what they meant. 
 
 '* Did you ask me why Miss Fairlie was neither 
 well nor happy this morning ?" I continued. 
 
 " No," she said, quickly and eagerly — " oh, no, I 
 never asked that." .
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 161 
 
 " I will tell you without your asking," I went on. 
 " Miss Fairlie has received your letter." 
 
 She had been down on her knees for some little time 
 past, carefully removing the last weather-stains left 
 about the inscription while we were speaking together. 
 The first sentence of the words I had just addressed to 
 her made her pause in her occupation, and turn slowly 
 without rising from her knees, so as to face me. The 
 second sentence literally petrified her. The cloth 
 she had been holding dropped from her hands ; hei* 
 lips fell apart ; all the little colour that there was 
 naturally in her face left it in an instant. 
 
 " How do you know ?" she said, faintly. " Who 
 showed it to you?" The blood rushed back into her 
 face — rushed overwhelmingly, as the sense rushed 
 upon her mind that her own words had betrayed her. 
 She struck her hands together in despair. " I never 
 wrote it," she gasped, affrightedly ; " I know nothing 
 about it !" 
 
 "Yes," 1 said, "you wrote it, and you know about 
 it. It was wrong to send such a letter ; it was wrong 
 to frighten Miss Fairlie. If you had anything to say 
 that it was right and necessary for her to hear, you 
 should have gone yourself to Limmeridge House ; 
 you should have spoken to the young lady with your 
 own lips." 
 
 She crouched down over the flat stone of the grave, 
 till her face was hidden on it ; and made no reply. 
 
 ^* Miss Fairlie will be as good and kind to you as
 
 162 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 her mother was, if you mean well," I went on. " Miss 
 Fairlie will keep your secret, and not let you come to 
 any harm. Will you see her to-morrow at the farm ? 
 Will you meet her in the garden at Limmeridge 
 House?" 
 
 " Oh, if I could die, and be hidden and at rest with 
 youT Her lips murmured the words close on the 
 grave-stone : murmured them in tones of passionate 
 endearment, to the dead remains beneath. " You 
 know how I love your child, for your sake ! Oh, Mrs. 
 Fairlie ! Mrs. Fairlie ! tell me how to save her. Be 
 my darling and my mother once more, and tell me 
 what to do for the best." 
 
 I heard her lips kissing the stone : I saw her hands 
 beating on it passionately. The sound and the sight 
 deeply affected me. I stooped down, and took the 
 poor helpless hands tenderly in mine, and tried to 
 soothe her. 
 
 It was useless. She snatched her hands from me, 
 and never moved her face from the stone. Seeing the 
 urgent necessity of quieting her at any hazard and by 
 any means, I appealed to the only anxiety that she 
 appeared to feel, in connexion with me and with my 
 opinion of her — the anxiety to convince me of her fit- 
 ness to be mistress of her own actions. 
 
 " Come, come," I said, gently. " Try to compose 
 yourself, or you will make me alter my opinion of you. 
 Don't let me think that the person who put you in the 
 Asylum, might have had some excuse— — "
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 163 
 
 The next words died away on my lips. The instant 
 I risked that chance reference to the person who had 
 put her in the Asylum, she sprang up on her knees. 
 A most extraordinary and startling change passed over 
 her. Her face, at all ordinary times so touching to 
 look at, in its nervous sensitiveness, weakness, and un- 
 certainty, became suddenly darkened by an expression 
 of maniacally intense hatred and fear, which communi- 
 cated a wild, unnatural force to every feature. Her 
 eyes dilated in the dim evening light, like the eyes of 
 a wild animal. She caught up the cloth that had 
 fallen at her side, as if it had been a living creature 
 that she could kill, and crushed it in both her hands 
 with such convulsive strength that the few drops of 
 moisture left in it trickled down on the stone beneath 
 her. 
 
 "Talk of something else," she said, whispering 
 through her teeth. " I shall lose myself if you talk of 
 that." 
 
 Every vestige of the gentler thoughts which had 
 filled her mind hardly a minute since seemed to be swept 
 from it now. It was evident that the impression left 
 by Mrs. Fairlie's kindness was not, as I had supposed, 
 the only strong impression on her memory. With the 
 grateful remembrance of her school-days at Lim- 
 meridge, there existed the vindictive remembrance of 
 the wrong inflicted on her by her confinement in the 
 Asylum. Who had done that wrong ? Could it really 
 be her mother
 
 164 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 It was hard to give up pursuing the inquiry to that 
 final point ; but I forced myself to abandon all idea 
 of continuing it. Seeing her as I saw her now, it 
 would have been cruel to think of anything but the 
 necessity and the humanity of restoring her com- 
 posure. 
 
 " I will talk of nothing to distress you," I said, 
 soothingly. 
 
 " You want something," she answered, sharply and 
 suspiciously. " Don't look at me like that. Speak to 
 me ; tell me what you want." 
 
 " I only want you to quiet yourself, and, when you 
 are calmer, to think over what I have said." 
 
 " Said ?" She paused ; twisted the cloth in her 
 hands, backwards and forwards ; and whispered to 
 herself, " What is it he said ?" She turned again 
 towards me, and shook her head impatiently. " Why 
 don't you help me?" she asked, with angry sudden- 
 ness. 
 
 " Yes, yes," I said ; " I will help you ; and you 
 will soon remember. I asked you to see Miss 
 Fairlie to-morrow, and to tell her the truth about 
 the letter." 
 
 " Ah ! Miss Fairlie — Fairlie — Fairlie " 
 
 The mere utterance of the loved, familiar name 
 seemed to quiet her. Her face softened and grew like 
 itself again. 
 
 " You need have no fear of Miss Fairlie," I con- 
 tinued ; " and no fear of getting into trouble through
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 165 
 
 the letter. She knows so much about it already, that 
 you will have no difficulty in telling her all. There 
 can be little necessity for concealment where there is 
 hardly anything left to conceal. You mention no 
 names in the letter ; but Miss Fairlie knows that the 
 person you write of is Sir Percival Glyde " 
 
 The instant I pronounced that name she started to 
 her feet; and a scream burst from her that rang 
 through the churchyard and made my heart leap 
 in me with the terror of it. The dark deformity of 
 the expression which had just left her face, lowered on 
 it once more, with doubled and trebled intensity. The 
 shriek at the name, the reiterated look of hatred and 
 fear that instantly followed, told all. Not even a last 
 doubt now remained. Her mother was guiltless of 
 imprisoning her in the Asylum. A man had shut her 
 up — and that man was Sir Percival Glyde. 
 
 The scream had reached other ears than mine. On 
 one side, I heard the door of the sexton's cottage 
 open; on the other, I heard the voice of her com- 
 panion, the woman in the shawl, the woman whom she 
 had spoken of as Mrs. Clements. 
 
 "I'm coming! I'm coming!" cried the voice, from 
 behind the clump of dwarf trees. 
 
 In a moment more, Mrs. Clements hurried into 
 view. 
 
 " Who are you ?" she cried, facing me resolutely, 
 as she set her foot on the stile. " How dare you 
 frighten a poor helpless woman like that ?"
 
 166 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 She was at Anne Catherick's side, and had put one 
 arm around her, before I could answer. " What is 
 it, my dear ?" she said. " What has he done to 
 
 you?" 
 
 " Nothing," the poor creature answered. *' Nothing. 
 I'm only frightened." 
 
 Mrs. Clements turned on me with a fearless indig- 
 nation, for which I respected her. 
 
 *' I should be heartily ashamed of myself if I de- 
 served that angry look," I said. "But I do not 
 deserve it. 1 have unfortunately startled her, without 
 intending it. This is not the first time she has seen 
 me. Ask her yourself, and she will tell you that I am 
 incapable of willingly harming her or any woman." 
 
 I spoke distinctly, so that Anne Catherick might 
 hear and understand me : and I saw that the words 
 and their meaning had reached her. 
 
 " Yes, yes," she said; "he was good to me once; 
 
 he helped me " She whispered the rest into her 
 
 friend's ear. 
 
 " Strange, indeed !" said Mrs. Clements, with a look 
 of perplexity. *' It makes all the difference, though. 
 I'm sorry I spoke so rough to you, sir; but you must 
 own that appearances looked suspicious to a stranger. 
 It's more my fault than yours, for humouring her 
 whims, and letting her be alone in such a place as this. 
 Come, my dear — come home now." 
 
 I thought the good woman looked a little uneasy at 
 the prospect of the walk back, and I offered to go
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 167 
 
 with them until they were both within sight of home. 
 Mrs. Clements thanked me civilly, and declined. She 
 said they were sure to meet some of the farm-labourers, 
 as soon as they got to the moor. 
 
 "Try to forgive me," I said, when Anne Catherick 
 took her friend's arm to go away. Innocent as I had 
 been of any intention to terrify and agitate her, my 
 heart smote me as I looked at the poor, pale, fright- 
 ened face. 
 
 " I will try," she answered. " Bat you know too 
 much ; I'm afraid you'll always frighten me now." 
 
 Mrs. Clements glanced at me, and shook her head 
 pityingly. 
 
 ''- Good night, sir," she said. " You couldn't help 
 it, I know ; but I wish it was me you had frightened, 
 and not her." 
 
 They moved away a few steps. I thought they had 
 left me ; but Anne suddenly stopped, and separated 
 herself from her friend. 
 
 " Wait a little," she said. " I must say good-by." 
 
 She returned to the grave, rested both hands ten 
 derly on the marble cross, and kissed it. 
 
 "Pm better now," she sighed, looking up at me 
 quietly. " I forgive you." 
 
 She joined her companion again, and they left the 
 burial-ground. I saw them stop near the church, and 
 speak to the sexton's wife, who had come from the cot- 
 tage, and had waited, watching us from a distance.
 
 168 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 Then they went on again up the path that led to the 
 moor. I looked after Anne Catherick as she disap- 
 peared, till all trace of her had faded in the twilight — 
 looked as anxiously and sorrowfully as if that was the 
 last I was to see in this weary world of the woman in 
 white.
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 169 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Half an hour later, I was back at the house, and 
 was informing Miss Halcombe of all that had hap- 
 pened. 
 
 She listened to me from beginning to end, with 
 a steady, silent attention, which, in a woman of her 
 temperament and disposition, was the strongest proof 
 that could be offered of the serious manner in which 
 my narrative affected her. 
 
 **My mind misgives me," was all she said when 
 I had done. " My mind misgives me sadly about the 
 future/' 
 
 "The future may depend," I suggested, "on the 
 use we make of the present. It is not improbable that 
 Anne Catherick may speak more readily and un- 
 reservedly to a woman than she has spoken to me. 
 If Miss Fairlie " 
 
 " Not to be thought of for a moment," interposed 
 Miss Halcombe, in her most decided manner. 
 
 " Let me suggest, then," I continued, " that you 
 should see Anne Catherick yourself, and do all you 
 can to win her confidence. For my own part, I shrink 
 
 VOL. L I
 
 170 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 from the idea of alarming the poor creature a second 
 time, as I have most unhappily alarmed her already. 
 Do you see any objection to accompanying me to the 
 farm-house to-morrow ?" 
 
 *'None whatever. I will go anywhere and do 
 anything to serve Laura's interests. What did you 
 say the place was called ?" 
 
 *' You must know it well. It is called Todd's 
 Corner." 
 
 " Certainly. Todd's Corner is one of Mr. Fairlie's 
 farms. Our dairy-maid here is the farmer's second 
 daughter. She goes backwards and forwards con- 
 stantly, between this house and her father's farm ; 
 and she may have heard or seen something which it 
 may be useful to us to know. Shall I ascertain, at 
 once, if the girl is down stairs ?" 
 
 She rang the bell, and sent the servant with his 
 message. He returned, and announced that the 
 dairy-maid was then at the farm. She had not been 
 there for the last three days ; and the housekeeper 
 had given her leave to go home, for an hour or two, 
 that evening. 
 
 "I can speak to her to-morrow," said Miss Hal- 
 combe, when the servant had left the room again. 
 " In the mean time, let me thoroughly understand the 
 object to be gained by my interview with Anne 
 Catherick. Is there no doubt in your own mind that 
 the person who confined her in the Asylum was Sir 
 PercivalGlyde?"
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 171 
 
 ** There is not the shadow of a doubt. The only 
 mystery that remains, is the mystery of his motive. 
 Looking to the great difference between his station 
 in life and hers, which seems to preclude all idea of 
 the most distant relationship between them, it is of the 
 last importance — even assuming that she really re- 
 quired to be placed under restraint — to know why he 
 should have been the person to assume the serious 
 responsibility of shutting her up " 
 
 " In a private Asylum, I think you said ?" 
 
 " Yes, in a private Asylum, where a sum of money 
 which no poor person could afford to give, must have 
 been paid for her maintenance as a patient." 
 
 " I see where the doubt lies, Mr. Hartright ; and 
 I promise you that it shall be set at rest, whether 
 Anne Catherick assists us to-morrow or not. Sir 
 Percival Glyde shall not be long in this house without 
 satisfying Mr. Gilmore, and satisfying me. My sister's 
 future is my dearest care in life ; and I have influence 
 enough over her to give me some power, where her 
 marriage is concerned, in the disposal of it." 
 
 We parted for the night. 
 
 After breakfast, the next morning, an obstacle, 
 which the events of the evening before had put out 
 of my memory, interposed to prevent our proceeding 
 immediately to the farm. This was my last day at 
 Limmeridge House ; and it was necessary, as soon as 
 the post came in, to follow Miss Halcombe's advice, 
 
 I 2
 
 172 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 and to ask Mr. Fairlie's permission to shorten my 
 engagement by a month, in consideration of an unfore- 
 seen necessity for my return to London. 
 
 Fortunately for the probability of this excuse, so far 
 as appearances were concerned, the post brought me 
 two letters from London friends, that morning. I 
 took them away at once to my own room ; and sent 
 the servant with a message to Mr. Fairlie, requesting 
 to know when I could see him on a matter of business. 
 
 I awaited the man's return, free from the slightest 
 feeling of anxiety about the manner in which his 
 master might receive my application. With Mr. 
 Fairlie's leave or without it, I must go. The con- 
 sciousness of having now taken the first step on the 
 dreary journey which was henceforth to separate my 
 life from Miss Fairlie's seemed to have blunted my 
 sensibility to every consideration connected with my- 
 self. I had done with my poor man's touchy pride ; 
 I had done with all my little artist vanities. No 
 insolence of Mr. Fairlie's, if he chose to be insolent, 
 could wound me now. 
 
 The servant returned with a message for which 
 I was not unprepared. Mr. Fairlie regretted that the 
 state of his health, on that particular morning, was 
 auch as to preclude all hope of his having the pleasure 
 ot receiving me. He begged, therefore, that I would 
 accept his apologies, and kindly communicate what 
 I had to say, in the form of a letter. Similar messages 
 to this, held reached me, at various intervals, during
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 173 
 
 my three months' residence in the house. Throughout 
 the whole of that period, Mr. Fairlie had been 
 rejoiced to '* possess" me, but had never been well 
 enough to see me for a second time. The servant 
 took every fresh batch of drawings, that I mounted 
 and restored, back to his master, with my " respects ;" 
 and returned empty-handed with Mr. Fairlie's " kind 
 compliments," "best thanks," and "sincere regrets" 
 that the state of his health still obliged him to remain 
 a solitary prisoner in his own room. A more satis- 
 factory arrangement to both sides could not possibly 
 have been adopted. It would be hard to say which 
 of us, under the circumstances, felt the most grateful 
 sense of obligation to Mr. Fairlie's accommodating 
 nerves. 
 
 I sat down at once to write the letter, expressing 
 myself in it as civilly, as clearly, and as briefly as 
 possible. Mr. Fairlie did not hurry his reply. Nearly 
 an hour elapsed before the answer was placed in my 
 hands. It was written with beautiful regularity and 
 neatness of character, in violet-coloured ink, on note- 
 paper as smooth as ivory and almost as thick as card- 
 board ; and it addressed me in these terms : — 
 
 ** Mr. Fairlie's compliments to Mr. Hartright. Mr. 
 Fairlie is more surprised and disappointed than he can 
 say (in the present state of his health) by Mr. Hart- 
 right's application. Mr. Fairlie is not a man of 
 business, but he has consulted his steward, who is, and
 
 174 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 that person confirms Mr. Fairlie's opinion that Mr. 
 Hartright's request to be allowed to break his engage- 
 ment cannot be justified by any necessity whatever, 
 excepting perhaps a case of life and death. If the 
 highly-appreciative feeling towards Art and its pro- 
 fessors, w^hich it is the consolation and happiness 
 of Mr. Fairlie's suffering existence to cultivate, could 
 be easily shaken, Mr. Hartright's present proceeding 
 would have shaken it. It has not done so — except in 
 the instance of Mr. Hartright himself. 
 
 " Having stated his opinion — so far, that is to say, 
 as acute nervous suffering will allow him to state 
 anything — Mr. Fairlie has nothing to add but the 
 expression of his decision, in reference to the highly 
 irregular application that has been made to him. 
 Perfect repose of body and mind being to the last 
 degree important in his case, Mr. Fairlie will not 
 suffer Mr. Hartright to disturb that repose by remain- 
 ing in the house under circumstances of an essentially 
 irritating nature to both sides. Accordingly, Mr. 
 Fairlie waives his right of refusal, purely with a view 
 to the preservation of his own tranquillity — and in- 
 forms Mr. Hartright that he may go." 
 
 I folded the letter up, and put it away with my 
 other papers. The time had been when I should have 
 resented it as an insult: I accepted it, now, as a 
 written release from my engagement. It was off my 
 mind, it was almost out of my memory, when I
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 175 
 
 went down stairs to the breakfast-room, and informed 
 Miss Halcombe that I was ready to walk with her 
 to the farm. 
 
 " Has Mr. Fairlie given you a satisfactory answer ?" 
 she asked, as we left the house. 
 
 " He has allowed me to go. Miss Halcombe." 
 
 She looked up at me quickly; and then, for the 
 first time since I had known her, took my arm of her 
 own accord. No words could have expressed so 
 delicately that she understood how the permission to 
 leave my employment had been granted, and that she 
 gave me her sympathy, not as my superior, but as my 
 friend. I had not felt the man's insolent letter ; but I 
 felt deeply the woman's atoning kindness. 
 
 On our way to the farm we arranged that Miss 
 Halcombe was to enter the house alone, and that 
 I was to wait outside, within call. We adopted this 
 mode of proceeding from an apprehension that my 
 presence, after what had happened in the churchyard 
 the evening before, might have the effect of renewing 
 Anne Catherick's nervous dread, and of rendering 
 her additionally distrustful of the advances of a lady 
 who was a stranger to her. Miss Halcombe left 
 me, with the intention of speaking, in the first instance, 
 to the farmer's wife (of whose friendly readiness 
 to help her in any way she was well assured), while 
 I waited for her in the near neighbourhood of the 
 house. 
 
 I had fully expected to be left alone, for some time.
 
 176 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 To my surprise, however, little more than five minutes 
 had elapsed, before Miss Hal combe returned. 
 
 "Does Anne Catherick refuse to see you?" I asked, 
 in astonishment. 
 
 *' Anne Catherick is gone," replied Miss Halcombe. 
 
 " Gone !" 
 
 "Gone, with Mrs. Clements. They both left the 
 farm at eight o'clock this morning." 
 
 I could say nothing — I could only feel that our last 
 chance of discovery had gone with them. 
 
 "All that Mrs. Todd knows about her guests, 
 I know," Miss Halcombe went on ; " and it leaves me, 
 as it leaves her, in the dark. They both came back 
 safe, last night, after they left you, and they passed 
 the first part of the evening with Mr. Todd's family, 
 as usual. Just before supper-time, however, Anne 
 Catherick startled them all by being suddenly seized 
 with faintness. She had had a similar attack, of a 
 less alarming kind, on the day she arrived at the 
 farm ; and Mrs. Todd had connected it, on tliat 
 occasion, with something she was reading at the time 
 in our local newspaper, which lay on the farm table, 
 and which she had taken up only a minute or two 
 before." 
 
 " Does Mrs. Todd know what particular passage in 
 the newspaper aflPected her in that way ?" I inquired. 
 
 " No," rephed Miss Halcombe. " She had looked 
 it over, and had seen nothing in it to agitate any one. 
 I asked leave, however, to look it over in my turn ;
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 177 
 
 and at the very first page I opened, I found that the 
 editor had enriched his small stock of news by drawing 
 upon our family affairs, and had published my sister's 
 marriage engagement, among his other announcements, 
 copied from the London papers, of Marriages in High 
 Life. I concluded at once that this was the paragraph 
 which had so strangely affected Anne Catherick ; and 
 I thought I saw in it, also, the origin of the letter 
 which she sent to our house the next day." 
 
 " There can be no doubt in either case. But what 
 did you hear about her second attack of faintness 
 yesterday evening?" 
 
 " Nothing. The cause of it is a complete mystery. 
 There was no stranger in the room. The only visitor 
 was our dairymaid, who, as I told you, is one of Mr. 
 Todd's daughters ; and the only conversation was the 
 usual gossip about local affairs. They heard her cry 
 out, and saw her turn deadly pale, without the slightest 
 apparent reason. Mrs. Todd and Mrs. Clements took 
 her up-stairs ; and Mrs. Clements remained with her. 
 They were heard talking together until long after 
 the usual bedtime ; and, early this morning, Mrs. 
 Clements took Mrs. Todd aside, and amazed her be- 
 yond all power of expression, by saying that they must 
 go. The only explanation Mrs. Todd could extract 
 from her guest was, that something had happened, 
 which was not the fault of any one at the farm-house, 
 but which was serious enough to make Anne Catherick 
 resolve to leave Limmeridge immediately. It was 
 
 I 3
 
 178 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 quite useless to press Mrs. Clements to be more 
 explicit. She only shook her head, and said that, for 
 Anne's sake, she must beg and pray that no one would 
 question her. All she could repeat, with every appear- 
 ance of being seriously agitated herself, was that Anne 
 must go, that she must go with her, and that the des- 
 tination to which they might both betake themselves 
 must be kept a secret from everybody. I spare you 
 the recital of Mrs. Todd's hospitable remonstrances 
 and refusals. It ended in her driving them both to 
 the nearest station, more than three hours since. She 
 tried hard, on the way, to get them to speak more 
 plainly ; but without success. And she set them down 
 outside the station-door, so hurt and offended by the 
 unceremonious abruptness of their departure and their 
 unfriendly reluctance to place the least confidence in 
 her, that she drove away in anger, without so much as 
 stopping to bid them good-by. That is exactly what 
 has taken place. Search your own memory, Mr. 
 Hartright, and tell me if anything happened in the 
 burial-ground yesterday evening which can at all 
 account for the extraordinary departure of those two 
 women this morning." 
 
 " I should like to account first, Miss Halcombe, for 
 the sudden change in Anne Catherick which alarmed 
 them at the farm-house, hours after she and I had 
 parted, and when time enough had elapsed to quiet 
 any violent agitation that I might have been unfortu- 
 nate enough to cause. Did you inquire particularly
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 179 
 
 about the gossip which was going on in the room when 
 she turned faint ?" 
 
 " Yes. But Mrs. Todd's household affairs seem to 
 have divided her attention, that evening, with the talk 
 in the farm-house parlour. She could only tell me 
 that it was * just the news ' — meaning, I suppose, that 
 they all talked as usual about each other." 
 
 " The dairymaid's memory may be better than her 
 mother's," I said. "It may be as well for you to 
 speak to the girl, Miss Halcombe, as soon as we get 
 back." 
 
 My suggestion was acted on the moment we re- 
 turned to the house. Miss Halcombe led me round 
 to the servants' offices, and we found the girl in the 
 dairy, with her sleeves tucked up to her shoulders, 
 cleaning a large milk-pan, and singing blithely over 
 her work. 
 
 " I have brought this gentleman to see your dairy, 
 Hannah," said Miss Halcombe. "It is one of the 
 sights of the house, and it always does you credit.'^ 
 
 The girl blushed and curtseyed, and said, shyly, 
 that she hoped she always did her best to keep things 
 neat and clean. 
 
 " We have just come from your father's," Miss 
 Halcombe continued. *' You were there yesterday 
 evening, I hear ; and you found visitors at the 
 house ?" 
 
 " Yes, miss." 
 
 " One of them was taken faint and ill, I am told ?
 
 180 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 1 suppose nothing was said or done to frighten her ? 
 You were not talking of anything very terrible were 
 you i 
 
 " Oh, no, miss !" said the girl, laughing. " We 
 were only talking of the news." 
 
 " Your sisters told you the news at Todd's Corner, 
 I suppose?" 
 " Yes, miss." 
 
 " And you told them the news at Limmeridge 
 House?" 
 
 " Yes, miss. And I'm quite sure nothing was said 
 to frighten the poor thing, for I was talking when she 
 was taken ill. It gave me quite a turn, miss, to see 
 it, never having been taken faint myself." 
 
 Before any more questions could be put to her, 
 she was called away to receive a basket of eggs at 
 the dairy door. As she left us, I whispered to Miss 
 Halcombe : 
 
 '' Ask her if she happened to mention, last night, 
 that visitors were expected at Limmeridge House." 
 
 Miss Halcombe showed me, by a look, that she 
 understood, and put the question as soon as the dairy- 
 maid returned to us. 
 
 *' Oh, yes, miss ; I mentioned that," said the girl, 
 simply. "The company coming, and the accident to 
 the brindled cow, was all the news I had to take to 
 the farm." 
 
 " Did you mention names ? Did you tell them 
 that Sir Percival Glyde was expected on Monday ?"
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 181 
 
 *' Yes, miss — I told them Sir Percival Glyde was 
 coming. I hope there was no harm in it ; I hope T 
 didn't do wrong." 
 
 *' Oh no, no harm. Come, Mr. Hartright ; Hannah 
 will begin to think us in the way, if we interrupt her 
 any longer over her work." 
 
 We stopped and looked at one another, the moment 
 we were alone again. 
 
 " Is there any doubt in your mind, now, Miss Hal- 
 combe ?" 
 
 " Sir Percival Glyde shall remove that doubt, Mr. 
 Hartriffht — or, Laura Fairlie shall never be his wife."
 
 182 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 XV. 
 
 As we walked round to the front of the house, a fly 
 from the railway approached us along the drive. Miss 
 Hal combe waited on the door steps until the fly drew 
 up; and then advanced to shake hands with an old 
 gentleman, who got out briskly the moment the steps 
 were let down. Mr. Gilmore had arrived. 
 
 I looked at him, when we were introduced to each 
 other, with an interest and a curiosity which I could 
 hardly conceal. This old man was to remain at 
 Limraeridge House after I had left it ; he was to 
 hear Sir Percival Glyde's explanation, and was to 
 give Miss Halcorabe the assistance of his experience 
 in forming her judgment ; he was to wait until the 
 question of the marriage was set at rest ; and his hand, 
 if that question were decided in the affirmative, was to 
 draw the settlement which bound Miss Fairlie irre- 
 vocably to her engagement. Even then, when I knew 
 nothing by comparison with what I know now, I 
 looked at the family lawyer with an interest which I 
 had never felt before in the presence of any man 
 breathing who was a total stranger to me.
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 183 
 
 In external appearance, Mr. Gilmore was the exact 
 opposite of the conventional idea of an old lawyer. 
 His complexion was florid ; his white hair was worn 
 rather long and kept carefully brushed ; his black 
 coat, waistcoat, and trousers, fitted him with perfect 
 neatness ; his white cravat was carefully tied ; and his 
 lavender-coloured kid gloves might have adorned the 
 hands of a fashionable clergyman, without fear and 
 without reproach. His manners were pleasantly marked 
 by the formal grace and refinement of the old school of 
 politeness, quickened by the invigorating sharpness 
 and readiness of a man whose business in life obliges 
 him always to keep his faculties in good working order. 
 A sanguine constitution and fair prospects to begin 
 with ; a long subsequent career of creditable and com- 
 fortable prosperity ; a cheerful, diligent, widely-re- 
 spected old age — such were the general impressions 
 I derived from my introduction to Mr. Gilmore ; and 
 it is but fair to him to add, that the knowledge I 
 gained by later and better experience only tended to 
 confirm them. 
 
 I left the old gentleman and Miss Halcombe to 
 enter the house together, and to talk of family matters 
 undisturbed by the restraint of a stranger's presence. 
 They crossed the hall on their way to the drawing- 
 room ; and I descended the steps again, to wander 
 about the garden alone. 
 
 My hours were numbered at Limmeridge House ; 
 my departure the next morning was irrevocably settled ;
 
 184 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 my share in the investigation which the anonymous 
 letter had rendered necessary, was at an end. No 
 harm could be done to any one but myself, if I let 
 ray heart loose again, for the little time that was left 
 me, from the cold cruelty of restraint which necessity 
 had forced me to inflict upon it, and took my farewell 
 of the scenes which were associated with the brief 
 dream-time of my happiness and my love. 
 
 I turned instinctively to the walk beneath my study- 
 window, where I had seen her the evening before with 
 her little dog ; and followed the path which her dear 
 feet had trodden so often, till I came to the wicket 
 gate that led into her rose garden. The winter bare- 
 ness spread drearily over it, now. The flowers that 
 she had taught me to distinguish by their names, the 
 flowers that I had taught her to paint from, were gone ; 
 and the tiny white paths that led betw^een the beds, 
 were damp and green already. I went on to the 
 avenue of trees, where we had breathed together the 
 warm fragrance of August evenings ; where we had 
 admired together the myriad combinations of shade 
 and sunlight that dappled the ground at our feet. 
 The leaves fell about me from the groaning branches, 
 and the earthy decay in the atmosphere chilled me to 
 the bones. A little farther on, and I was out of the 
 grounds, and following the lane that wound gently 
 upward to the nearest hills. The old felled tree by 
 the wayside, on which we had sat to rest, was sodden 
 with rain ; and the tuft of ferns and grasses which I
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 185 
 
 had drawn for her, nestling under the rough stone wall 
 in front of us, had turned to a pool of water, stagnating 
 round an island of draggled weeds. I gained the 
 summit of the hill ; and looked at the view which we 
 had so often admired in the happier time. It was 
 cold and barren — it was no longer the view that I 
 remembered. The sunshine of her presence was far 
 from me ; the charm of her voice no longer murmured 
 in my ear. She had talked to me, on the spot from 
 which I now looked down, of her father, who was her 
 last surviving parent ; had told me how fond of each 
 other they had been, and how sadly she missed him 
 still, when she entered certain rooms in the house, and 
 when she took up forgotten occupations and amuse- 
 ments with which he had been associated. Was the 
 view that I had seen, while listening to those words, 
 the view that I saw now, standing on the hill-top by 
 myself? I turned, and left it ; I wound my way back 
 again, over the moor, and round the sandhills, down to 
 the beach. There was the white rage of the surf, 
 and the multitudinous glory of the leaping waves — but 
 where was the place on which she had once drawn idle 
 figures with her parasol in the sand ; the place where 
 we had sat together, while she talked to me about 
 myself and my home, while she asked me a woman's 
 minutely observant questions about my mother and my 
 sister, and innocently wondered whether I should ever 
 leave my lonely chambers and have a wife and a house 
 of my own ? Wind and wave had long since smoothed
 
 186 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 out the trace of her which she had left in those marks 
 on the sand. I looked over the wide monotony of the 
 sea-side prospect, and the place in which we two had 
 idled away the sunny hours, was as lost to me as if I 
 had never known it, as strange to me as if I stood 
 already on a foreign shore. 
 
 The empty silence of the beach struck cold to my 
 heart. I returned to the house and the garden, where 
 traces were left to speak of her at every turn. 
 
 On the west terrace walk, I met Mr. Gilmore. He 
 was evidently in search of me, for he quickened his 
 pace when we caught sight of each other. The state 
 of my spirits little fitted me for the society of a stranger. 
 But the meeting was inevitable ; and I resigned my- 
 self to make the best of it. 
 
 " You are the very person I wanted to see," said 
 the old gentleman. "I had two words to say to you, 
 my dear sir ; and, if you have no objection, I will avail 
 myself of the present opportunity. To put it plainly, 
 Miss Halcombe and I have been talking over family 
 affairs — affairs which are the cause of my being here — 
 and, in the course of our conversation, she was naturally 
 led to tell me of this unpleasant matter connected with 
 the anonymous letter, and of the share which you have 
 most creditably and properly taken in the proceedings 
 so far. That share, I quite understand, gives you an 
 interest which ^you might not otherwise have felt, in 
 knowing that the future management of the investiga- 
 tion, which you have begun, will be placed in safe
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 187 
 
 hands. My dear sir, make yourself quite easy on that 
 point — it will be placed in my hands." 
 
 " You are, in every way, Mr. Gilmore, much fitter 
 to advise^'and to act in the matter than I am. Is it an 
 indiscretion, on my part, to ask if you have decided 
 yet on a course of proceeding ?" 
 
 " So far as it is possible to decide, Mr. Hartright, I 
 have decided. I mean to send a copy of the letter, 
 accompanied by a statement of the circumstances, to 
 Sir Percival Clyde's solicitor in London, with whom I 
 have some acquaintance. The letter itself, I shall 
 keep here, to show to Sir Percival as soon as he arrives. 
 The tracing of the two women, I have already provided 
 for, by sending one of Mr. Fairlie's servants — a con- 
 fidential person — to the station to make inquiries : 
 the man has his money and his directions, and he will 
 follow the women in the event of his finding any clue. 
 This is all that can be done until Sir Percival comes 
 on Monday. I have no doubt myself that every ex- 
 planation which can be expected from a gentleman 
 and a man of honour, he will readily give. Sir Percival 
 stands very high, sir — an eminent position, a reputation 
 above suspicion — I feel quite easy about results ; quite 
 easy, I am rejoiced to assure you. Things of this sort 
 happen constantly in my experience. Anonymous 
 letters — unfortunate woman — sad state of society. I 
 don't deny that there are peculiar complications in this 
 case ; but the case itself is, most unhappily, common 
 — common."
 
 188 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 " I am afraid, Mr. Gilmore, I have the misfortune 
 to differ from you in the view I take of the case." 
 
 " Just so, my dear sir — ^just so. I am an old man ; 
 and I take the practical view. You are a young man ; 
 and you take the romantic view. Let us not dispute 
 about our views. I live, professionally, in an atmo- 
 sphere of disputation, Mr. Hartright ; and I am only 
 too glad to escape from it, as I am escaping here. 
 We will wait for events — yes, yes, yes ; we will wait 
 for events. Charming place, this. Good shooting? 
 Probably not — none of Mr. Fairlie's land is preserved, 
 I think. Charming place, though ; and delightful 
 people. You draw and paint, 1 hear, Mr. Hartright ? 
 Enviable accomplishment. What style ?" 
 
 We dropped into general conversation — or, rather, 
 Mr. Gilmore talked, and I listened. My attention 
 was far from him, and from the topics on which he 
 discoursed so fluently. The solitary walk of the last 
 two hours had wrought its effect on me — it had set the 
 idea in my mind of hastening my departure fi-om 
 Limmeridge House. Why should I prolong the hard 
 trial of saying farewell by one unnecessary minute ? 
 What further service was required of me by any one ? 
 There was no useful purpose to be served by my stay 
 in Cumberland ; there was no restriction of time in the 
 permission to leave which my employer had granted to 
 me. Why not end it, there and then ? 
 
 I determined to end it. There were some hours of 
 daylight still left — there was no reason why my journey
 
 t 
 
 THE WOMAN IX ^\ HITE. 189 
 
 back to London should not begin on that afternoon. 
 I made the first civil excuse that occurred to me for 
 leaving Mr. Gilmore ; and returned at once to the 
 house. 
 
 On my way up to ray own room, I met Miss Hal- 
 combe on the stairs. She saw, by the hurry of my 
 movements and the change in my manner, that I had 
 some new purpose in view ; and asked what had 
 happened. 
 
 I told her the reasons which induced me to think of 
 hastening my departure, exactly as I have told them 
 here. 
 
 " No, no," she said, earnestly and kindly, " leave us 
 like a friend ; break bread with us once more. Stay 
 here and dine ; stay here and help us to spend our last 
 evening with you as happily, as like our first evenings, 
 as we can. It is my invitation ; Mrs. Vesey's invita- 
 tion " she hesitated a little, and then added, 
 
 " Laura's invitation as well." 
 
 I promised to remain. God knows I had no wish 
 to leave even the shadow of a sorrowful impression 
 with any one of them. 
 
 My own room was the best place for me till the 
 dinner bell rang. I waited there till it was time to go 
 down stairs. 
 
 I had not spoken to Miss Fairlie — I had not even 
 seen her — all that day. The first meeting with her, 
 when I entered the drawing-room, was a hard trial to 
 her self-control and to mine. She, too, had done her
 
 190 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 best to make our last evening renew the golden bygone 
 time — the time that could never come again. She had 
 put on the dress which I used to admire more than 
 any other that she possessed — a dark blue silk, trimmed 
 (juaintly and prettily with old-fashioned lace ; she 
 came forward to meet me with her former readiness ; 
 she gave me her hand with the frank, innocent good 
 will of happier days. The cold fingers that trembled 
 round mine ; the pale cheeks with a bright red spot 
 burning in the midst of them ; the faint smile that 
 struggled to live on her lips and died away from them 
 while I looked at it, told me at what sacrifice of herself 
 her outward composure was maintained. My heart 
 could take her no closer to me, or I should have loved 
 her then as I had never loved her yet. 
 
 Mr. Gil more was a great assistance to us. He was 
 in high good humour, and he led the conversation with 
 unflagging spirit. Miss Halcombe seconded him 
 resolutely ; and I did all I could to follow her example. 
 The kind blue eyes whose slightest changes of ex- 
 pression I had learnt to interpret so well, looked at 
 me appealingly when we first sat down to table. Help 
 my sister — the sweet anxious face seemed to say — help 
 my sister, and you will help me. 
 
 We got through the dinner, to all outward appear- 
 ance at least, happily enough. AVhen the ladies had 
 risen from table, and when Mr. Gilmore and I were 
 left alone in the dining-room, a new interest presented 
 itself to occupy our attention, and to give me an oppor-
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 191 
 
 tunity of quieting myself by a few minutes of needful 
 and welcome silence. The servant who had been de- 
 spatched to trace Anne Catherick and Mrs. Clements, 
 returned with his report, and was shown into the 
 dining-room immediately. 
 
 " Well," said Mr. Gilmore, " what have you found 
 out ?" 
 
 " I have found out, sir," answered the man, " that 
 both the women took tickets, at our station here, for 
 Carlisle." 
 
 " You went to Carlisle, of course, when you heard 
 that?" 
 
 " I did, sir ; but I am sorry to say I could find no 
 further trace of them." 
 
 " You inquired 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 out-manoeuvred us ; and our 
 only resource, now, is to waU till Sir Percival Glyde 
 comes here on Monday next. Won't you fill your
 
 192 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 glass again ? Good bottle of port, that— sound, sub- 
 stantial, 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 — 
 in-doors 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 w'hile she spoke. 
 
 Before I could thank her, she hastened to the piano.
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 193 
 
 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, speak- 
 ing 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 to-morrow has come and gone." 
 
 The paleness grew whiter on her face, and she turned 
 it farther away from me. 
 
 " Don't speak of to-morrow," she said. " Let tli« 
 music speak to us of to-night, in a happier language 
 than ours." 
 
 Her lips trembled — a faint sigh fluttered from them, 
 which she tried vainly to suppress. Her fingers 
 
 VOL. I. ^
 
 194 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 wavered on the piano ; she struck a false note ; con- 
 fused 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 unintermit- 
 tinfjly — played as if the music was her only refuge 
 from herself. Sometimes, her fingers touched the notes
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 195 
 
 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 good 
 night. 
 
 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 good-by," 
 
 Mr. Gilmore came next. 
 
 " I hope we shall have a future opportunity of better- 
 ing 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 vogage, as the French 
 say. 
 
 Miss Halcombe followed. 
 
 " Half-past seven to-morrow morning," she said ; 
 then added, in a whisper, " I have heard and seen more 
 than you think. Your conduct to-night has made me 
 your friend for life." 
 
 K 2
 
 196 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 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, 
 " Good night," 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 down 
 stairs — 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
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 197 
 
 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 if I can ever be of help again, at any future 
 time, long after the memory of my presumption and 
 my folly is forgotten " 
 
 I could add no more. My voice faltered, my eyes 
 moistened, in spite of me. 
 
 She caught me by both hands — she pressed them 
 with the strong, steady grasp of a man — her dark eyes 
 glittered — her brown complexion flushed deep — the 
 force and energy of her face glowed and grew beauti- 
 ful with the pure inner light of her generosity and her 
 pity. 
 
 " I will trust you — if ever the time comes, I will 
 trust you as my friend and her friend ; as my brother 
 and her brother." She stopped ; drew me nearer to 
 her — the fearless, noble creature — touched my fore- 
 head, sisterlike, with her lips ; and called me by my 
 Christian name. " God bless you, Walter !" she said. 
 " Wait here alone, and compose yourself — I had better 
 not stay for both our sakes ; I had better see you go 
 from the balcony upstairs."
 
 198 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 She left the room. I turned away towards the 
 window, where nothing faced me but the lonely autumn 
 landscape — I turned away to master myself, before T, 
 too, left the room in my turn, and left it for ever. 
 
 A minute passed — it could hardly have been more 
 — when I heard the door open again softly ; and the 
 rustling of a woman's dress on the carpet, moved to- 
 wards me. My heart beat violently as I turned round. 
 Miss Fairlie was approaching me from the farther end 
 of the room. 
 
 She stopped and hesitated, when our eyes met, and 
 when she saw that we were alone. Then, with that 
 courage which women lose so often in the small emer- 
 gency, and so seldom in the great, she came on nearer 
 to me, strangely pale and strangely quiet, drawing one 
 hand after her along the table by which she walked, 
 and holding something at her side, in the other, which 
 was hidden by the folds of her dress. 
 
 "I only went into the drawing-room," she said, 
 *' to look for this. It may remind you of your visit 
 here, and of the friends you leave behind you. You 
 told me I had improved very much when I did it — 
 and I thought you might Hke " 
 
 She turned her head away, and offered me a little 
 sketch drawn throughout by her own pencil, of the 
 summer-house in which we had first met. The paper 
 trembled in her hand as she held it out to me — trem- 
 bled in mine, as I took it from her. 
 
 I was afraid to say what I felt — I only answered :
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 199 
 
 " It shall never leave me ; all my life long it shall be 
 the treasure that I prize most. I am very grateful 
 for it — very grateful to you^ for not letting me go 
 away without bidding you good-by." 
 
 " Oh !" she said, innocently, " how could I let you 
 go, after we have passed so many happy days together !" 
 
 " Those days may never return. Miss Fairlie — my 
 way of life and yours are very far apart. But if a time 
 should come, when the devotion of my whole heart 
 and soul and strength will give you a moment's happi- 
 ness, or spare you a oment's sorrow, will you try to 
 remember the poor drawing-master who has taught 
 you? Miss Halcombe has promised to trust me — 
 will you promise, too ?" 
 
 The farewell sadness in the kind-blue eyes shone 
 dimly through her gathering tears. 
 
 " I promise it," she said, in broken tones. '•' Oh, 
 don't look at me like that ! I promise it with all my 
 heart." 
 
 I ventured a little nearer to her, and held out my 
 hand. 
 
 '* You have many friends who love you, Miss Fair- 
 lie. Your happy future is the dear object of many 
 hopes. May I say, at parting, that it is the dear 
 object of my hopes too ?" 
 
 The tears flowed fast down her cheeks. She rested 
 one trembhng hand on the table to steady herself, 
 while she gave me the other. I took it in mine — I held 
 it fast. My head drooped over it, my tears fell on it,
 
 200 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 my lips pressed it — not in love ; oh, not in love, at 
 that last moment, but in the agony and the self- 
 abandonment of despair. 
 
 " For God's sake, leave me !" she said faintly. 
 
 The confession of her heart's secret burst from her 
 in those pleading words. I had no right to hear them, 
 no right to answer them : they were the words that 
 banished me, in the name of her sacred weakness, from 
 the room. It was all over. I dropped her hand ; I 
 said no more. The blinding tears shut her out from 
 my eyes, and I dashed them away to look at her for 
 the last time. One look as she sank into a chair, as 
 her arms fell on the table, as her fair head dropped 
 on them wearily. One farewell look ; and the door 
 had closed upon her — the great gulf of separation had 
 opened between us — the image of Laura Fairlie was 
 a memory of the past already.
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 201 
 
 THE STORY CONTINUED 
 
 BY 
 
 VINCENT GILMOKE, 
 
 OF CHANCERY LANE, SOLICITOR/ 
 
 Iv 3
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 203 
 
 I. 
 
 I WRITE these lines at the request of my friend, 
 Mr. Walter Hartright. They are intended to convey 
 a description of certain events which seriously aiFected 
 Miss Fairlie's interests, and which took place after the 
 period of Mr. Hartright's departure from Limmeridge 
 House. 
 
 There is no need for me to say whether my own 
 opinion does or does not sanction the disclosure of the 
 remarkable family story, of wiiich my narrative forms 
 an important component part. Mr. Hartright has 
 taken that responsibility on himself; and circumstances 
 yet to be related will show that he has amply earned 
 the right to do so, if he chooses to exercise it. The 
 plan he has adopted for presenting the story to others, 
 in the most truthful and most vivid manner, requires 
 that it should be told, at each successive stage in the 
 march of events, by the persons who were directly 
 concerned in those events at the time of their occur- 
 rence. My appearance here, as narrator, is the 
 necessary consequence of this arrangement. I was 
 present during the sojourn of Sir Percival Glyde in.
 
 201: THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 Cumberland, and was personally concerned in one 
 important result of his short residence under Mr. 
 Fairlie's roof. It is my duty, therefore, to add these 
 new links to the chain of events, and to take up the 
 chain itself at the point where, for the present only, 
 Mr. Hartright has dropped it. 
 
 I arrived at Limmeridge House, on Friday the 
 second of November. 
 
 My object was to remain at Mr. Fairlie's until the 
 arrival of Sir Percival Glyde. If that event led to the 
 appointment of any given day for Sir Percival's union 
 wdth Miss Fairlie, I was to take the necessary instruc- 
 tions back with me to London, and to occupy myself in 
 drawing the lady's marriage-settlement. 
 
 On the Friday I was not favoured by Mr. Fairlie 
 with an interview. He had been, or had fancied him- 
 self to be, an invalid for years past ; and he was not 
 well enough to receive me. Miss Halcombe was the 
 first member of the family whom I saw. She met me 
 at the house door ; and introduced me to Mr. Hart- 
 right, who had been staying at Limmeridge for some 
 time past. 
 
 I did not see Miss Fairlie until later in the day, at 
 dinner time. She was not looking well, and I was 
 sorry to observe it. She is a sweet lovable girl, as 
 amiable and attentive to every one about her as her 
 excellent mother used to be — though, personally speak- 
 ing, she takes after her father. Mrs. Fairlie had dark
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 205 
 
 eyes and hair ; and her elder daughter, Miss Halcombe, 
 strongly reminds me of her. Miss Fairlie played to us 
 in the evening — not so well as usual, I thought. We 
 had a rubber at whist ; a mere profanation, so far as 
 play was concerned, of that noble game. I had been 
 favourably impressed by Mr. Hartright, on our first 
 introduction to one another ; but I soon discovered 
 that he was not free from the social failings incidental 
 to his age. There are three things that none of the 
 young men of the present generation can do. They 
 can't sit over their wine ; they can't play at whist ; and 
 they can't pay a lady a compliment. Mr. Hartright 
 was no exception to the general rule. Otherwise, even 
 in those early days and on that short acquaintance, he 
 struck me as being a modest and gentlemanlike young 
 man. 
 
 So the Friday passed. I say nothing about the 
 more serious matters which engaged my attention on 
 that day — the anonymous letter to Miss Fairlie ; the 
 measures I thought it right to adopt when the matter 
 was mentioned to me ; and the conviction I entertained 
 that every possible explanation of the circumstances 
 would be readily afforded by Sir Percival Glyde, 
 having all been fully noticed, as I understand, in the 
 narrative which precedes this. 
 
 On the Saturday, Mr. Hartright had left before I 
 got down to breakfast. Miss Fairlie kept her room all 
 day ; and Miss Halcombe appeared to me to be out of 
 spirits. The house was not what it used to be in the
 
 206 THE WOMAN IX WHITE. 
 
 time of Mr. and Mrs. Philip Fairlie. I took a walk 
 by myself in the forenoon : and looked about at some 
 of the places which I first saw when I was staying at 
 Limmeridge to transact family business, more than 
 thirty years since. They were not what they used to 
 be either. 
 
 At two o'clock Mr. Fairlie sent to say he was well 
 enough to see me. He had not altered, at any rate, 
 since I first knew him. His talk was to the same 
 purpose as usual — all about himself and his ailments, 
 his wonderful coins, and his matchless Rembrandt 
 etchings. The moment I tried to speak of the business 
 that had brought me to his house, he shut his eyes and 
 said I "upset" him. I persisted in upsetting him by 
 returning again and again to the subject. All I could 
 ascertain was that he looked on his niece's marriage as 
 a settled thing, that her father had sanctioned it, that 
 he sanctioned it himself, that it was a desirable mar- 
 riage, and that he should be personally rejoiced when 
 the worry of it was over. As to the settlement, if I 
 would consult his niece, and afterwards dive as deeply 
 as I pleased into my own knowledge of the family 
 affairs, and get everything ready, and limit his share 
 in the business, as guardian, to saying. Yes, at the 
 right moment — why of course he would meet my views, 
 and everybody else's views, with infinite pleasure. In 
 the mean time, there I saw him, a helpless sufferer, 
 confined to his room. Did I think he looked as if he 
 wanted teasing ? No. Then why tease him ?
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 207 
 
 I might, perhaps, have been a little astonished at 
 this extraordinary absence of all self-assertion on Mr. 
 Fairlie's part, in the character of guardian, if my 
 knowledge of the family affairs had not been sufficient 
 to remind me that he was a single man, and that he 
 had nothing more than a life-interest in the Lim- 
 meridge property. As matters stood, therefore, I was 
 neither surprised nor disappointed at the result of the 
 interview. Mr. Fairlie had simply justified my ex- 
 pectations — and there was an end of it. 
 
 Sunday was a dull day, out of doors and in. A 
 letter arrived for me from Sir Percival Glyde's solicitor, 
 acknowledging the receipt of my copy of the anonymous 
 letter, and my accompanying statement of the case. 
 Miss Fairlie joined us in the afternoon, looking pale 
 and depressed, and altogether unlike herself. I had 
 some talk with her, and ventured on a delicate allusion 
 to Sir Percival. She listened, and said nothing. All 
 other subjects she pursued willingly ; but this subject 
 she allowed to drop. I began to doubt whether she 
 might not be repenting of her engagement — just as 
 young ladies often do, when repentance comes too 
 late. 
 
 On Monday Sir Percival Glyde arrived. 
 
 I found him to be a most prepossessing man, so far 
 as manners and appearance were concerned. He 
 looked rather older than I had expected ; his head 
 being bald over the forehead, and his face somewhat 
 marked and worn. But his movements were as active
 
 208 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 and his spirits as high as a young man's. His meeting 
 with Miss Halcombe was delightfully hearty and un- 
 affected ; and his reception of me, upon my being 
 presented to him, was so easy and pleasant that we got 
 on together like old friends. Miss Fairlie was not 
 with us when he arrived, but she entered the room 
 about ten minutes afterwards. Sir Percival rose and 
 paid his compliments with perfect grace. His evident 
 concern on seeing the change for the worse in the 
 young lady^s looks was expressed with a mixture of 
 tenderness and respect, with an unassuming delicacy 
 of tone, voice, and manner, which did equal credit to 
 his good breeding and his good sense. I was rather 
 surprised, under these circumstances, to see that Miss 
 Fairlie continued to be constrained and uneasy in his 
 presence, and that she took the first opportunity of 
 leaving the room again. Sir Percival neither noticed 
 the restraint in her reception of him, nor her sudden 
 withdrawal from our society. He had not obtruded 
 his attentions on her while she was present, and he did 
 not embarrass Miss Halcombe by any allusion to her 
 departure when she was gone. His tact and taste 
 were never at fault on this or on any other occasion 
 while I was in his company at Limmeridge House. 
 
 As soon as Miss Fairlie had left the room, he spared 
 us all embarrassment on the subject of the anonymous 
 letter, by adverting to it of his own accord. He had 
 stopped in London on his way from Hampshire ; had 
 seen his solicitor ; had read the documents forwarded
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 209 
 
 by me ; and had travelled on to Cumberland^ anxious 
 to satisfy our minds by the speediest and the fullest 
 explanation that words could convey. On hearing him 
 express himself to this effect, I offered him the original 
 letter which I had kept for his inspection. He thanked 
 me, and declined to look at it ; saying that he had seen 
 the copy, and that he was quite willing to leave the 
 original in our hands. 
 
 The statement itself, on which he immediately en- 
 tered, was as simple and satisfactory as I had all along 
 anticipated it would be. 
 
 Mrs. Catherick, he informed us, had, in past years, 
 laid him under some obligations for faithful services 
 rendered to his family connexions and to himself. She 
 had been doubly unfortunate in being married to a 
 husband who had deserted her, and in having an only 
 child whose mental faculties had been in a disturbed 
 condition from a very early age. Although her mar- 
 riage had removed her to a part of Hampshire far 
 distant from the neighbourhood in which Sir Percival's 
 property was situated, he had taken care not to lose 
 sight of her; his friendly feeling towards the poor 
 woman, in consideration of her past services, having 
 been greatly strengthened by his admiration of the 
 patience and courage with which she supported her 
 calamities. In course of time, the symptoms of mental 
 affliction in her unhappy daughter increased to such a 
 serious extent, as to make it a matter of necessity to 
 place her under proper medical care. Mrs. Catherick
 
 210 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 herself recognised this necessity ; but she also felt the 
 prejudice common to persons occupying her respectable 
 station, against allowing her child to be admitted, as a 
 pauper, into a public Asylum. Sir Percival had 
 respected this prejudice, as he respected honest inde- 
 pendence of feeling in any rank of life ; and had 
 resolved to mark his grateful sense of Mrs. Catherick's 
 early attachment to the interests of himself and his 
 family, by defraying the expense of her daughter's 
 maintenance in a trustworthy private Asylum. To 
 her mother's regret, and to his own regret, the unfor- 
 tunate creature had discovered the share which 
 circumstances had induced him to take in placing her 
 under restraint, and had conceived the most intense 
 hatred and distrust of him in consequence. To that 
 hatred and distrust — which had expressed itself in 
 various ways in the AsyUim — the anonymous letter, 
 written after her escape, was plainly attributable. If 
 Miss Halcombe's or Mr. Gilmore's recollection of the 
 document did not confirm that view, or if they wished 
 for any additional particulars about the Asylum (the 
 address of which he mentioned, as well as the names 
 and addresses of the two doctors on whose certificates 
 the patient was admitted), he was ready to answer any 
 question and to clear up any uncertainty. He had 
 done his duty to the unhappy young woman, by in- 
 structing his solicitor to spare no expense in tracing 
 her, and in restoring her once more to medical care ; 
 and he was now only anxious to do his duty towards
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 211 
 
 Miss Fairlie and towards her family, in the same plain, 
 straightforward way. 
 
 I was the first to speak in answer to this appeal. 
 My own course was plain to me. It is the great 
 beauty of the Law that it can dispute any human 
 statement, made under any circumstances, and reduced 
 to any form. If I had felt professionally called upon 
 to set up a case against Sir Percival Glyde, on the 
 strength of his own explanation, I could have done so 
 beyond all doubt. But my duty did not lie in this 
 direction : my function was of the purely judicial kind. 
 I was to weigh the explanation we had just heard ; to 
 allow all due force to the high reputation of the 
 gentleman who offered it ; and to decide honestly 
 whether the probabilities, on Sir Percival's own show- 
 ing, were plainly with him, or plainly against him. 
 My own conviction was that they were plainly with 
 him ; and I accordingly declared that his explanation 
 was, to my mind, unquestionably a satisfactory one. 
 
 Miss Halcombe, after looking at me very earnestly, 
 said a few words, on her side, to the same effect — 
 with a certain hesitation of manner, however, which 
 the circumstances did not seem to me to warrant. I 
 am unable to say, positively, whether Sir Percival 
 noticed this or not. My opinion is that he did ; see- 
 ing that he pointedly resumed the subject, although 
 he might, now, with all propriety, have allowed it to 
 drop. 
 
 *'If my plain statement of facts had only been
 
 212 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 addressed to Mr. Gilmore," he said, " I should con- 
 sider any further reference to this unhappy matter as 
 unnecessary. I may fairly expect Mr. Gilmore, as a 
 gentleman, to believe me on my word ; and when he 
 has done me that justice, all discussion of the subject 
 between us has come to an end. But my position 
 with a lady is not the same. I owe to her, w^hat I 
 would concede to no man alive — a proof of the truth 
 of my assertion. You cannot ask for that proof. Miss 
 Halcombe ; and it is therefore my duty to you, and 
 still more to Miss Fairlie, to offer it. May I beg 
 that you will write at once to the mother of this unfor- 
 tunate woman — to Mrs. Catherick — to ask for her 
 testimony in support of the explanation w^hich I have 
 just offered to you." 
 
 1 saw Miss Halcombe change colour, and look a 
 little uneasy. Sir Percival's suggestion, politely as it 
 was expressed, appeared to her, as it appeared to me, 
 to point, very dehcately, at the hesitation which her 
 manner had betrayed a moment or two since. 
 
 "I hope. Sir Percival, you don't do me the in- 
 justice to suppose that I distrust you," she said, 
 quickly. 
 
 " Certainly not, Miss Halcombe. I make my pro- 
 posal purely as an act of attention to you. Will you 
 excuse my obstinacy if I still venture to press it ?" 
 
 He walked to the writing-table, as he spoke ; drew 
 a chair to it ; and opened the paper case. 
 
 " Let me beg you to write the note," he said, *' as a
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 213 
 
 favour to me. It need not occupy you more than a 
 few minutes. You have only to ask Mrs. Catherick 
 two questions. First, if her daughter was placed in 
 the Asylum with her knowledge and approval. 
 Secondly, if the share I took in the matter was such 
 as to merit the expression of her gratitude towards 
 myself? Mr. Gilmore's mind is at ease on this un- 
 pleasant subject ; and your mind is at ease — pray set 
 my mind at ease also, by writing the note.*' 
 
 " You oblige me to grant your request, Sir Percival, 
 when I would much rather refuse it." With those 
 words Miss Halcombe rose from her place, and went 
 to the writing-table. Sir Percival thanked her, handed 
 her a pen, and then walked away towards the fireplace. 
 Miss Fairlie's little Italian greyhound was lying on 
 the rug. He held out his hand, and called to the dog 
 good-humouredly . 
 
 *' Come, Nina," he said ; " we remember each other, 
 don't we ?" 
 
 The little beast, cowardly, and cross-grained as pet- 
 dogs usually are, looked up at him sharply, shrank 
 away from his outstretched hand, Avhined, shivered, 
 and hid itself under a sofa. It was scarcely possible 
 that he could have been put out by such a trifle as a 
 dog's reception of him — but I observed, nevertheless, 
 that he walked away towards the window very suddenly. 
 Perhaps his temper is irritable at times ? If so, I can 
 sympathise with him. My temper is irritable at times, 
 too.
 
 214 THE WOMAI^ IN WHITE. 
 
 Miss Halcombe was not long in writing the note. 
 When it was done, she rose from the writing-table, 
 and handed the open sheet of paper to Sir Percival. 
 He bowed ; took it from her ; folded it up immediately, 
 without looking at the contents ; sealed it ; wrote the 
 address ; and handed it back to her in silence. I 
 never saw anything more gracefully and more becom- 
 ingly done, in my life. 
 
 " You insist on my posting this letter. Sir Percival ?" 
 said Miss Halcombe. 
 
 " I beg you will post it," he answered. " And now 
 that it is written and sealed up, allow me to ask one or 
 two last questions about the unhappy woman to whom 
 it refers. I have read the communication which Mr. 
 Gilmore kindly addressed to my solicitor, describing 
 the circumstances under which the writer of the anony- 
 mous letter was identified. But there are certain points 
 to which that statement does not refer. Did Anne 
 Catherick see Miss Fairlie ?" 
 
 " Certainly not," replied Miss Halcombe. 
 
 " Did she see you ?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 "She saw nobody from the house, then, except a 
 certain Mr. Hartright, who accidentally met with her 
 in the churchyard here ?" 
 
 " Nobody else." 
 
 " Mr. Hartright was employed at Limmeridge as a 
 drawing-master, I believe ? Is he a member of one of 
 the Water-Colour Societies ?"
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 215 
 
 "I believe he is," answered Miss Halcombe. 
 
 He paused for a moment, as if he was thinking over 
 the last answer, and then added : 
 
 " Did you find out where Anne Catherick was living, 
 when she was in this neighbourhood ?" 
 
 " Yes. At a farm on the moor, called Todd's 
 Corner." 
 
 "It is a duty we all owe to the poor creature her- 
 self to trace her," continued Sir Percival. " She may 
 have said something at Todd's Corner which may help 
 us to find her. I will go there, and make inquiries on 
 the chance. In the mean time, as I cannot prevail on 
 myself to discuss this painful subject with Miss Fairlie, 
 may I beg, Miss Halcombe, that you will kindly 
 undertake to give her the necessary explanation, 
 deferring it of course until you have received the reply 
 to that note." 
 
 Miss Halcombe promised to comply with his request. 
 He thanked her — nodded pleasantly — and left us, to 
 go and establish himself in his own room. As he 
 opened the door, the cross-grained greyhound poked 
 out her sharp muzzle from under the sofa, and barked 
 and snapped at him. 
 
 *' A good morning's work. Miss Halcombe," I said, 
 as soon as we were alone. " Here is an anxious day 
 well ended already." 
 
 " Yes," she answered ; " no doubt. I am very glad 
 your mind is satisfied."
 
 216 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 " My mind ! Surely, with that note in your hand, 
 your mind is at ease too?" 
 
 " Oh, yes — how can it be otherwise ? I know the 
 thing could not be," she went on, speaking more to 
 herself than to me ; " but I almost wish Walter Hart- 
 right had stayed here long enough to be present at the 
 explanation, and to hear the proposal to me to write 
 this note." 
 
 I was a little surprised — perhaps a little piqued, 
 also, by these last words. 
 
 " Events, it is true, connected Mr. Hartright very 
 remarkably with the affair of the letter," I said ; " and I 
 readily admit that he conducted himself, all things 
 considered, with great delicacy and discretion. But I 
 am quite at a loss to understand what useful influence 
 his presence could have exercised in relation to the 
 effect of Sir Percival's statement on your mind or 
 mine." 
 
 *' It was only a fancy," she said, absently. " There 
 is no need to discuss it, Mr. Gilmore. Your experi- 
 ence ought to be, and is, the best guide I can desire." 
 
 I did not altogether like her thrusting the whole 
 responsibility, in this marked manner, on my shoulders. 
 If Mr. Fairlie had done it, I should not have been 
 surprised. But resolute, clear-minded Miss Halcombe, 
 was the very last person in the world whom I should 
 have expected to find shrinking from the expression of 
 an opinion of her own.
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 217 
 
 " If any doubts still trouble you," I said, " why not 
 mention them to me at once ? Tell me plainly, have 
 you any reason to distrust Sir Percival Glyde ?" 
 
 " None whatever." 
 
 " Do you see anything improbable, or contradictory, 
 in his explanation ?" 
 
 " How can I say I do, after the proof he has offered 
 me of the truth of it ? Can there be better testimony 
 in his favour, Mr. Gilmore, than the testimony of the 
 woman's mother ?" 
 
 " None better. If the answer to your note of inquiry 
 proves to be satisfactory, I, for one, cannot see what 
 more any friend of Sir Percival's can possibly expect 
 from him." 
 
 " Then we will post the note," she said, rising to 
 leave the room, " and dismiss all further reference to 
 the subject, until the answer arrives. Don't attach 
 any weight to my hesitation. I can give no better 
 reason for it than that I have been over-anxious about 
 Laura lately ; and anxiety, Mr. Gilmore, unsettles the 
 strongest of us." 
 
 She left me abruptly ; her naturally firm voice falter- 
 ing as she spoke those last words. A sensitive, vehe- 
 ment, passionate nature — a woman of ten thousand 
 in these trivial, superficial times. I had known her 
 from her earliest years ; I had seen her tested, as she 
 grew up, in more than one trying family crisis, and my 
 long experience made me attach an importance to her 
 hesitation under the circumstances h<^re detailed, which 
 VOL. I. L
 
 218 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 I should certainly not have felt in the case of another 
 woman. I could see no cause for any uneasiness or any 
 doubt ; but she had made me a little uneasy, and a 
 little doubtful, nevertheless. In my youth, I should 
 have chafed and fi'etted under the irritation of my own 
 unreasonable state of mind. In my age, I knew 
 better ; and went out philosophically to walk it off.
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 219 
 
 II. 
 
 We all met again at dinner-time. '' 
 
 Sir Percival was in such boisterous high spirits that 
 I hardly recognized him as the same man whose quiet 
 tact, refinement, and good sense had impressed me so 
 strongly at the interview of the morning. The only 
 trace of his former self that I could detect, reappeared, 
 every now and then, in his manner towards Miss 
 Fairlie. A look or a word from her, suspended his 
 loudest laugh, checked his gayest flow of talk, and 
 rendered him all attention to her, and to no one else 
 at table, in an instant. Although he never openly 
 tried to draw her into the conversation, he never lost 
 the slightest chance she gave him of letting her drift 
 into it by accident, and of saying the words to her, 
 under those favourable circumstances, which a man 
 with less tact and delicacy would have pointedly 
 addressed to her the moment they occurred to him. 
 Rather to my surprise. Miss Fairlie appeared to be 
 sensible of his attentions, without being moved by them. 
 She was a little confused from time to time, when he 
 looked at her, or spoke to her ; but she never warmed 
 
 L 2
 
 220 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 towards him. Rank, fortune, good breeding, good 
 looks, the respect of a gentleman, and the devotion of 
 a lover, were all humbly placed at her feet, and, so far 
 as appearances went, were all offered in vain. 
 
 On the next day, the Tuesday, Sir Percival went in 
 the morning (taking one of the servants with him as a 
 guide) to Todd's Corner. His inquiries, as I after- 
 wards heard, led to no results. On his return, he had 
 an interview with Mr. Fairlie ; and in the afternoon he 
 and Miss Halcombe rode out together. Nothing else 
 happened worthy of record. The evening passed as 
 usual. There was no change in Sir Percival, and no 
 change in Miss Fairlie. 
 
 The Wednesday's post brought with it an event — 
 the reply from Mrs. Catherick. I took a copy of the 
 document, which I have preserved, and v/hich I may 
 as well present in this place. It ran as follows : — 
 
 " Madam, — I beg to acknowledge the receipt of 
 your letter, inquiring whether ray daughter, Anne, was 
 placed under medical sitperintendence with my know- 
 ledge and approval, and whether the share taken in 
 the matter by Sir Percival Glyde was such as to merit 
 the expression of my gratitude towards that gentleman. 
 Be pleased to accept my answer in the affirmative to 
 both those questions, and believe me to remain, your 
 obedient servant, 
 
 " Jane Anne Catherick."
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 221 
 
 Short, sharp, and to the point : in form, rather a 
 business-like letter for a woman to write ; in substance, 
 as plain a confirmation as could be desired of Sir 
 Percival Glyde's statement. This was my opinion, 
 and with certain minor reservations^ Miss Halcombe's 
 opinion also. Sir Percival, when the letter w^as shown 
 to him, did not appear to be struck by the sharp, short 
 tone of it. He told us that Mrs. Catherick was a 
 woman of few words, a clear-headed, straightforward, 
 unimaginative person, who wrote briefly and plainly, 
 just as she spoke. 
 
 The next duty to be accomplished, now that the 
 answer had been received, was to acquaint Miss Fairlie 
 with Sir Percival's explanation. Miss Halcombe had 
 undertaken to do this, and had left the room to go to 
 her sister, when she suddenly returned again, and sat 
 down by the easy-chair in which I was reading the 
 newspaper. Sir Percival had gone out a minute 
 before, to look at the stables, and no one was in the 
 room but ourselves. 
 
 " I suppose we have really and truly done all we 
 can ?" she said, turning and twisting Mrs. Catherick's 
 letter in her hand. 
 
 "If we are friends of Sir Percival's, who know him 
 and trust him, we have done all, and more than all, 
 that is necessary," I answered, a little annoyed by this 
 return of her hesitation. " But if we are enemies who 
 suspect him " 
 
 " That alternative is not even to be thought of," she
 
 222 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 interposed. " We are Sir Percival's friends ; and, if 
 generosity and forbearance can add to our regard for 
 liim, we ought to be Sir Percival's admirers as well. 
 You know that he saw Mr. Fairlie yesterday, and that 
 he afterwards w^ent out with me ?'' 
 
 " Yes. I saw you riding away together." 
 " We began the ride by talking about Anne Cathe- 
 rick, and about the singular manner in which Mr. 
 Hartright met with her. But we soon dropped that 
 subject ; and Sir Percival spoke next, in the most un- 
 selfish terms, of his engagement with Laura. He said 
 he had observed that she was out of spirits, and he was 
 willing, if not informed to the contrary, to attribute to 
 that cause the alteration in her manner towards him 
 during his present visit. If, however, there was any 
 other more serious reason for the change, he would 
 entreat that no constraint might be placed on her in- 
 clinations either by Mr. Fairlie or by mc. All he 
 asked, in that case, was that she would recall to mind, 
 for the last time, what the circumstances were under 
 which the engagement between them was made, and 
 what his conduct had been from the beginning of the 
 courtship to the present time. If, after due reflection 
 on those two subjects, she seriously desired that he 
 should withdraw his pretensions to the honour of be- 
 coming her husband — and if she would tell him so 
 plainly, with her own lips — he would sacrifice himself 
 by leaving her perfectly free to withdraw from the 
 engagement."
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 223 
 
 " No man could say more than that, Miss Halcombe. 
 As to my experience, few men in his situation would 
 have said as much." 
 
 She paused after I had spoken those words, and 
 looked at me with a singular expression of perplexity 
 and distress. 
 
 " I accuse nobody and I suspect nothing," she broke 
 out, abruptly. " But I cannot and will not accept the 
 responsibility of persuading Laura to this marriage." 
 
 "That is exactly the course which Sir Percival 
 Glyde has himself requested you to take," I replied, 
 in astonishment. "He has begged you not to force 
 her inclinations." 
 
 " And he indirectly obliges me to force them, if I 
 give her his message." 
 
 " How can that possibly be ?" 
 
 " Consult your own knowledge of Laura, Mr. Gil- 
 more. If I tell her to reflect on the circumstances of 
 her engagement, I at once appeal to two of the 
 strongest feelings in her nature — to her love for her 
 father's memory, and to her strict regard for truth. 
 You know that she never broke a promise in her life ; 
 you know that she entered on this engagement at the 
 beginning of her father's fatal illness, and that he 
 spoke hopefully and happily of her marriage to Sir 
 Percival Glyde on his death-bed." 
 
 I own that I was a little shocked at this view ot 
 the case. 
 
 " Surely/' I said, " you don't mean to infer that
 
 224 THE WOMiVN IN WHITE. 
 
 when Sir Percival spoke to you yesterday, he specu- 
 lated on such a result as you have just mentioned ?" 
 
 Her frank, fearless face answered for her before she 
 spoke. 
 
 " Do you think I would remain an instant in the 
 company of any man whom I suspected of such base- 
 ness as that ?" she asked, angrily. 
 
 I liked to feel her hearty indignation flash out on 
 me in that way. We see so much malice and so little 
 indignation in my profession. 
 
 *^ In that case," I said, " excuse me if I tell you, in 
 our legal phrase, that you are travelling out of the 
 record. Whatever the consequences may be, Sir 
 Percival has a right to expect that your sister should 
 carefully consider her engagement from every reason- 
 able point of view before she claims her release from 
 it. If that unlucky letter has prejudiced her against 
 him, go at once, and tell her that he has cleared him- 
 self in your eyes and in mine. What objection can 
 she urge against him after that? What excuse can 
 she possibly have for changing her mind about a man 
 whom she had virtually accepted for her husband more 
 than two years ago ?" 
 
 " In the eyes of law and reason, Mr. Gilmore, no 
 excuse, I dare say. If she still hesitates, and if I 
 still hesitate, you must attribute our strange conduct, 
 if you like, to caprice in both cases, and we must bear 
 the imputation as well as v/e can." 
 
 With those words, she suddenly rose, and left me.
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 225 
 
 When a sensible woman has a serious question put to 
 her, and evades it by a flippant answer, it is a sure 
 sign, in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, that she 
 has something to conceal. I returned to the perusal 
 of the newspaper, strongly suspecting that Miss Hal- 
 combe and Miss Fairlie had a secret between them 
 which they were keeping from Sir Percival and keep- 
 ing from me. I thought this hard on both of us — •■ 
 especially on Sir Percival. 
 
 My doubts — or, to speak more correctly, my con- 
 victions — were confirmed by Miss Halcombe's lan- 
 guage and manner, when I saw her again, later in the 
 day. She was suspiciously brief and reserved in tell- 
 ing me the result of her interview with her sister. 
 Miss Fairlie, it appeared, had listened quietly while 
 the affair of the letter was placed before her in the 
 right point of view ; but when Miss Halcombe next 
 proceeded to say that the object of Sir Perclval's visit 
 at Limmeridge was to prevail on her to let a day be 
 fixed for the marriage, she checked all further reference 
 to the subject by begging for time. If Sir Percival 
 would consent to spare her for the present, she would 
 undertake to give him his final answer, before the end 
 of the year. She pleaded for this delay with such 
 anxiety and agitation, that Mi^s Halcombe had pro- 
 mised to use her influence, if necessary, to obtain it ; 
 and there, at Miss Fairlie's earnest entreaty, all 
 further discussion of the marriage question had ended. 
 
 The purely temporary arrangement thus proposed 
 
 L 3
 
 226 THE ^YOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 might have been convenient enough to the young lady ; 
 but it proved somewhat embarrassing to the writer of 
 these lines. That morning\s post had brought a letter 
 from my partner, which obliged me to return to town 
 the next day, by the afternoon train. It was ex- 
 tremely probable that I should find no second oppor- 
 tunity of presenting myself at Limmeridge House 
 during the remainder of the year. In that case, sup- 
 posing iss Fairlie ultimately decided on holding to 
 her engagement, my necessary personal communica- 
 tion with her, before I drew her settlement, would be- 
 come something like a downright impossibility ; and 
 we should be obliged to commit to writing questions 
 which ought always to be discussed on both sides by 
 word of mouth. I said nothing' about this difficulty, 
 until Sir Percival had been consulted on the subject of 
 the desired delay. He was too gallant a gentleman 
 not to grant the request immediately. When Miss 
 Halcombe informed me of this, I told her that I must 
 absolutely speak to her sister, before I left Limmeridge ; 
 and it was, therefore, arranged that I should see Miss 
 Fairhe in her own sitting-room, the next morning. 
 She did not come down to dinner, or join us in the 
 evening. Indisposition was the excuse ; and I thought 
 Sir Percival looked, as well he might, a little annoyed 
 when he heard of it. 
 
 The next morning, as soon as breakfast was over, I 
 went up to Miss Fairlie's sitting-room. The poor girl 
 looked so pale and sad, and came forward to welcome
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 227 
 
 me so readily and prettily, that the resolution to lec- 
 ture her on her caprice and indecision, which I had 
 been forming all the way up-stairs, failed me on the 
 spot. I led her back to the chair from which she had 
 risen, and placed myself opposite to her. Her cross- 
 grained pet greyhound was in the room, and I fully 
 expected a barking and snapping reception. Strange 
 to say, the whimsical little brute falsified my expecta- 
 tions by jumping into my lap, and poking its sharp 
 muzzle familiarly into my hand the moment I sat 
 down. 
 
 " You used often to sit on my knee when you were 
 a child, my dear," I said, " and now your little dog 
 seems determined to succeed you in the vacant throne. 
 Is that pretty drawing your doing ?" 
 
 I pointed to a little album, which lay on the table 
 by her side, and which she had evidently been looking 
 over when I came in. The page that lay open had a 
 small water-colour landscape very neatly mounted on 
 it. This was the drawing which had suggested my 
 question : an idle question enough — but how could I 
 begin to talk of business to her the moment I opened 
 my lips ? 
 
 '^ No," she said, looking away from the drawing 
 rather confusedly ; " it is not my doing." 
 
 Her fingers had a restless habit, which I re- 
 membered in her, as a child, of always playing with 
 the first thing that came to hand, whenever any one 
 was talking to her. On this occasion they wandered
 
 228 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 to the album, and toyed absently about the margin of 
 the little water-colour drawing. 7"he expression of 
 melancholy deepened on her face. She did not look 
 at the drawing, or look at me. Her eyes moved un- 
 easily from object to object in the room ; betraying 
 plainly that she suspected what my purpose was in 
 coming to speak to her. Seeing that, I thought it 
 best to get to the purpose with as little delay as 
 possible. 
 
 " One of the errands, my dear, which brings me 
 here is to bid you good-by," I began. " I must get 
 back to London to-day ; and, before I leave, I want to 
 have a word with you on the subject of your own 
 affairs." 
 
 " I am very sorry you are going, Mr. Gilmore," 
 she said, looking at me kindly. " It is like the happy 
 old times to have you here." 
 
 " I hope I may be able to come back, and recall 
 those pleasant memories once more," I continued ; 
 "but as there is some uncertainty about the future, 
 I must take my opportunity when I can get it, and 
 speak to you now. I am your old lawyer and your 
 old friend ; and I may remind you, I ^m sure, without 
 offence, of the possibility of your marrying Sir Percival 
 Glyde." 
 
 She took her hand off the little album as suddenly 
 as if it had turned hot and burnt her. Her fingers 
 twined together nervously in her lap ; her eyes 
 looked down again at the floor ; and an expression of
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 229 
 
 constraint settled on her face which looked almost like 
 an expression of pain. 
 
 " Is it absolutely necessary to speak of my marriage 
 engagement ?" she asked, in low tones. 
 
 " It is necessary to refer to it," I answered ; "but 
 not to dwell on it. Let us merely say that you may 
 marry, or that you may not marry. In the first case, 
 I must be prepared, beforehand, to draw your settle- 
 ment ; and I ought not to do that without, as a matter 
 of politeness, first consulting you. This may be my 
 only chance of hearing what your wishes are. Let us, 
 therefore, suppose the case of your marrying, and let 
 me inform you, in as few words as possible, what your 
 position is now, and what you may make it, if you 
 please, in the future." 
 
 I explained to her the object of a marriage-settle- 
 ment ; and then told her exactly what her prospects 
 were — in the first place, on her coming of age, and, 
 in the second place, on the decease of her uncle — 
 marking the distinction between the property in which 
 she had a life interest only, and the property which 
 was left at her own control. She listened attentively, 
 with the constrained expression still on her face, and 
 her hands still nervously clasped together in her lap. 
 
 " And, now," I said, in conclusion, " tell me if you 
 can think of any condition which, in the case we have 
 supposed, you would wish me to make for you — 
 subject, of course, to your guardian's approval, as you 
 are not yet of age."
 
 230 THE WOMAN IN YvHITE. 
 
 She moved uneasily in her chair — then looked in 
 my face, on a sudden, very earnestly. 
 
 " If it does happen," she began, faintly ; " if I 
 am 
 
 " If you are married," I added, helping her out. 
 
 " Don't let him part me from Marian," she cried, 
 with a sudden outbreak of energy. *' Oh, Mr. Gil- 
 more, pray make it law that Marian is to live with me !" 
 
 Under other circumstances, I might perhaps have 
 been amused at this essentially feminine interpretation 
 of my question, and of the long explanation which had 
 preceded it. But her looks and tones, when she spoke, 
 were of a kind to make me more than serious — they 
 distressed me. Her words, few as they were, be- 
 trayed a desperate clinging to the past which boded ill 
 for the future. 
 
 " Your having Marian Halcombe to live with you, 
 can easily be settled by private arrangement," I said. 
 " You hardly understood my question, I think. It 
 referred to your own property — to the disposal of your 
 money. Supposing you were to make a will, when you 
 come of age, who would you like the money to go to ?" 
 
 " Marian has been mother and sister both to me," 
 said the good, affectionate girl, her pretty blue eyes 
 glistening while she spoke. " May I leave it to Marian, 
 Mr. Gilmore ?" 
 
 " Certainly, my love," I answered. " But remem- 
 ber what a large sum it is. Would you like it all to 
 go to Miss Halcombe ?"
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 231 
 
 She hesitated ; her colour came and went ; and her 
 hand stole back again to the little album. 
 
 " Not all of it," she said. " There is some one 
 else, besides Marian " 
 
 She stopped ; her colour heightened ; and the fingers 
 of the hand that rested upon the album beat gently 
 on the margin of the drawing, as if her memory had 
 set them going mechanically with the remembrance 
 of a favourite tune. 
 
 " You mean some other member of the family 
 besides Miss Halcombe ?" I suggested, seeing her at 
 a loss to proceed. 
 
 The heightening colour spread to her forehead and 
 her neck, and the nervous fingers suddenly clasped 
 themselves fast round the edge of the book. ^ 
 
 " There is some one else," she said, not noticing 
 my last words, though she had evidently heard them ; 
 " there is some one else who might like a little keep- 
 sake, if — ^if I might leave it. There would be no 
 harm, if I should die first " 
 
 She paused again. The colour that had spread 
 over her cheeks suddenly, as suddenly left them. The 
 hand on the album resigned its hold, trembled a 
 little, and moved the book away from her. She 
 looked at me for an instant — then turned her head 
 aside in the chair. Her handkerchief fell to the floor 
 as she changed her position, and she hurriedly hid her 
 face from me in her hands. 
 
 Sad ! To remember her, as I did, the liveliest,
 
 232 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 happiest child that ever laughed the day through ; 
 and to see her now, in the flower of her age and 
 her beauty, so broken and so brought down as this ! 
 
 In the distress that she caused me, I forgot the 
 years that had passed, and the change they had made 
 in our position towards one another. I moved my 
 chair close to her, and picked up her handkerchief 
 from the carpet, and drew her hands from her face 
 gently. " Don't cry, my love," I said, and dried the 
 tears that were gathering in her eyes, with my own 
 hand, as if she had been the little Laura Fairlie of ten 
 long years ago. 
 
 It was the best way I could have taken to compose 
 her. She laid her head on my shoulder, and smiled 
 faintly through her tears. 
 
 " I am very sorry for forgetting myself," she said, 
 artlessly. " I have not been well — I have felt sadly 
 weak and nervous lately ; and I often cry without 
 reason when I am alone. I am better now ; I can 
 answer you as I ought, Mr. Gilmore, I can indeed." 
 
 " No, no, my dear," I replied ; " we will consider 
 the subject as done with, for the present. You have 
 said enough to sanction my taking the best possible 
 care of your interests ; and we can settle details at 
 another opportunity. Let us have done with business, 
 now, and talk of something else." 
 
 I led her at once into speaking on other topics. 
 In ten minutes' time, she was in better spirits ; and I 
 rose to take my leave.
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 233 
 
 '' Come here again," she said earnestly. " I will 
 try to be worthier of your kind feeling for me and for 
 my interests if you wall only come again." 
 
 Still clinging to the past — that past which I repre- 
 sented to her, in my way, as Miss Halcombe did in 
 hers ! It troubled me sorely to see her looking back, 
 at the beginning of her career, just as I look back at 
 the end of mine. 
 
 " If I do come again, I hope I shall find you better," 
 I said — " better and happier. God bless you, my 
 dear !" 
 
 She only answered by putting up her cheek to me 
 to be kissed. Even lawyers have hearts ; and mine 
 ached a little as I took leave of her. 
 
 The whole interview between us had hardly lasted 
 more than half an hour — she had not breathed a word, in 
 my presence, to explain the mystery of her evident 
 distress and dismay at the prospect of her marriage — 
 and yet she had contrived to win me over to her side 
 of the question, I neither knew how nor why. I had 
 entered the room, feeling that Sir Percival Glyde had 
 fair reason to complain of the manner in which she was 
 treating him. I left it, secretly hoping that matters 
 might end in her taking him at his word and claiming 
 her release. A man of my age and experience ought 
 to have known better than to vacillate in this unrea- 
 sonable manner. I can make no excuse for myself ; 
 I can only tell the truth, and say — so it was. 
 
 The hour for my departure was now drawing near.
 
 234 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 I sent to Mr. Fairlie to say that I would wait on him 
 to take leave if he liked, but that he must excuse my 
 being rather in a hurry. He sent a message back, 
 written in pencil on a slip of paper : " Kind love and 
 best wishes, dear Gilmore. Hurry of any kind is in- 
 expressibly injurious to me. Pray take care of your- 
 self Good-by." 
 
 Just before I left, I saw Miss Halcombe, for a 
 moment, alone. 
 
 " Have you said all you wanted to Laura ?" she 
 asked. 
 
 " Yes," I replied. " She is very weak and nervous 
 — I am glad she has you to take care of her." 
 
 Miss Halcombe^s sharp eyes studied my face atten- 
 tively. 
 
 '* You are altering your opinion about Laura," she 
 said. *'You are readier to make allowances for her 
 than you were yesterday." 
 
 No sensible man ever engages, unprepared, in a 
 fencing match of words with a woman. I only 
 answered : 
 
 " Let me know what happens. I will do nothing till 
 1 hear from you." 
 
 She still looked hard in my face. " I wish it was all 
 over, and well over, Mr. Gilmore — and so do you." 
 With those words she left me. 
 
 Sir Percival most politely insisted on seeing me to 
 the carriage door. 
 
 "If you are ever in my neighbourhood," he said,
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 235. 
 
 *'pray don't forget that I am sincerely anxious to 
 improve our acquaintance. The tried and trusted old 
 friend of this family will be always a welcome visitor 
 in any house of mine." 
 
 A really irresistible man — courteous, considerate, 
 delightfully free from pride — a gentleman, every inch 
 of him. As I drove away to the station, I felt as if 1 
 could cheerfully do anything to promote the interests 
 of Sir Percival Glyde — anything in the world, except 
 drawing the marriage-settlement of his wife.
 
 236 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 III. 
 
 A WEEK passed, after my return to London, without 
 the receipt of any communication from Miss Hal- 
 combe. 
 
 On the eighth day, a letter in her handwriting was 
 placed among the other letters on my table. 
 
 It announced that Sir Percival Glyde had been 
 definitely accepted, and that the marriage was to take 
 place, as he had originally desired, before the end of 
 the year. In all probability the ceremony would be 
 performed during the last fortnight in December. 
 Miss Fairlie's twenty-first birthday was late in March. 
 She would, therefore, by this arrangement, become Sir 
 Percival's wife about three months before she was of 
 age. 
 
 I ought not to have been surprised, I ought not to 
 have been sorry ; but I was surprised and sorry, never- 
 theless. Some little disappointment, caused by the 
 unsatisfactory shortness of Miss Halcombe's letter, 
 mingled itself with these feelings, and contributed its 
 share towards upsetting my serenity for the day. In 
 six lines my correspondent announced the proposed
 
 THE WOMA.N IN WHITE. 237 
 
 marriage ; in three more, she told me that Sir Percival 
 had left Cumberland to return to his house in Hamp- 
 shire ; and in two concluding sentences she informed 
 me, first, that Laura was sadly in want of change and 
 cheerful society ; secondly, that she had resolved to 
 try the effect of some such change forthwith, by 
 taking her sister away with her on a visit to certain 
 old friends in Yorkshire. There the letter ended, 
 without a word to explain what the circumstances were 
 which had decided Miss Fairlie to accept Sir Percival 
 Glyde in one short week from the time when I had 
 last seen her. 
 
 At a later period, the cause of this sudden deter- 
 mination was fully explained to me. It is not my 
 business to relate it imperfectly, on hearsay evidence. 
 The circumstances came within the personal experience 
 of Miss Halcombe ; and, when her narrative succeeds 
 mine, she will describe them in every particular, 
 exactly as they happened. In the mean time, the plain 
 duty for me to perform — before I, in my turn, lay 
 down my pen and withdraw from the story — is to 
 relate the one remaining event connected with Miss 
 Fairlie's proposed marriage, jji which I was concerned, 
 namely, the drawing of the settlement- 
 It is impossible to refer intelligibly to this document, 
 without first entering into certain particulars, in rela- 
 tion to the bride's pecuniary affairs. I will try to 
 make my explanation briefly and plainly, and to keep 
 it free from professional obscurities and technicalitie&:
 
 238 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 The matter is of the utmost importance. I warn all 
 readers of these lines that Miss Fairlie's inheritance is 
 a very serious part of Miss Fairlie's story ; and that 
 Mr. Gilmore's experience, in this particular, must be 
 their experience also, if they wish to understand the 
 narratives which are yet to come. 
 
 Miss Fairlie's expectations, then, were of a twofold 
 kind ; comprising her possible inheritance of real pro- 
 perty, or land, when her uncle died, and her absolute 
 inheritance of personal property, or money, when she 
 came of age. 
 
 Let us take the land first. 
 
 In the time of Miss Fairlie's paternal grandfather 
 (whom we will call Mr. Fairlie, the elder) the entailed 
 succession to the Limmeridge estate stood thus : 
 
 Mr. Fairlie, the elder, died and left three sons, 
 Philip, Frederick, and Arthur. As eldest son, Philip 
 succeeded to the estate. If he died without leaving a 
 son, the property went to the second brother, Fre- 
 derick. And if Frederick died also without leaving a 
 son, the property went to the third brother, Arthur. 
 
 As events turned out, Mr. Philip Fairlie died 
 leaving an only daughter, the Laura of this story ; 
 and the estate, in consequence, went, in course of law, 
 to the second brother, Frederick, a single man. The 
 third brother, Arthur, had died many years before the 
 decease of Philip, leaving a son and a daughter. The 
 son, at the age of eighteen, was drowned at Oxford. 
 His death left I^aura, the daughter of Mr, Philip
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 239 
 
 Fairlie, presumptive heiress to the estate ; with every 
 chance of succeeding to it, in the ordinary course of 
 nature, on her uncle Frederick's death, if the said 
 Frederick died without leaving male issue. 
 
 Except in the event, then, of Mr. Frederick Fairlie's 
 marrying and leaving an heir (the two very last things 
 in the world that he was likely to do), his niece, 
 Laura, would have the property on his death ; possess- 
 ing, it must be remembered, nothing more than a life- 
 interest in it. If she died single, or died childless, 
 the estate would revert to her cousin Magdalen, the 
 daughter of Mr. Arthur Fairlie. If she married, 
 with a proper settlement — or, in other words, with the 
 settlement I meant to make for her — the income from 
 the estate (a good three thousand a year) would, 
 during her lifetime, be at her own disposal. If she 
 uied before her husband, he would naturally expect to 
 be left in the enjoyment of the income, for his lifetime. 
 If she had a son, that son would be the heir, to the 
 exclusion of her cousin Magdalen. Thus, Sir Perci- 
 val's prospects in marrying Miss Fairlie (so far as his 
 wife's expectations from real property were concerned) 
 promised him these two ad'^antages, on Mr. Frederick 
 Fairlie's death : First, the use of three thousand a 
 year (by his wife's permission, while she lived, and, in 
 his own right, on her death, if he survived her) ; and, 
 secondly, the inheritance of Lirameridge for his son, if 
 he had one. 
 
 So much for the landed property, and for the dis-
 
 240 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 posal of the income from it, on the occasion of Miss 
 Fairlie's marriage. Thus far, no difficulty or differ- 
 ence of opinion on the lady's settlement was at all 
 likely to arise between Sir Percivars lawyer and 
 myself. 
 
 The personal estate, or, in other words, the money 
 to which Miss Fairlie would become entitled on reach- 
 ing the age of twenty-one years, is the next point to 
 consider. 
 
 This part of her inheritance was, in itself, a com- 
 fortable little fortune. It was derived under her 
 father's will, and it amounted to the sum of twenty 
 thousand pounds. Besides this, she had a life-interest 
 in ten thousand pounds more ; which latter amount 
 was to go on her decease, to her aunt Eleanor, her 
 father's only sister. It will greatly assist in setting 
 the family affairs before the reader in the clearest 
 possible light, if I stop here for a moment, to explain 
 why the aunt had been kept waiting for her legacy 
 until the death of the niece. 
 
 Mr. Philip Fairlie had lived on excellent terms with 
 his sister Eleanor, as long as she remained a single 
 woman. But when her marriage took place, some- 
 what late in life, and when that marriage united her 
 to an Italian gentleman, named Fosco — or, rather, to 
 an Italian nobleman, seeing that he rejoiced in the 
 title of Count — Mr. Fairlie disapproved of her conduc 
 so strongly that he ceased to hold any communication 
 with her, and even went the length of striking her
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 241 
 
 name out of his will. The other members of the 
 family all thought this serious manifestation of resent- 
 ment at his sister's marriage more or less unreason- 
 able. Count Fosco, though not a rich man, was not a 
 penniless adventurer either. He had a small, but 
 sufficient income of his own ; he had lived many years 
 in England ; and he held an excellent position in 
 society. These recommendations, however, availed 
 nothing with Mr. Fairlie. In many of his opinions he 
 was an Englishman of the old school ; and he hated a 
 foreigner, simply and solely because he was a foreigner. 
 The utmost that he could be prevailed on to do, in 
 after years, mainly at Miss Fairlie's intercession, was 
 to restore his sister's name to its former place in his 
 will, but to keep her waiting for her legacy by giving 
 the income of the money to his daughter for life, and 
 the money itself, if her aunt died before her, to her 
 cousin Magdalen. Considering the relative ages of 
 the two ladies, the aunt's chance, in the ordinary 
 course of nature, of receiving the ten thousand pounds, 
 was thus rendered doubtful in the extreme ; and 
 Madame Fosco resented her brother's treatment of her 
 as unjustly as usual in such cases, by refusing to see 
 her niece, and declining to believe that Miss Fairlie's 
 intercession had ever been exerted to restore her name 
 to Mr. Fairlie's will. 
 
 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 
 
 VOL. L M
 
 242 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 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-settle- 
 ment. 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,
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 243 
 
 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 mar- 
 riage. 
 
 After a lapse of two days, the document was re- 
 turned 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 tlie twenty thou- 
 sand pounds was to go to Miss Halcombe, or to any 
 other relative or friend of Lady Clyde'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 
 
 M 2
 
 244 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 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 dead-lock," and nothing was left 
 for it but to refer to our clients on either side. 
 
 As matters stood, my client — Miss Fairlie not hav- 
 ing yet completed her twenty-first year — was her 
 guardian, Mr. Freuerick Fairlie. 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 enor- 
 mous, 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,
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 245 
 
 and proved to be wandering and irrelevant in the ex- 
 treme. Turned into plain English, it practically ex- 
 pressed 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 ? \A^as 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. Merri'man, 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
 
 246 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 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 re- 
 sponsibility 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 hav- 
 ing 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 or 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 alterna- 
 tive." He walked to the fireplace, and warmed him- 
 self, 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
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 247 
 
 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, recognizing 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 - eleven - pence - 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 ;
 
 248 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 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 Some- 
 body 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. Merri- 
 man. " 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 })ut 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
 
 THE WOMAI^ IN WHITE. 249 
 
 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 bache- 
 lor, towards a daughter of my own ; and I was deter- 
 mined to spare no personal sacrifice in her service and 
 where her interests were concerned. AYriting 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 re- 
 monstrating 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 Cumber- 
 land, 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
 
 250 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 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. Wal- 
 ter 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. " 1 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 pri- 
 vate affairs ; and I determined to drop him, as easily 
 as might be, on the subject of Miss Fairlie's marriage.
 
 I 
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 251 
 
 '* 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 
 want a change of scene and occupation. You have a 
 large circle of acquaintance, Mr. Gilm^ore. If you 
 should hear of any expedition abroad which may be in 
 want of a draughtsman, and if you have no friend of 
 your own who can take advantage of the opportunity, 
 I should feel greatly obliged by your letting me know 
 of it. I can answer for my testimonials being satis- 
 factory ; and 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. 
 
 "If I hear of anything of the kind I will not fail 
 to mention it," I said ; and then added, so as not to 
 keep him altogether at arm's length on the subject of the 
 Fairlies, " I am going down to Limmeridge to-day on
 
 252 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 business. Miss Halcombe and Miss Fairlie are away 
 just now, on a visit to some friends in Yorkshire." 
 
 His eyes brightened, and he seemed about to say 
 something in answer ; but the same momentary nervous 
 spasm crossed his face again. He took my hand, 
 pressed it hard, and disappeared among the crowd, 
 without saying another word. Though he was little 
 more than a stranger to me, I waited for a moment, 
 looking after him almost with a feeling of regret. I 
 had gained, in my profession, sufficient experience of 
 young men, to know what the outward signs and tokens 
 were of their beginning to go wrong; and, when I 
 resumed my walk to the railway, I am sorry to say I 
 felt more than doubtful about Mr. Hartright's future.
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 253 
 
 IV. 
 
 Leaving by an early train, I got to Limmeridge in 
 time for dinner. The house was oppressively empty 
 and dull. I had expected that good Mrs. Vesey would 
 have been company for me in the absence of the young 
 ladies ; but she was confined to her room by a cold. 
 The servants were so surprised at seeing me that they 
 hurried and bustled absurdly, and made all sorts of 
 annoying mistakes. Even the butler, who was old 
 enough to have known better, brought me a bottle of 
 port that was chilled. The reports of Mr. Fairlie's 
 health were just as usual; and when I sent up a 
 message to announce my arrival, I was told that he 
 would be delighted to see me the next mornmg, but 
 that the sudden news of my appearance had prostrated 
 him with palpitations for the rest of the evening. The 
 wind howled dismally all night, and strange crackmg 
 and groaning noises sounded here, there, and every- 
 where in the empty house. I slept as wretchedly as 
 possible; and got up, in a mighty bad humour, to 
 breakfast by myself the next morning. 
 
 At ten o'clock I was conducted to Mr. Fairlie's
 
 254 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 apartments. He was in his usual room, his usual 
 chair, and his usual aggravating state of mind and 
 body. When I went in, his valet was standing before 
 him, holding up for inspection a heavy volume of 
 etchings, as long and as broad as my office writing- 
 desk. The miserable foreigner grinned in the most 
 abject manner, and looked ready to drop with fatigue, 
 while his master composedly turned over the etchings, 
 and brought their hidden beauties to light with the 
 help of a magnifying glass. 
 
 " You very best of good old friends," said Mr. 
 Fairlie, leaning back lazily before he could look at 
 me, " are you quite well ? How nice of you to come 
 here and see me in my solitude. Dear Gilmore !" 
 
 I had expected that the valet would be dismissed 
 when 1 appeared ; but nothing of the sort happened. 
 There he stood, in front of his master's chair, trembling 
 under the weight of the etchings ; and there Mr. 
 Fairlie sat, serenely twirling the magnifying glass be- 
 tween his white fingers and thumbs. 
 
 " I have come to speak to you on a very important 
 matter," I said ; " and you will therefore excuse me, 
 if I suggest that we had better be alone." 
 
 The unfortunate valet looked at me gratefully. 
 Mr. Fairlie faintly repeated my last three words, 
 *' better be alone," with every appearance of the 
 utmost possible astonishment. 
 
 I was in no humour for trifling*; and I resolved to 
 make him understand what I meant.
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 255 
 
 " Oblige me by giving that man permission to with- 
 draw," I said, pointing to the valet. 
 
 Mr. Fairlie arched his eyebrows, and pursed up his 
 lips, in sarcastic surprise. 
 
 " Man ?" he repeated. " You provoking old 
 Gilmore, what can you possibly mean by calling him a 
 man? He's nothing of the sort. He might have 
 been a man half an hour ago, before I wanted my 
 etchings ; and he may be a man half an hour hence, 
 when I don't want them any longer. At present he is 
 simply a portfolio stand. Why object, Gilmore, to a 
 portfolio stand ?" 
 
 " I do object. For the third time, Mr. Fairlie, I 
 beg that we may be alone." 
 
 My tone and manner left him no alternative but to 
 comply with my request. He looked at the servant, 
 and pointed peevishly to a chair at his side. 
 
 " Put down the etchings and go away," he said. 
 '* Don't upset me by losing my place ? Have you, or 
 have you not, lost my place ? Are you sure you have 
 not ? And have you put my hand-bell quite within my 
 reach ? Yes ? Then, why the devil don't you go ?" 
 
 The valet went out. Mr. Fairlie twisted himself 
 round in his chair, polished the magnifying glass with 
 his delicate cambric handkerchief, and indulged him- 
 self with a sidelong inspection of the open volume of 
 etchings. It was not easy to keep my temper under 
 these circumstances ; but I did keep it. 
 
 "I have come here at great personal inconvenience,"
 
 256 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 I said, " to serve the interests of your niece and your 
 family ; and I think I have established some slight 
 claim to be favoured with your attention in return." 
 
 " Don't bully me !" exclaimed Mr. Fairlie, falling 
 back helplessly in the chair, and closing his eyes. 
 " Please don't bully me. I'm not strong enough." 
 
 I was determined not to let him provoke me, for 
 Laura Fairlie's sake. 
 
 *' My object," I went on, " is to entreat you to 
 reconsider your letter, and not to force me to abandon 
 the just rights of your niece, and of all who belong to 
 her. Let me state the case to you once more, and for 
 the last time." 
 
 Mr. Fairlie shook his head and sighed piteously. 
 
 " This is heartless of you, Gilmore — very heartless," 
 he said. " Never mind ; go on." 
 
 I put all the points to him carefully; I set the 
 matter before him in every conceivable light. He lay 
 back in the chair the whole time I was speaking, with 
 his eyes closed. When I had done, he opened them 
 indolently, took his silver smelling-bottle from the 
 table, and sniffed at it with an air of gentle relish. 
 
 " Good Gilmore !" he said, between the sniffs, " how 
 very nice this is of you ! How you reconcile one to 
 human nature !" 
 
 " Give me a plain answer to a plain question, Mr. 
 Fairlie. I tell you again, Sir Percival Glyde has no 
 shadow of a claim to expect more than the income of 
 the money. The money itself, if your niece has no
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 257 
 
 children, ought to be under her control, and to return 
 to her family. If you stand firm. Sir Percival must 
 give way — he must give way, I tell you, or he exposes 
 himself to the base imputation of marrying Miss 
 Fairlie entirely from mercenary motives." 
 
 Mr. Fairlie shook the silver smelling-bottle at me 
 playfully. 
 
 " You dear old Gilmore ; how you do hate rank 
 and family, don't you? How you detest Glyde, 
 because he happens to be a baronet. What a Radical 
 you are — oh, dear me, what a Ratiical you are !" 
 
 A Radical ! ! ! I could put up with a good deal of 
 provocation, but, after holding the soundest Conservative 
 principles all my life, I could not put up with being called 
 a Radical. My blood boiled at it — I started out of 
 my chair — I was speechless with indignation. 
 
 " Don't shake the room !" cried Mr. Fairlie — " for 
 Heaven's sake, don't shake the room ! Worthiest of 
 all possible Gilmores, I meant no offence. My own 
 views are so extremely liberal that I think I am a 
 Radical myself. Yes. We are a pair of Radicals. 
 Please don't be angry. I can't quarrel — I haven't 
 stamina enough. Shall we drop the subject ? Yes. 
 Come and look at these sweet etchings. Do let me 
 teach you to understand the heavenly pearliness of these 
 lines. Do, now, there's a good Gilmore I" 
 
 While he was maundering on in this way I was, for- 
 tunately for my own self-respect, returning to my 
 senses. When I spoke again I was composed enough
 
 258 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 to treat his impertinence with the silent contempt that 
 it deserved. 
 
 " You are entirely wrong, sir," I said, " in suppos- 
 ing that I speak from any prejudice against Sir Perci- 
 val Glyde. I may regret that he has so unreservedly 
 resigned himself in this matter to his lawyer's direc- 
 tion as to make any appeal to himself impossible ; but 
 I am not prejudiced against him. What I have said 
 would equally apply to any other man in his situation, 
 high or low. The principle I maintain is a recognised 
 principle. If you M^ere to apply at the nearest town 
 here, to the first respectable solicitor you could find, 
 he would tell you, as a stranger, what I tell you, as a 
 friend. He would inform you that it is against all 
 rule to abandon the lady's money entirely to the man 
 she marries. He would decline, on grounds of com- 
 mon legal caution, to give the husband, under any cir- 
 cumstances whatever, an interest of twenty thousand 
 pounds in his wife's death." 
 
 "Would he really, Gilmore?" said Mr. Fairlie. 
 " If he said anything half so horrid I do assure you I 
 should tinkle my bell for Louis, and have him sent 
 out of the house immediately." 
 
 " You shall not irritate me, Mr. Fairlie — for your 
 niece's sake and for her father's sake, you shall not 
 irritate me. You shall take the whole responsibility 
 of this discreditable settlement on your own shoulders 
 before I leave the room." 
 
 "Don't! — now please don't!" said Mr. Fairlie.
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 259 
 
 "Think how precious your time is, Gilmore ; and 
 don't throw it away. I would dispute with you if I 
 could, but I can't — I haven't stamina enough. You 
 want to upset me, to upset yourself, to upset Glyde, 
 and to upset Laura ; and — oh, dear me ! — all for the 
 sake of the very last thing in the world that is likely 
 to happen. No, dear friend — for the sake of peace 
 and quietness, positively No !" 
 
 " I am to understand, then, that you hold by the 
 determination expressed in your letter ?" 
 
 *' Yes, please. So glad we understand each other 
 at last. Sit down again — do !" 
 
 I walked at once to the door; and Mr. Fairlie 
 resignedly " tinkled " his hand-bell. Before I left the 
 room I turned round and addressed him for the last time. 
 
 " \Miatever happens in the future, sir," I said, 
 " remember that my plain duty of warning you has 
 been performed. As the faithful friend and servant 
 of your family, I tell you, at parting, that no daughter 
 of mine should be married to any man alive under 
 such a settlement as you are forcing me to make for 
 Miss Fairlie." 
 
 The door opened behind me, and the valet stood 
 waiting on the threshold. 
 
 " Louis," said Mr. Fairlie, " show Mr. Gilmore out, 
 and then come back and hold up my etchings for me 
 again. Make them give you a good lunch down stairs 
 — do, Gilmore, make my idle beasts of servants give 
 you a good lunch."
 
 200 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 I was too much disgusted to reply ; I turned on my 
 heel, and left him in silence. There was an up train 
 at two o'clock in the afternoon ; and by that train I 
 returned to London. 
 
 On the Tuesday I sent in the altered settlement, 
 which practically disinherited the very persons whom 
 Miss Fairlie's own lips had informed me she was most 
 anxious to benefit. 1 had no choice. Another lawyer 
 would have drawn up the deed if I had refused to un- 
 dertake it. 
 
 My task is done. My personal share in the events 
 of the family story extends no farther than the point 
 which I have just reached. Other pens than mine will 
 describe the strange circumstances which are now 
 shortly to follow. Seriously and sorrowfully, I close 
 this brief record. Seriously and sorrowfully, I repeat 
 here the parting words that I spoke at Limmeridge 
 House : — No daughter of mine should have been mar- 
 ried to any man alive under such a settlement as I was 
 compelled to make for Laura Fairlie.
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 261 
 
 THE STORY CONTINUED 
 
 BY 
 
 MARIAN HALCOMBE, 
 
 IN EXTRACTS FROM HER DIARY.
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 263 
 
 1^ * * * * I 
 
 Limmeridge House, Nov. 8th. 
 This morning Mr. Gilmore left us. 
 
 His interview with Laura had evidently grieved and 
 surprised him more than he liked to confess. I felt 
 afraid, from his look and manner when we parted, 
 that she might have inadvertently betrayed to him the 
 real secret of her depression and of my anxiety. This 
 doubt grew on me so, after he had gone, that I de- 
 clined riding out with Sir Percival, and went up to 
 Laura's room instead. 
 
 1 have been sadly distrustful of myself, in this diffi- 
 cult and lamentable matter, ever since I found out my 
 own ignorance of the strength of Laura's unhappy at- 
 tachment. I ought to have known that the delicacy 
 and forbearance and sense of honour which drew me 
 to poor Hartright, and made me so sincerely admire 
 and respect him, were just the qualities to appeal most 
 
 t The passages omitted, here and elsewhere, in Miss Hal- 
 combe's Diary, are only those which bear no reference to Miss 
 Fairlie or to any of the persons with whom she is associated in 
 these pages.
 
 264 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 irresistibly to Laura's natural sensitiveness and natural 
 generosity of nature. And yet, until she opened her 
 heart to me of her own accord, I had no suspicion that 
 this new feeling had taken root so deeply. I once 
 thought time and care might remove it. I now fear 
 that it will remain with her and alter her for life. The 
 discovery that I have committed such an error in 
 judgment as this, makes me hesitate about everything 
 else. I hesitate about Sir Percival, in the face of the 
 plainest proofs. I hesitate even in speaking to Laura. 
 On this very morning, I doubted, with my hand on the 
 door, whether I should ask her the questions I had 
 come to put, or not. 
 
 When I went into her room, I found her walking up 
 and down in great impatience. She looked flushed 
 and excited ; and she came forward at once, and spoke 
 to me before I could open my lips. 
 
 " I wanted you," she said. " Come and sit down on 
 the sofa with me. Marian ! I can bear this no longer 
 — I must and will end it." 
 
 There was too much colour in her cheeks, too much 
 energy in her manner, too much firmness in her voice. 
 The little book of Hartright's drawings — the fatal 
 book that she will dream over whenever she is alone — 
 was in one of her hands. I began by gently and 
 firmly taking it from her, and putting it out of sight on 
 a side-table. 
 
 " Tell me quietly, my darling, what you wish to do, ' 
 I said. " Has Mr. Gilmore been advising you ?"
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 265 
 
 She shook her head. " No, not in what I am think- 
 ing of now. He was very kind and good to me, 
 Marian, — and I am ashamed to say I distressed him 
 by. crying. I am miserably helpless ; I can't control 
 myself. For my own sake and for all our sakes, I 
 must have courage enough to end it." 
 
 " Do you mean courage enough to claim your re- 
 lease ?" I asked. 
 
 '' No," she said, simply. " Courage, dear, to tell 
 the truth." 
 
 She put her arms round my neck, and rested her 
 head quietly on my bosom. On the opposite wall 
 hung the miniature portrait of her father. I bent over 
 her, and saw that she was looking at it while her head 
 lay on my breast. 
 
 " I can never claim my release from my engage- 
 ment," she went on. " Whatever way it ends, it must 
 end wretchedly for me. All I can do, Marian, is not 
 to add the remembrance that I have broken my pro- 
 mise and forgotten my father's dying words, to make 
 that wretchedness worse." 
 
 " What is it you propose, then ?" I asked. 
 
 " To tell Sir Percival Glyde the truth, with my own 
 lips," she answered, " and to let him release rae, if he 
 will, not because I ask him, but because he knows all." 
 
 " What do you mean, Laura, by ' all ?' Sir Per- 
 cival will know enough (he has told me so himself) if 
 he knows that the engagement is opposed to your own 
 wishes." 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 266 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 "Can I tell him that, when the engagement was 
 made for me by my father, with my own consent ? I 
 should have kept my promise ; not happily, I am afraid, 
 but still contentedly — " she stopped, turned her face to 
 me, and laid her cheek close against mine — " I should 
 have kept my engagement, Marian, if another love 
 had not grown up in my heart, which was not there 
 when I first promised to be Sir Percival's wife." 
 
 " Laura ! you will never lower yourself by making a 
 confession to him ?" 
 
 " I shall lower myself, indeed, if 1 gain my release 
 by hiding from him what he has a right to know." 
 
 " He has not the shadow of a right to know it !" 
 
 " Wrong, Marian, wrong ! I ought to deceive no 
 one — least of all the man to whom my father gave me, 
 and to whom I gave myself" She put her lips to 
 mine, and kissed me. " My own love," she said, 
 softly, " you are so much too fond of me and so much 
 too proud of me, that you forget, in my case, what you 
 w^ould remember in your own. Better that Sir Per- 
 cival should doubt my motives and misjudge my con- 
 duct if he will, than that I should be first false to him 
 in thought, and then mean enough to serve my own 
 interests by hiding the falsehood." 
 
 I held her away from me in astonishment. For the 
 first time in our lives, we had changed places ; the re- 
 solution was all on her side, the hesitation all on mine. 
 I looked into the pale, quiet, resigned young face ; I 
 saw the pure, innocent heart, in the loving eyes that
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 267 
 
 looked back at me — and the poor, worldly cautions 
 and objections that rose to my lips, dwindled and 
 died away in their own emptiness. I hung my head 
 in silence. In her place, the despicably small pride 
 which makes so many women deceitful, would have 
 been my pride, and would have made me deceitful, 
 too. 
 
 " Don't be angry with me, Marian," she said, mis- 
 taking ray silence. 
 
 I only answered by drawing her close to me again. 
 I was afraid of crying if I spoke. My tears do not 
 flow so easily as they ought — they come, almost like 
 men's tears, with sobs that seem to tear me in pieces, 
 and that frighten every one about me. 
 
 "I have thought of this, love, for many days," she 
 went on, twining and twisting ray hair with that 
 childish restlessness in her fingers, which poor Mrs. 
 Vesey still tries so patiently and so vainly to cure her 
 of — " I have thought of it very seriously, and I can 
 be sure of my courage, when my own conscience tells 
 me I am right. Let me speak to him to-morrow — in 
 your presence, Marian. I will say nothing that is 
 wrong, nothing that you or I need be ashamed of — 
 but, oh, it will ease my heart so to end this miserable 
 concealment ! Only let me know and feel that I have 
 no deception to answer for on my side ; and then, 
 when he has heard what I have to say, let him act 
 towards me as he will." 
 
 She sighed, and put her head back jn its old posi- 
 
 N 2
 
 268 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 tion on my bosom. Sad misgivings about what the 
 end would be, weighed upon my mind ; but, still dis- 
 trusting myself, I told her that I would do as she 
 wished. She thanked me, and we passed gradually 
 into talking of other things. 
 
 At dinner she joined us again, and was more easy 
 and more herself with Sir Percival, than I have seen 
 her yet. In the evening she went to the piano, choosing 
 new music of the dexterous, tuneless, florid kind. The 
 lovely old melodies of Mozart, which poor Hartright 
 was so fond of, she has never played since he left. 
 The book is no longer in the music-stand. She took 
 the volume away herself, so that nobody might find it 
 out and ask her to play from it. 
 
 I had no opportunity of discovering whether her 
 purpose of the morning had changed or not, until she 
 wished Sir Percival good night — and then her own 
 words informed me that it was unaltered. She said, 
 very quietly, that she wished to speak to him, after 
 breakfast, and that he would find her in her sitting- 
 room with me. He changed colour at those words, 
 and I felt his hand trembling a little when it came to 
 my turn to take it. The event of the next morning 
 would decide his future life ; and he evidently knew 
 it. 
 
 I went in, as usual, through the door between our 
 two bed-rooms, to bid Laura good-night before she 
 went to sleep. In stooping over her to kiss her, I saw 
 the little book of Hartright's drawings half hidden
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 269 
 
 under her pillow, just in the place where she used to 
 hide her favourite toys when she was a child. I could 
 not find it in my heart to say anything ; but I pointed 
 to the book and shook my head. She reached both 
 hands up to my cheeks, and drew my face down to 
 hers till our lips met. 
 
 " Leave it there to-night," she whispered ; "to- 
 morrow may be cruel, and may make me say good-by 
 to it for ever." 
 
 9th. — The first event of the morning was not of a 
 kind to raise my spirits ; a letter arrived for me, from 
 poor Walter Hartright. It is the answer to mine, de 
 scribing the manner in which Sir Percival cleared 
 himself of the suspicions raised by Anne Catherick's 
 letter. He writes shortly and bitterly about Sir 
 Percival's explanations ; only saying that he has no 
 right to offer an opinion on the conduct of those who 
 are above him. This is sad ; but his occasional 
 references to himself grieve me still more. He says 
 that the effort to return to his old habits and pursuits, 
 grows harder instead of easier to him, every day ; and 
 he implores me, if I have any interest, to exert it to 
 get him employment that will necessitate his absence 
 from England, and take him among new scenes and 
 new people. I have been made all the readier to 
 comply with this request, by a passage at the end of 
 his letter, which has almost alarmed me. 
 
 After mentioning that he has neither seen nor heard
 
 270 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 anything of Anne Catherick, he suddenly breaks off, 
 and hints in the most abrupt, mysterious manner, that 
 he has been perpetually watched and followed by 
 strange men ever since he returned to London. He 
 acknowledges that he cannot prove this extraordinary 
 suspicion by fixing on any particular persons ; but he 
 declares that the suspicion itself is present to him 
 night and day. This has frightened me, because it 
 looks as if his one fixed idea about Laura was be- 
 coming too much for his mind. I will write im- 
 mediately to some of my mother's influential old 
 friends in London, and press his claims on their notice. 
 Change of scene and change of occupation may really 
 be the salvation of him at this crisis in his life. 
 
 Greatly to my relief, Sir Percival sent an apology 
 for not joining us at breakfast. He had taken an early 
 cup of coffee in his own room, and he was still en- 
 gaged there in writing letters. At eleven o'clock, if 
 that hour was convenient, he would do himself the 
 honour of waiting on Miss Fairlie and Miss Hal- 
 combe. 
 
 My eyes were on Laura's face while the message 
 was being delivered. I had found her unaccountably 
 quiet and composed on going into her room in the 
 morning ; and so she remained all through breakfast. 
 Even when we were sitting together on the sofa in her 
 room, waiting for Sir Percival, she still preserved her 
 self-control. 
 
 " Don't be afraid of me, Marian," was all she said :
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 271 
 
 " I may forget myself with an old friend like Mr. Gil- 
 more, or with a dear sister like you ; but I will not 
 forget myself with Sir Percival Glyde." 
 
 I looked at her, and listened to her in silent sur- 
 prise. Through all the years of our close intimacy, 
 this passive force in her character had been hidden 
 from me — hidden even from herself, till love found it, 
 and suffering called it forth. 
 
 As the clock on the mantelpiece struck eleven, Sir 
 Percival knocked at the door, and came in. There 
 was suppressed anxiety and agitation in every line of 
 his face. The dry, sharp cough, which teases him at 
 most times, seemed to be troubling him more inces- 
 santly than ever. He sat down opposite to us at the 
 table ; and Laura remained by me. I looked atten- 
 tively at them both, and he was the palest of the two. 
 
 He said a few unimportant words, with a visible 
 effort to preserve his customary ease of manner. But 
 his voice was not to be steadied, and the restless 
 uneasiness in his eyes was not to be concealed. He 
 must have felt this himself; for he stopped in the 
 middle of a sentence, and gave up even the attempt to 
 hide his embarrassment any longer. 
 
 There was just one moment of dead silence before 
 Laura addressed him. 
 
 " I wish to speak to you, Sir Percival," she said, 
 " on a subject that is very important to us both. My 
 sister is here, because her presence helps me, and 
 gives me confidence. She has not suggested one word
 
 272 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 of what I am going to say : I speak from my own 
 thoughts, not from hers. I am sure you will be kind 
 enough to understand that, before I go any farther?" 
 
 Sir Percival bowed. She had proceeded thus far, 
 with perfect outward tranquillity, and perfect pro- 
 priety of manner. She looked at him, and he looked 
 at her. They seemed, at the outset at least, resolved 
 to understand one another plainly. 
 
 ''I have heard from Marian," she went on, "that I 
 have only to claim my release from our engagement, 
 to obtain that release from you. It was forbearing 
 and generous on your part, Sir Percival, to send me 
 such a message. It is only doing you justice to say 
 that I am grateful for the offer ; and I hope and 
 believe that it is only doing myself justice to tell you 
 that I decline to accept it." 
 
 His attentive face relaxed a little. But I saw one 
 of his feet, softly, quietly, incessantly beating on the 
 carpet under the table ; and I felt that he was secretly 
 as anxious as ever. 
 
 " I have not forgotten," she said, "that you asked 
 my father's permission before you honoured me with a 
 proposal of marriage. Perhaps, you have not forgot- 
 ten, either, what I said when I consented to our 
 engagement ? I ventured to tell you that my father's 
 influence and advice had mainly decided me to give 
 you my promise. I was guided by my father, because 
 I had always found him the truest of all advisers, the 
 best and fondest of all protectors and friends. I have
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 273 
 
 lost him now ; I have only his memory to love ; but 
 my faith in that dear dead friend has never been 
 shaken. I believe, at this moment, as truly as I ever 
 believed, that he knew what was best, and that his 
 hopes and wishes ought to be my hopes and wishes 
 too." 
 
 Her voice trembled, for the first time. Her restless 
 fingers stole their way into my lap, and held fast by 
 one of my hands. There was another moment of 
 silence ; and then Sir Percival spoke. 
 
 " May I ask," he said, " if I have ever proved myself 
 unworthy of the trust, which it has been hitherto my 
 greatest honour and greatest happiness to possess?" 
 
 " I have found nothing in your conduct to blame," 
 she answered. " You have always treated me with 
 the same delicacy and the same forbearance. You 
 have deserved my trust; and, what is of far more 
 importance in my estimation, you have deserved my 
 father's trust, out of which mine grew. You have 
 given me no excuse, even if I had wanted to find one, 
 for asking to be released from my pledge. What I 
 have said so far, has been spoken with the wish to 
 acknowledge my whole obligation to you. My regard 
 for that obligation, my regard for my father's memory, 
 and my regard for my own promise, all forbid me to 
 set the example, on my side, of withdrawing from our 
 present position. The breaking of our engagement 
 must be entirely your wish and your act, Sir Percival 
 
 N 3
 
 274 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 The uneasy beating of his foot suddenly stopped ; 
 and he leaned forward eagerly across the table. 
 
 "My act?" he said. " What reason can there be, 
 on my side, for withdrawing ?" 
 
 I heard her breath quickening ; I felt her hand grow- 
 ing cold. In spite of what she had said to me, when we 
 were alone, I began to be afraid of her. I was wrong. 
 
 " A reason that it is very hard to tell you," she 
 answered. " There is a change in me. Sir Percival — 
 a change which is serious enough to justify you, to 
 yourself and to me, in breaking off .our engagement." 
 
 His face turned so pale again, that even his lips 
 lost their colour. He raised the arm which lay on the 
 table ; turned a little away in his chair ; and supported 
 his head on his hand, so that his profile only was pre- 
 sented to us. 
 
 " What change ?" he asked. The tone in which he 
 put the question jarred on me — there was something 
 painfully suppressed in it. 
 
 She sighed heavily, and leaned towards me a little, 
 so as to rest her shoulder against mine. I felt her 
 trembling, and tried to spare her by speaking myself. 
 She stopped me by a warning pressure of her hand, 
 and then addressed Sir Percival once more ; but, this 
 time, without looking at him. 
 
 '^ I have heard," she said, "andl believe it, that 
 the fondest and truest of all affections is the affection 
 which a woman ought to bear to her husband. When 
 our engagement began, that affection was mine to give,
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 275 
 
 if I could, and yours to win, if you could. Will you 
 pardon me, and spare rae, Sir Percival, if 1 acknow- 
 ledge that it is not so any longer ?" 
 
 A few tears gathered in her eyes, and dropped over 
 her cheeks slowly, as she paused and waited for his 
 answer. He did not utter a word. At the beginning 
 of her reply, he had moved the hand on which his head 
 rested, so that it hid his face. I saw nothing but the 
 upper part of his figure at the table. Not a muscle of 
 him moved. The fingers of the hand which supported 
 his head were dented deep in his hair. They might 
 have expressed hidden anger, or hidden grief — it was 
 hard to say which — there was no significant trembling 
 in them. There was nothing, absolutely nothing to tell 
 the secret of his thoughts at that moment — the moment 
 which was the crisis of his life and the crisis of hers. 
 
 I v/as determined to make him declare himself, for 
 Laura's sake. 
 
 "Sir Percival!" I interposed, sharply ; "have you 
 nothing to say, when my sister has said so much ? 
 More, in my opinion," I added, my unlucky temper 
 getting the better of me, "than any man alive, in 
 your position, has a right to hear from her." 
 
 That last rash sentence opened a way for him by 
 which to escape me if he chose ; and he instantly took 
 advantage of it. 
 
 " Pardon me. Miss Halcombe," he said, still keeping 
 his hand over his face — " pardon me, if I remind you 
 that I have claimed no such right,"
 
 276 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 The few plain words which would have brought him 
 back to the point from which he had wandered, were 
 just on my lips, when Laura checked me by speaking 
 again. 
 
 " I hope I have not made my painful acknowledg- 
 ment in vain," she continued. " I hope it has secured 
 me your entire confidence in what I have still to say ?" 
 
 "Pray be assured of it." He made that brief 
 reply, warmly ; dropping his hand on the table, while 
 he spoke, and turning towards us again. Whatever 
 outward change had passed over him, was gone now. 
 His face was eager and expectant — it expressed 
 nothing but the most intense anxiety to hear her next 
 words. 
 
 " I wish you to understand that I have not spoken 
 from any selfish motive," she said. " If you leave me, 
 Sir Percival, after what you have just heard, you do 
 not leave me to marry another man — you only allow 
 me to remain a single woman for the rest of my life. 
 My fault towards you has begun and ended in my own 
 thoughts. It can never go any farther. No word has 
 
 passed " She hesitated, in doubt about the 
 
 expression she should use next; hesitated, in a mo- 
 mentary confusion which it was very sad and very 
 painful to see. " No word has passed," she patiently 
 and resolutely resumed, " between myself and the 
 person to whom I am now referring for the first and 
 last time in your presence, of my feelings towards him, 
 or of his feelings towards me — no word ever can pass
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 277 
 
 — neither he nor I are likely, in this world, to meet 
 again. I earnestly heg you to spare me from saying 
 any more, and to believe me, on my word, in what I 
 have just told you. It is the truth, Sir Percival — the 
 truth which I think my promised husband has a claim 
 to hear, at any sacrifice of my own feelings. I trust 
 to bis generosity to pardon me, and to his honour to 
 keep my secret." 
 
 *' Both those trusts are sacred to me," he said, " and 
 both shall be sacredly kept." 
 
 After answering in those terms, he paused, and 
 looked at her, as if he was waiting to hear more. 
 
 " I have said all I wish to say," she added, quietly — 
 " I have said more than enough to justify you in with- 
 drawing from your engagement." 
 
 " You have said more than enough," he answered, 
 " to make it the dearest object of my life to tej9 the 
 engagement." With those words he rose from his 
 chair, and advanced a few steps towards the place 
 where she was sitting. 
 
 She started violently, and a faint cry of surprise 
 escaped her. Every word she had spoken had inno- 
 cently betrayed her purity and truth to a man who 
 thoroughly understood the priceless value of a pure 
 and true woman. Her own noble conduct had been 
 the hidden enemy, throughout, of all the hopes she 
 had trusted to it. I had dreaded this from the first. 
 I would have prevented it, if she had allowed me the 
 smallest chance of doing so. I even waited and
 
 278 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 watched, now, when the harm was done, for a word 
 from Sir Percival that would give me the opportunity 
 of putting him in the wrong. 
 
 " You have left it to me, Miss Fairlie, to resign 
 you," he continued. " I am not heartless enough to 
 resign a woman who has just shown herself to be the 
 noblest of her sex." 
 
 He spoke with such warmth and feeling, with such 
 passionate enthusiasm and yet with such perfect 
 deUcacy, that she raised her head, flushed up a little, 
 and looked at him with sudden animation and spirit. 
 
 "No!" she said, firmly. "The most wretched of 
 her sex, if she must give herself in marriage when she 
 cannot give her love." 
 
 *' May she not give it in the future," he asked, " if 
 the one object of her husband's life is to deserve it?" 
 
 "Never!" she answered. "If you still persist in 
 maintaining our engagement, I may be your true and 
 faithful wife. Sir Percival — your loving wife, if I know 
 my own heart, never !" 
 
 She looked so irresistibly beautiful as she said 
 those brave words that no man alive could have steeled 
 his heart against her. I tried hard to feel that Sir 
 Percival was to blame, and to say so ; but my woman- 
 hood would pity him, in spite of myself. 
 
 " I gratefully accept your faith and truth," he said. 
 *• The least that you can offer is more to me than the 
 utmost that I could hope for from any other woman in 
 the world '
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 279 
 
 Her left hand still held mine ; but her right hand 
 hung listlessly at her side. He raised it gently to his 
 lips — touched it with them, rather than kissed it-^ 
 bowed to me — and then, with perfect delicacy and dis- 
 cretion, silently quitted the room. 
 
 She neither moved, nor said a word, when he was 
 gone — she sat by me, cold and still, with her eyes fixed 
 on the ground. I saw it was hopeless and useless to 
 speak ; and I only put my arm round her, and held 
 her to me in silence. We remained together so, for 
 what seemed a long and weary time — so long and so 
 weary, that I grew uneasy and spoke to her softly, in 
 the hope of producing a change. 
 
 The sound of my voice seemed to startle her into 
 consciousness. She suddenly drew herself away from 
 me, and rose to her feet. 
 
 " I must submit, Marian, as well as I can," she said. 
 " My new life has its hard duties ; and one of them 
 begins to-day." 
 
 As she spoke, she went to a side-table near the 
 window, on which her sketching materials were placed ; 
 gathered them together carefully ; and put them in a 
 drawer of her cabinet. She locked the drawer, and 
 brought the key to me. 
 
 *' I must part from everything that reminds me of 
 him," she said. " Keep the key wherever you please 
 — I shall never want it again." 
 
 Before I could say a word, she had turned away to 
 her bookcase, and had taken from it the album that
 
 280 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 contained Walter Hartright's drawings. She hesitated 
 for a moment, holding the little volume fondly in her 
 hands — then lifted it to her lips and kissed it. 
 
 '* Oh, Laura! Laura!" I said, not angrily, not 
 reprovingly — with nothing but sorrow in my voice, and 
 nothing but sorrow in my heart. 
 
 " It is the last time, Marian," she pleaded. " I am 
 bidding it good-by for ever." 
 
 She laid the book on the table, and drew out the 
 comb that fastened her hair. It fell, in its matchless 
 beauty, over her back and shoulders, and dropped 
 round her, far below her waist. She separated one 
 long, thin lock from the rest, cut it off, and pinned it 
 carefully, in the form of a circle, on the first blank 
 page of the album. The moment it was fastened, she 
 closed the volume hurriedly, and placed it in my 
 hands. 
 
 " You write to him, and he writes to you," she said. 
 " While I am alive, if he asks after me, always tell him 
 I am well, and never say I am unhappy. Don't dis- 
 tress him, Marian — for my sake, don't distress him. 
 If I die first, promise you will give him this little book 
 of his drawings, with my hair in it. There can be no 
 harm, when I am gone, in telling him that I put it 
 there with my own hands. And say — oh, Marian, say 
 for me, then, what I can never say for myself — say I 
 loved him !" 
 
 She flung her arms round my neck, and whispered 
 the last words in my ear with a passionate delight in
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 281 
 
 uttering them which it almost broke my heart to hear. 
 All the long restraint she had imposed on herself, gave 
 way in that first last outburst of tenderness. She broke 
 from me with hysterical vehemence, and threw herself 
 on the sofa, in a paroxysm of sobs and tears that shook 
 her from head to foot. 
 
 I tried vainly to soothe her and reason with her ; 
 she was past being soothed, and past being reasoned 
 with. It was the sad, sudden end for us two, of this 
 memorable day. When the fit had worn itself out, she 
 was too exhausted to speak. She slumbered towards 
 the afternoon ; and I put away the book of drawings 
 so that she might not see it when she woke. My face 
 was calm, whatever my heart might be, when she 
 opened her eyes again and looked at me. We said no 
 more to each other about the distressing interview of 
 the morning. Sir Percival's name was not mentioned, 
 Walter Hartright was not alluded to again by either 
 of us for the remainder of the day. 
 
 10th. — Finding that she was composed and like her- 
 self, this morning, I returned to the painful subject of 
 yesterday, for the sole purpose of imploring her to let 
 me speak to Sir Percival and Mr. Fairlie, more plainly 
 and strongly than she could speak to either of them 
 herself, about this lamentable marriage. She inter- 
 posed, gently but firmly, in the middle of my 
 remonstrances. 
 
 ** I left yesterday to decide," she said ; " and
 
 282 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 yesterday has decided. It is too late to go 
 back." 
 
 Sir Percival spoke to me this afternoon, about what 
 had passed in Laura's room. He assured me that 
 the unparalleled trust she had placed in him had 
 awakened such an answering conviction of her inno- 
 cence and integrity in his mind, that he was guiltless 
 of having felt even a moment's unworthy jealousy, 
 either at the time when he was in her presence, or 
 afterwards when he had withdrawn from it. Deeply 
 as he lamented the unfortunate attachment which had 
 hindered the progress he might otherwise have made 
 in her esteem and regard, he firmly believed that it 
 had remained unacknowledged in the past, and that it 
 would remain, under all changes of circumstance which 
 it was possible to contemplate, unacknowledged in the 
 future. This was his absolute conviction ; and the 
 strongest proof he could give of it was the assurance, 
 which he now offered, that he felt no curiosity to know 
 whether the attachment was of recent date or not, or 
 who had been the object of it. His implicit confidence 
 in Miss Fairlie made him satisfied with what she 
 had thought fit to say to him, and he was honestly 
 innocent of the slightest feeling of anxiety to hear 
 more. 
 
 He waited, after saying those words, and looked at 
 me. I was so conscious of my unreasonable prejudice 
 against him — so conscious of an unworthy suspicion, 
 that he might be speculating on my impulsively
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 283 
 
 answering the very questions which he had just de- 
 scribed himself as resolved not to ask — that I evaded 
 all reference to this part of the subject with something 
 like a feeling of confusion on my own part. At the 
 same time, I was resolved not to lose even the smallest 
 opportunity of trying to plead Laura's cause ; and I 
 told him boldly that I regretted his generosity had not 
 carried him one step farther, and induced him to with- 
 draw from the engagement altogether. 
 
 Here, again, he disarmed me by not attempting to 
 defend himself. He would merely beg me to remem- 
 ber the difference there was between his allowing Miss 
 Fairlie to give him up, which was a matter of submission 
 only, and his forcing himself to give up Miss Fairlie, 
 which was, in other w^ords, asking him to be the suicide 
 of his own hopes. Her conduct of the day before had 
 so strengthened the unchangeable love and admiration 
 of two long years, that all active contention against 
 those feelings, on his part, was henceforth entirely out 
 of his power. I must think him weak, selfish, unfeeling 
 towards the very woman whom he idolised, and he 
 must bow to my opinion as resignedly as he could ; 
 only putting it to me, at the same time, whether her 
 future as a single woman, pining under an unhappily 
 placed attachment which she could never acknowledge, 
 could be said to promise her a much brighter prospect 
 than her future as the wife of a man who worshipped 
 the very ground she walked on? In the last case 
 there was hope from time, however slight it might be
 
 284 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 — in the first case, on her own showing, there was no 
 hope at all. 
 
 I answered him — more because my tongue is a 
 woman's, and must answer, than because I had any- 
 thing convincing to say. It was only too plain that 
 the course Laura had adopted the day before, had 
 offered him the advantage if he chose to take it — and 
 that he had chosen to take it. I felt this at the time, 
 and I feel it just as strongly now, while I write these 
 lines, in my own room. The one hope left, is that his 
 motives really spring, as he says they do, from the 
 irresistible strength of his attachment to Laura. 
 
 Before I close my diary for to-night, I must record 
 that I wrote to-day, in poor Hartright's interests, to 
 two of my mother's old friends in London — both men 
 of influence and position. If they can do anything for 
 him, I am quite sure they will. Except Laura, I 
 never was more anxious about any one than I am now 
 about Walter. All that has happened since he left us 
 has only increased my strong regard and sympathy for 
 him. I hope I am doing right in trying to help him 
 to employment abroad — I hope, most earnestly and 
 anxiously, that it will end well. 
 
 11th. — Sir Percival had an interview with Mr. 
 Fairlie ; and I was sent for to join them. 
 
 I found Mr. Fairlie greatly relieved at the prospect 
 of the " family worry " (as he was pleased to describe 
 his niece's marriage) being settled at last. So far, I
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 285 
 
 did not feel called on to say anything to him about 
 my own opinion ; but when he proceeded, in his most 
 aggravatingly languid manner, to suggest that the time 
 for the marriage had better be settled next, in accordance 
 with Sir Percival's wishes, I enjoyed the satisfaction of 
 assailing Mr. Fairlie's nerves with as strong a protest 
 against hurrying Laura's decision as I could put into 
 words. Sir Percival immediately assured me that he 
 felt the force of my objection, and begged me to 
 believe that the proposal had not been made in conse- 
 quence of any interference on his part. Mr. Fairlie 
 leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, said we both 
 of us did honour to human nature, and then repeated 
 his suggestion, as coolly as if neither Sir Percival nor 
 I had said a word in opposition to it. It ended in my 
 flatly declining to mention the subject to Laura, unless 
 she first approached it of her own accord. I left the 
 room at once after making that declaration. Sir Per- 
 cival looked seriously embarrassed and distressed. 
 Mr. Fairlie stretched out his lazy legs on his velvet 
 footstool ; and said : " Dear Marian ! how I envy you 
 your robust nervous system ! Don't bang the door !" 
 
 On going to Laura's room, I found that she had 
 asked for me, and that Mrs. Vesey had informed her 
 that I was with Mr. Fairlie. She inquired at once 
 what I had been wanted for ; and I told her all that 
 had passed, without attempting to conceal the vexation 
 and annoyance that I really felt. Her answer sur- 
 prised and distressed me inexpressibly ; it was the
 
 286 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 very last reply that I should have expected her to 
 make. 
 
 "My uncle is right," she said. "I have caused 
 trouble and anxiety enough to you, and to all about 
 me. Let me cause no more, Marian — let Sir Percival 
 decide." 
 
 I remonstrated warmly : but nothing that I could 
 say moved her. 
 
 " I am held to my engagement," she replied ; " I 
 have broken with my old life. The evil day will not 
 come the less surely because I put it off. No, Marian ! 
 once again, my uncle is right. 1 have caused trouble 
 enough and anxiety enough ; and I will cause no 
 more." 
 
 She used to be pliability itself; but she was now 
 inflexibly passive in her resignation — I might almost 
 say in her despair. Dearly as I love her, I should 
 have been less pained if she had been violently agi- 
 tated ; it was so shockingly unlike her natural character 
 to see her as cold and insensible as I saw her now. 
 
 12th. — Sir Percival put some questions to me, at 
 breakfast, about Laura, which left me no choice but to 
 tell him what she had said. 
 
 While we were talking, she herself came down and 
 joined us. She was just as unnaturally composed in 
 Sir Percival's presence as she had been in mine. 
 When breakfast was over, he had an opportunity of 
 saying a few words to her privately, in a recess of one
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 287 
 
 of the windows. They were not more than two or 
 three minutes together ; and, on their separating, she 
 left the room with Mrs. Vesey, while Sir Percival came 
 to me. He said he had entreated her to favour him 
 by maintaining her privilege of fixing the time for the 
 marriage at her own will and pleasure. In reply, she 
 had merely expressed her acknowledgements, and had 
 desired him to mention what his wishes were to Miss 
 Halcombe. 
 
 I have no patience to write more. In this instance, 
 as in every other. Sir Percival has carried his point, 
 with the utmost possible credit to himself, in spite of 
 everything that I can say or do. His wishes are now, 
 what they were, of course, when he first came here ; 
 and Laura having resigned herself to the one inevitable 
 sacrifice of the marriage, remains as coldly hopeless 
 and enduring as ever. In parting with the little occu- 
 pations and reUcs that reminded her of Hartright, she 
 seems to have parted with all her tenderness and all her 
 impressibility. It is only three o'clock in the afternoon 
 while I write these lines, and Sir Percival has left us 
 already, in the happy hurry of a bridegroom, to pre- 
 pare for the bride's reception at his house in Hampshire. 
 Unless some extraordinary event happens to prevent 
 it, they will be married exactly at the time when he 
 wished to be married — before the end of the year. My 
 very fingers burn as I write it ! 
 
 13th. — A sleepless night, through uneasiness about
 
 288 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 Laura. Towards the morning, I came to a resolution 
 to try what change of scene would do to rouse her. 
 She cannot surely remain in her present torpor of in- 
 sensibility, if I take her away from Limmeridge and 
 surround her with the pleasant faces of old friends ? 
 After some consideration, I decided on writing to the 
 Arnolds, in Yorkshire. They are simple, kind-hearted 
 hospitable people ; and she has known them from her 
 childhood. When I had put the letter in the post-bag, 
 I told her what I had done. It would have been a 
 relief to me if she had shown the spirit to resist and 
 object. But no — she only said, *' I will go anywhere 
 with you^ Marian. I dare say you are right — I dare 
 say the change will do me good." 
 
 14th. — I wrote to Mr. Gilmore, informing him that 
 there was really a prospect of this miserable marriage 
 taking place, and also mentioning my idea of trying 
 what change of scene would do for Laura. I had no 
 heart to go into particulars. Time enough for them, 
 when we get nearer to the end of the year. 
 
 15th. — Three letters for me. The first, from the 
 Arnolds, full of delight at the prospect of seeing Laui-a 
 and me. The second, from one of the gentlemen to 
 whom I wrote on Walter Hartright's behalf, informing 
 me that he has been fortunate enough to find an oppor- 
 tunity of complying with my request. The third, from 
 Walter himself; thanking me, poor fellow, in the
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 289 
 
 warmest terms, for giving him an opportunity of leav- 
 ing his home, his country, and his friends. A private 
 expedition to make excavations among the ruined cities 
 of Central America is, it seems, about to sail from 
 Liverpool. The draughtsman who had been already 
 appointed to accompany it, has lost heart, and with- 
 drawn at the eleventh hour ; and Walter is to fill his 
 place. He is to be engaged for six months certain, 
 from the time of the landing in Honduras, and for a year 
 afterwards, if the excavations are successful, and if the 
 funds hold out. His letter ends with a promise to 
 write me a farewell line, when they are all on board ship, 
 and when the pilot leaves them. I can only hope and 
 pray earnestly that he and I are both acting in this 
 matter for the best. It seems such a serious step for 
 him to take, that the mere contemplation of it startles 
 me. And yet, in his unhappy position, how can I expect 
 him, or wish him, to remain at home? 
 
 16th. — The carriage is at the door. Laura and I 
 set out on our visit to the Arnolds to-day. 
 
 Polcsdean Lodge, Yorkshire. 
 
 23rd. — A week in these new scenes and among 
 these kind-hearted people has done her some good, 
 though not so much as I had hoped. I have resolved to 
 prolong our stay for another week at least. It is use- 
 less to go back to Limmeridge, till there is an absolute 
 necessity for our return. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 290 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 24th.— Sad news by this morning's post. The ex- 
 pedition to Central America sailed on the twenty-first. 
 We have parted with a true man ; we have lost a faith- 
 ful friend. Walter Hartright has left England. 
 
 25th.— Sad news yesterday ; ominous news to-day. 
 Sir Percival Glyde has written to Mr. Fairlie ; and 
 Mr. Fairlie has written to Laura and me, to recall us 
 to Limmeridge immediately. 
 
 What can this mean ? Has the day for the marriage 
 been fixed in our absence ?
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 291 
 
 II. 
 
 Limmeridge House. 
 November 27th. — My forebodings are realized. The 
 marriage is fixed for the twenty-second of December. 
 
 The day after we left for Polesdean Lodge, Sir 
 Percival wrote, it seems, to Mr. Fairlie, to say that 
 the necessary repairs and alterations in his house in 
 Hampshire would occupy a much longer time in com- 
 pletion than he had originally anticipated. The 
 proper estimates were to be submitted to him as soon 
 as possible ; and it would greatly facilitate his enter- 
 ing into definite arrangements with the workpeople, if 
 he could be informed of the exact period at which the 
 wedding ceremony might be expected to take place. 
 He could then make all his calculations in reference 
 to time, besides writing the necessary apologies to 
 friends who had been engaged to visit him that winter, 
 and who could not, of course, be received when the 
 house was in the hands of the workmen. 
 
 To this letter Mr. Fairlie had replied by request- 
 ing Sir Percival himself to suggest a day for the 
 
 2
 
 292 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 marriage, subject to Miss Fairlie's approval, which her 
 guardian willingly undertook to do his best to obtain. 
 Sir Percival wrote back by the next post, and proposed 
 (in accordance with his own views and wishes, from the 
 first) the latter part of December — perhaps the twenty- 
 second, or twenty-fourth, or any other day that the 
 lady and her guardian might prefer. The lady not 
 being at hand to speak for herself, her guardian had 
 decided in her absence, on the earliest day mentioned 
 ~ the twenty-second of December — and had written to 
 recall us to Limraeridge in consequence. 
 
 After explaining these particulars to me at a private 
 interview yesterday, Mr. Fairlie suggested, in his 
 most amiable manner, that I should open the necessary 
 negociations to-day. Feeling that resistance was use- 
 less, unless I could first obtain Laura's authority to 
 make it, I consented to speak to her, but declared, at 
 the same time, that I would on no consideration under- 
 take to gain her consent to Sir Percival's wishes. 
 Mr. Fairlie complimented me on my " excellent con- 
 science," much as he would have complimented me, if 
 we had been out walking, on my "excellent constitu- 
 tion," and seemed perfectly satisfied, so far, with 
 having simply shifted one more family responsibility 
 from his own shoulders to mine. 
 
 This morning, I spoke to Laura as I had promised. 
 The composure — I may almost say, the insensibility — 
 which she has so strangely and so resolutely maintained 
 ever since Sir Percival left us, was not proof against
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 293 
 
 the shock of the news I had to tell her. She turned 
 pale, and trembled violently. 
 
 "Not so soon!" she pleaded. "Oh, Marian, not 
 so soon !" 
 
 The slightest hint she could give was enough for me. 
 1 rose to leave the room, and fight her battle for her 
 at once with Mr. Fairlie. 
 
 Just as my hand was on the door, she caught fast 
 hold of my dress, and stopped me. 
 
 *' Let me go !" I said. " My tongue burns to tell 
 your uncle that he and Sir Percival are not to have it 
 all their own way." 
 
 She sighed bitterly, and still held my dress. 
 
 "No!" she said, faintly. "Too late, Marian — too 
 late !" 
 
 " Not a minute too late," I retorted. " The ques- 
 tion of time is our question — and trust me, Laura, to 
 take a woman s full advantage of it." 
 
 I unclasped her hand from my gown while I spoke ; 
 but she slipped both her arms round my waist at 
 the same moment, and held me more effectually than 
 ever. 
 
 " It will only involve us in more trouble and more 
 confusion," she said. " It will set you and my uncle 
 at variance, and bring Sir Percival here again with 
 fresh causes of complaint " 
 
 "So much the better!" I cried out, passionately. 
 " Who cares for his causes of complaint ? Are you to 
 break your heart to set his mind at ease ? No man
 
 294 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 under heaven deserves these sacrifices from us women. 
 Men 1 They are the enemies of our innocence and our 
 peace — they drag us away from our parents' love and 
 our sisters' friendship — they take us body and soul to 
 themselves, and fasten our helpless lives to theirs as 
 they chain up a dog to his kennel. And what does 
 the best of them give us in return? Let me go, 
 Laura — I'm mad when I think of it !" 
 
 The tears — miserable, weak, women's tears of vexa- 
 tion and rage —started to my eyes. She smiled sadly ; 
 and put her handkerchief over my face, to hide for me 
 the betrayal of ray own weakness — the weakness of all 
 others which she knew that I most despised. 
 
 "Oh, Marian!" she said, "low crying! Think 
 what you would say to me, if the places were changed, 
 and if those tears were mine. All your love and 
 courage and devotion will not alter what must happen, 
 sooner or later. Let my uncle have his way. Let us 
 have no more troubles and heart-burnings that any 
 sacrifice of mine can prevent. Say you will live with 
 me, Marian, when I am married — and say no more." 
 
 But I did say more. I forced back the contemptible 
 tears that were no relief to me^ and that only dis- 
 tressed her ; and reasoned and pleaded as calmly as 1 
 could. It was of no avail. She made me twice 
 repeat the promise to live with her when she was 
 married, and then suddenly asked a question which 
 turned my sorrow and my sympathy for her into a 
 new direction.
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 295 
 
 "While we were at Polesdean," she said, " you had 
 a letter, Marian " 
 
 Her altered tone ; the abrupt manner in which she 
 looked away from me, and hid her face on my shoulder ; 
 the hesitation which silenced her before she had com- 
 pleted her question, all told me, but too plainly, to 
 whom the half-expressed inquiry pointed. 
 
 " I thought, Laura, that you and I were never to 
 refer to him again," I said, gently. 
 
 " You had a letter from him ?" she persisted. 
 
 " Yes," I replied, " if you must know it." 
 
 " Do you mean to write to him again ?" 
 
 I hesitated. I had been afraid to tell her of his 
 absence from England, or of the manner in which my 
 exertions to serve his new hopes and projects had con- 
 nected me with his departure. What answer could I 
 make? He was gone where no letters could reach 
 him for months, perhaps for years, to come. 
 
 " Suppose I do mean to write to him again," I said, 
 at last. " What then, Laura?" 
 
 Her cheek grew burning hot against my neck ; and 
 her arras trembled and tightened round me. 
 
 " Don't tell him about the twenty -second,'^ she 
 whispered. " Promise, Marian — pray promise you 
 will not even mention my name to him when you write 
 next." 
 
 I gave the promise. No words can say how sorrow- 
 fully I gave it. She instantly took her arm from my 
 waist, walked away to the window, and stood looking
 
 296 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 out, with her back to me. After a moment she spoke 
 once more, but without turning round, without allowing 
 me to catch the smallest glimpse of her face. 
 
 "Are you going to my uncle's room?" she asked. 
 " Will you say that I consent to whatever arrangement 
 he may think best ? Never mind leaving me, Marian. 
 I shall be better alone for a little while." 
 
 I went out. If, as soon as I got into the passage, I 
 could have transported Mr. Fairlie and Sir Percival 
 Glyde to the uttermost ends of the earth, by lifting 
 one of my fingers, that finger would have been raised 
 without an instant's hesitation. For once my unhappy 
 temper now stood my friend. I should have broken 
 down altogether and burst into a violent fit of crying, 
 if my tears had not been all burnt up in the heat of my 
 anger. As it was, I dashed into Mr. Fairlie's room — 
 called to him as harshly as possible, '^ Laura consents 
 to the twenty-second " — and dashed out again without 
 waiting for a word of answer. I banged the door after 
 me ; and I hope I shattered Mr. Fairlie's nervous 
 system for the rest of the day. 
 
 28th. — This morning, I read poor Hartright's fare- 
 well letter over again ; a doubt having crossed my 
 mind since yesterday, whether I am acting wisely in 
 concealing the fact of his departure from Laura. 
 
 On reflection, I still think I am right. The allusions 
 in his letter to the preparations made for the expedition 
 to Central America, all show that the leaders of it
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 297 
 
 know it to be dangerous. If the discovery of this 
 makes me uneasy, what would it make her? It is 
 bad enough to feel that his departure has deprived us 
 of the friend of all others to whose devotion we could 
 trust, in the hour of need, if ever that hour comes and 
 finds us helpless. But it is far worse to know that he 
 has gone from us to face the perils of a bad climate, a 
 wild country, and a disturbed population. Surely it 
 would be a cruel candour to tell Laura this, without 
 a pressing and a positive necessity for it ? 
 
 I almost doubt whether I ought not to go a step 
 farther, and burn the letter at once, for fear of its one 
 day falling into wrong hands. It not only refers to 
 Laura in terms which ought to remain a secret for 
 ever between the writer and me ; but it reiterates his 
 suspicion — so obstinate, so unaccountable, and so 
 alarming — that he has been secretly watched since he 
 left Limmeridge. He declares that he saw the faces 
 of the two strange men, who followed him about the 
 streets of London, watching him among the crowd 
 which gathered at Liverpool to see the expedition 
 embark ; and he positively asserts that he heard the 
 name of Anne Catherick pronounced behind him, as 
 he got into the boat. His own words are, "These 
 events have a meaning, these events must lead to a 
 result The mystery of Anne Catherick is not cleared 
 up yet. She may never cross my path again ; but if 
 ever she crosses yours, make better use of the 
 opportunity, Miss Halcombe, than I made of it. I
 
 298 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 Speak on strong conviction ; I entreat you to remember 
 what I say." These are his own expressions. There 
 is no danger of my forgetting them — my memory is 
 only too ready to dwell on any words of Hartright's 
 that refer to Anne Catherick. But there is danger in 
 my keeping the letter. The merest accident might 
 place it at the mercy of strangers. I may fall ill ; I 
 may die — better to burn it at once, and have one 
 anxiety the less. 
 
 It is burnt ! The ashes of his farewell letter — the 
 last he may ever write to me — lie in a few black frag- 
 ments on the hearth. Is this the sad end to all that 
 sad story ? Oh, not the end — surely, surely not the 
 end already ! 
 
 29th. — The preparations for the marriage have 
 begun. The dressmaker has come to receive her 
 orders. Laura is perfectly impassive, perfectly careless 
 about the question of all others in which a woman's 
 personal interests are most closely bound up. She has 
 left it all to the dressmaker and to me. If poor Hart- 
 right had been the baronet, and the husband of her 
 father's choice, how differently she would have behaved ! 
 How anxious and capricious she would have been ; and 
 what a hard task the best of dressmakers would have 
 found it to please her ! 
 
 30th. — We hear every day from Sir Percival. The 
 last news is, that the alterations in his house will occupy
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 299 
 
 from four to six months, before they can be properly 
 completed. If painters, paper-hangers, and uphol- 
 sterers could make happiness as well as splendour, I 
 should be interested about their proceedings in Laura's 
 future home. As it is, the only part of Sir Percival's 
 last letter which does not leave me as it found me, per- 
 fectly indifferent to all his plans and projects, is the part 
 which refers to the wedding tour. He proposes, a^ 
 Laura is delicate, and as the winter threatens to be 
 unusually severe, to take her to Rome, and to remain 
 in Italy until the early part of next summer. If this 
 plan should not be approved, he is equally ready, 
 although he has no establishment of his own in town, to 
 spend the season in London, in the most suitable fur- 
 nished house that can be obtained for the purpose. 
 
 Putting myself and my own feelings entirely out of 
 the question (which it is my duty to do, and which I 
 have done), I, for one, have no doubt of the propriety 
 of adopting the first of these proposals. In either case, 
 a separation between Laura and me is inevitable. It 
 will be a longer separation, in the event of their going 
 abroad, than it would be in the event of their remain- 
 ing in London — but we must set against this disad- 
 vantage, the benefit to Laura on the other side, of 
 passing the winter in a mild climate ; and, more than 
 that, the immense assistance in raising her spirits, and 
 reconciling her to her new existence, which the mere 
 wonder and excitement of travelling for the first time 
 in her life in the most interesting country in the world,
 
 300 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 must surely afford. She is not of a disposition to find 
 resources in the conventional gaieties and excitements of 
 London. They would only make the first oppression 
 of this lamentable marriage fall the heavier on her. I 
 dread the beginning of her new life more than words 
 can tell ; but I see some hope for her if she travels — 
 none if she remains at home. 
 
 It is strange to look back at this latest entry in my 
 journal, and to find that I am writing of the marriage and 
 the parting with Laura, as people write of a settled 
 thing. It seems so cold and so unfeeling to be looking 
 at the future already in this cruelly composed way. 
 But what other way is possible, now that the time is 
 drawing so near ? Before another month is over our 
 heads, she will be Ms Laura instead of mine ! His 
 Laura ! I am as little able to realize the idea which 
 those two words convey — my mind feels almost as 
 dulled and stunned by it, as if writing of her marriage 
 were like writing of her death. 
 
 December 1st. — A sad, sad day ; a day that I have 
 no heart to describe at any length. After weakly put- 
 ting it off, last night, I was obliged to speak to her this 
 morning of Sir Percival's proposal about the wedding 
 tour. 
 
 In the full conviction that I should be with her, 
 wherever she went, the poor child — for a child she is still 
 in many things — was almost happy at the prospect of 
 seeing the wonders of Florence and Rome and Naples.
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 301 
 
 It nearly broke ray heart to dispel her delusion, and to 
 bring her face to face with the hard truth. I was obliged 
 to tell her that no man tolerates a rival — not even a 
 woman rival — in his wife's affections, when he first mar- 
 ries, whatever he may do afterwards. I was obliged to 
 warn her, that my chance of living with her permanently 
 under her own roof, depended entirely on my not arous- 
 ing Sir PercivaFs jealousy and distrust by standing be- 
 tween them at the beginning of their marriage, in the 
 position of the chosen depository of his wife's closest 
 secrets. Drop by drop, I poured the profaning bitterness 
 of this world's wisdom into that pure heart and that inno- 
 cent mind, while every higher and better feeling within 
 me recoiled from my miserable task. It is over now. 
 She has learnt her hard, her inevitable lesson. The 
 simple illusions of her girlhood are gone ; and my hand 
 has stripped them off. Better mine than his — that is 
 all my consolation — better mine than his. 
 
 So the first proposal is the proposal accepted. They 
 are to go to Italy ; and I am to arrange, with Sir 
 Percival's permission, for meeting them and staying 
 with them, when they return to England. In other 
 words, I am to ask a personal favour, for the first time 
 in my life, and to ask it of the man of all others to 
 whom I least desire to owe a serious obligation of any 
 kind. Well ! I think I could do even more than that, 
 for Laura's sake. 
 
 2nd. — On looking back, I find myself always refers
 
 302 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 ring to Sir Percival in disparaging terms. In the turn 
 affairs have now taken, I must and will root out my 
 prejudice against him. I cannot think how it first got 
 into my mind. It certainly never existed in former 
 times. 
 
 Is it Laura's reluctance to become his wife that has 
 set me against him ? Have Hartright's perfectly in- 
 telligible prejudices infected me without my suspecting 
 their influence ? Does that letter of Anne Catherick's 
 still leave a lurking distrust in my mind, in spite of 
 Sir Percival's explanation, and of the proof in my pos- 
 session of the truth of it ? I cannot account for the 
 state of my own feelings : the one thing I am certain 
 of is, that it is my duty — doubly my duty, now — not 
 to wrong Sir Percival by unjustly distrusting him. If 
 it has got to be a habit with me always to write of him 
 in the same unfavourable manner, I must and will 
 break myself of this unworthy tendency, even though 
 the effort should force me to close the pages of my 
 journal till the marriage is over 1 I am seriously dis- 
 satisfied with myself — I will write no more to-day. 
 
 December 16th. — A whole fortnight has passed ; and 
 I have not once opened these pp jes. I have been 
 long enough away from my journal, to come back to it, 
 with a healthier and better mind, I hope, so far as Sir 
 Percival is concerned. 
 
 There is not much to record of the past two weeks. 
 The dresses are almost all finished ; and the new
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 303 
 
 travelling trunks have been sent here from London. 
 Poor dear Laura hardly leaves me for a moment, all 
 day ; and, last night, when neither of us could sleep, she 
 came and crept into my bed to talk to me there. " I 
 shall lose you so soon, Marian," she said ; " I must 
 make the most of you while I can." 
 
 They are to be married at Limmeridge Church ; and, 
 thank Heaven, not one of the neighbours is to be in- 
 vited to the ceremony. The only visitor will be our 
 old friend, Mr. Arnold, who is to come from Polesdean, 
 to give Laura away ; her uncle being far too delicate 
 to trust himself outside the door in such inclement 
 weather as we now have. If I were not determined, from 
 this day forth, to see nothing but the bright side of our 
 prospects, the melancholy absence of any male relative 
 of Laura's, at the most important moment of her life, 
 would make me very gloomy and very distrustful of the 
 future. But I have done with gloom and distrust — 
 that is to say, I have done with writing about either the 
 one or the other in this journal. 
 
 Sir Percival is to arrive to-morrow. He offered, in 
 case we wished to treat him on terms of rigid etiquette, 
 to write and ask our clergyman to grant him the hos- 
 pitality of the reUory, during the short period of his 
 sojourn at Limmeridge, before the marriage. Under 
 the circumstances, neither Mr. Fairlie nor I thought 
 it at all necessary for us to trouble ourselves about 
 attending to trifling forms and ceremonies. In our 
 wild moorland country, and in this great lonely house,
 
 304 THE WOMAN IN ^YHITE. 
 
 we may well claim to be beyond the reach of the trivial 
 conventionahties which hamper people in other places. I 
 wrote to Sir Percival to thank him for his polite offer, 
 and to beg that he would occupy his old rooms, just as 
 usual, at Limmeridge House. 
 
 17th. — He arrived to-day, looking, as I thought, a 
 little worn and anxious, but still talking and laughing 
 like a man in the best possible spirits. He brought 
 with him some really beautiful presents, in jewelry, 
 which Laura received with her best grace, and, out- 
 wardly at least, with perfect self-possession. The only 
 sign I can detect of the struggle it must cost her to 
 preserve appearances at this trying time, expresses 
 itself in a sudden unwillingness, on her part, ever to be 
 left alone. Instead of retreating to her own room, as 
 usual, she seems to dread going there. When I went 
 up-stairs to-day, after lunch, to put on my bonnet for a 
 walk, she volunteered to join me ; and, again, before 
 dinner, she threw the door open between our two rooms, 
 so that we might talk to each other while we were dress- 
 ing. " Keep me always doing something," she said ; 
 " keep me always in company with somebody. Don't 
 let me think— that is all I ask now, Marian — don't let 
 me think." 
 
 This sad change in her, only increases her attractions 
 for Sir Percival. He interprets it, I can see, to his own 
 advantage. There is a feverish flush in her cheeks, a 
 feverish brightness in her eyes, which he welcomes as
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 305 
 
 the return of her beauty and the recovery of her spirits. 
 She talked to-day at dinner with a gaiety and careless- 
 ness so false, so shockingly out of her character, that I 
 secretly longed to silence her and take her away. Sir 
 Percival's delight and surprise appeared to be beyond 
 all expression. The anxiety which I had noticed on his 
 face when he arrived, totally disappeared from it ; and 
 he looked even to my eyes, a good ten years younger 
 than he really is. 
 
 There can be no doubt — though some strange per- 
 versity prevents me from seeing it myself — there can 
 be no doubt that Laura's future husband is a very 
 handsome man. Regular features form a personal 
 advantage to begin with — and he has them. Bright 
 brown eyes, either in man or woman, are a great 
 attraction — and he has them. Even baldness, when it 
 is only baldness over the forehead (as in his case), is 
 rather becoming, than not, in a man, for it heightens 
 the head and adds to the inteUigence of the face. 
 Grace and ease of movement ; untiring animation of 
 manner ; ready, pliant, conversational powers — all 
 these are unquestionable merits, and all these he 
 certainly possesses. Surely, Mr. Gilmore, ignorant as 
 he is of Laura's secret, was not to blame for feeling 
 surprised that she should repent of her marriage 
 engagement ? Any one else in his place, would have 
 shared our good old friend's opinion. If I were asked, 
 at this moment, to say plainly what defects I have dis- 
 covered in Sir Percival, I could only point out two.
 
 306 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 One, his incessant restlessness and excitability — which 
 may be caused, naturally enough, by unusual energy 
 of character. The other, his short, sharp, ill-tempered 
 manner of speaking to the servants — which may be only 
 a bad habit, after all. No : I cannot dispute it, and I 
 will not dispute it — Sir Percival is a very handsome 
 and a very agreeable man. There ! I have written it 
 down, at last, and I am glad it's over. 
 
 18th. — Feeling weary and depressed, this morning, 
 I left Laura with Mrs. Vesey, and went out alone for 
 one of my brisk mid-day walks, which I have dis- 
 continued too much of late. I took the dry airy road, 
 over the moor, that leads to Todd's Corner. After 
 having been out half an hour, I was excessively sur- 
 prised to see Sir Percival approaching me from the 
 direction of the farm. He was walking rapidly, 
 swinging his stick ; his head erect as usual, and his 
 shooting jacket flying open in the wind. When we 
 met, he did not wait for me to ask any questions 
 — he told me, at once, that, he had been to the farm 
 to inquire if Mr. or Mrs. Todd had received any 
 tidings since his last visit to Limmeridge, of Anne 
 Catherick. 
 
 " You found, of course, that they had heard no- 
 thing ?" I said, 
 
 " Nothing whatever," he replied. " I begin to be 
 seriously afraid that we have lost her. Do you happen 
 to know," he continued, looking me in the face very
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 307 
 
 attentively, "if the artist—Mr. Hartright— is in a 
 position to give us any further information ?" 
 
 *' He has neither heard of her, nor seen her, since 
 he left Cumberland," I answered. 
 
 " Very sad," said Sir Percival, speaking like a man 
 who was disappointed, and yet, oddly enough, looking, 
 at the same time, like a man who was relieved. " It is 
 impossible to say what misfortunes may not have hap- 
 pened to the miserable creature. I am inexpressibly 
 annoyed at the failure of all my efforts to restore her 
 to the care and protection which she so urgently needs." 
 
 This time he really looked annoyed. I said a few 
 sympathising words; and we then talked of other 
 subjects, on our way back to the house. Surely, my 
 chance meeting with him on the moor has disclosed 
 another favourable trait in his character ? Surely, it 
 was singularly considerate and unselfish of him to 
 think of Anne Catherick on the eve of his marriage, 
 and to go all the way to Todd's Corner to make 
 inquiries about her, when he might have passed the 
 time so much more agreeably in Laura's society? 
 Considering that he can only have acted from motives 
 of pure charity, his conduct, under the circumstances, 
 shows unusual good feeling, and deserves extraordinary 
 praise. Well ! I give him extraordinary praise— and 
 there's an end of it. 
 
 19th. — More discoveries in the inexhaustible mine 
 of Sir Percival's virtues.
 
 308 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 To-day, I approached the subject of my proposed 
 sojourn under his wife's roof, when he brings her back 
 to England. I had hardly dropped my first hint in this 
 direction, before he caught me warmly by the hand, 
 and said I had made the very offer to him, which he 
 had been, on his side, most anxious to make to me. I 
 was the companion of all others whom he most sincerely 
 longed to secure for his wife ; and he begged me to 
 believe that I had conferred a lasting favour on him by 
 making the proposal to live with Laura after her mar- 
 riage, exactly as I had always lived with her before it. 
 
 When I thanked him, in her name and in mine, for 
 his considerate kindness to both of us, we passed next 
 to the subject of his wedding tour, and began to talk 
 of the English society in Rome to which Laura was to 
 be introduced. He ran over the names of several 
 friends whom he expected to meet abroad this winter. 
 They were all English, as well as I can remember, with 
 one exception. The one exception was Count Fosco. 
 
 The mention of the Count's name, and the discovery 
 that he and his wife are likely to meet the bride and 
 bridegroom on the continent, puts Laura's marriage, 
 for the first time, in a distinctly favourable light. It 
 is likely to be the means of healing a family feud. 
 Hitherto Madame Fosco has chosen to forget her obli- 
 gations as Laura's aunt, out of sheer spite against the 
 late Mr. Fairlie for his conduct in the affair of the 
 legacy. Now, however, she can persist in this course 
 of conduct no longer. Sir Percival and Count Fosco
 
 THE WOMAN iN WHITE. 309 
 
 are old and fast friends, and their wives will have no 
 choice but to meet on civil terms. Madame Fosco, in 
 her maiden days, was one of the most impertinent 
 women I ever met with — capricious, exacting, and 
 vain to the last degree of absurdity. If her husband 
 has succeeded in bringing her to her senses, he 
 deserves the gratitude of every member of the family — 
 and he may have mine to begin with. 
 
 I am becoming anxious to know the Count. He is 
 the most intimate friend of Laura's husband ; and, 
 in that capacity, he excites my strongest interest. 
 Neither Laura nor I have ever seen him. All I know 
 of him is that his accidental presence, years ago, on 
 the steps of the Trinita del Monte at Rome, assisted 
 Sir Percival's escape from robbery and assassination, 
 at the critical moment when he was wounded in the 
 hand, and might, the next instant, have been wounded 
 in the heart. I remember also that, at the time of the 
 late Mr. Fairlie's absurd objections to his sister's 
 marriage, the Count wrote him a very temperate and 
 sensible letter on the subject, which, I am ashamed to 
 say, remained unanswered. This is all I know of Sir 
 Percival's friend. I wonder if he will ever come to 
 England ? I wonder if I shall like him ? 
 
 My pen is running away into mere speculation. Let 
 me return to sober matter of fact. It is certain that 
 Sir Percival's reception of my venturesome proposal to 
 live with his wife, was more than kind, it was almost 
 affectionate. I am sure Laura's husband will have no
 
 310 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 reason to complain of me, if I can only go on as I have 
 begun. I have already declared him to be handsome, 
 agreeable, full of good feeling towards the unfortunate, 
 and full of affectionate kindness towards me. Really, 
 I hardly know myself again, in my new character of 
 Sir Percival's warmest friend. 
 
 20th. — I hate Sir Percival ! I flatly deny his good 
 looks. I consider him to be eminently ill-tempered 
 and disagreeable, and totally wanting in kindness and 
 good feeling. Last night, the cards for the married 
 couple were sent home. Laura opened the packet, 
 and saw her future name in print, for the first time. 
 Sir Percival looked over her shoulder familiarly at the 
 new card which had already transformed Miss Fairlie 
 into Lady Glyde — smiled with the most odious self- 
 complacency — and whispered something in her ear. I 
 don't know what it was — Laura has refused to tell me 
 — but 1 saw her face turn to such a deadly whiteness 
 that I thought she would have fainted. He took no 
 notice of the change : he seemed to be barbarously 
 unconscious that he had said anything to pain her. 
 All my old feelings of hostility towards him revived on 
 the instant ; and all the hours that have passed, since, 
 have done nothing to dissipate them. I am more 
 unreasonable and more unjust than ever. In three 
 words — how glibly my pen writes them ! — in three 
 words, I hate him.
 
 THE WOMAN m WHITE. 311 
 
 21st.— Have the anxieties of this anxious time 
 shaken me a little, at last? I have been writing, for 
 the last few days, in a tone of levity which. Heaven 
 knows, is far enough from my heart, and which it has 
 rather shocked me to discover on looking back at the 
 entries in my journal. 
 
 Perhaps I may have caught the feverish excitement 
 of Laura's spirits, for the last week. If so the fit has 
 already passed away from me, and has left me in a 
 very strange state of mind. A persistent idea has been 
 forcing itself on my attention, ever since last night, 
 that something will yet happen to prevent the marriage. 
 What has produced this singular fancy? Is it the 
 indirect result of my apprehensions for Laura's future ? 
 Or has it been unconsciously suggested to me by the 
 increasing restlessness and irritability which I have 
 certainly observed in Sir Percival's manner, as the 
 wedding-day draws nearer and nearer ? Impossible to 
 say. I know that I have the idea— surely the wildest 
 idea, under the circumstances, that ever entered a 
 woman's head? — but try as I may, I cannot trace it 
 back to its source. 
 
 This last day has been all confusion and wretched- 
 ness. How can I write about it? — and yet, I must 
 write. Anything is better than brooding over my own 
 gloomy thoughts. 
 
 Kind Mrs. Vesey, whom we have all too much over- 
 looked and forgotten of late, innocently caused us a 
 sad morninjT to bedn with. She has been, for months
 
 312 THE ^VOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 past, secretly making a warm Shetland shawl for her 
 dear pupil — a most beautiful and surprising piece of 
 work to be done by a woman at her age and with her 
 habits. The gift was presented this morning ; and 
 poor warm-hearted Laura completely broke down 
 when the shawl was put proudly on her shoulders by 
 the loving old friend and guardian of her motherless 
 childhood. I was hardly allowed time to quiet them 
 both, or even to dry my own eyes, when I was sent for 
 by Mr. Fairlie, to be favoured by a long recital of his 
 arrangements for the preservation of his own tranquillity 
 on the wedding-day. 
 
 " Dear Laura " was to receive his present — a shabby 
 ring, v/ith her affectionate uncle's hair for an ornament, 
 instead of a precious stone, and with a heartless French 
 inscription, inside, about congenial sentiments and 
 eternal friendship — "dear Laura" was to receive this 
 tender tribute from my hands immediately, so that she 
 might have plenty of time to recover from the agitation 
 produced by the gift, before she appeared in Mr. Fair- 
 lie's presence. " Dear Laura " was to pay him a little 
 visit that evening, and to be kind enough not to make a 
 scene. ^' Dear Laura " was to pay him another little 
 visit in her wedding dress, the next morning, and to 
 be kind enough, again, not to make a scene. " Dear 
 Laura " was to look in once more, for the third time, 
 before going away, but without harrowing his feelings 
 by saying ^vlien she was going away, and without tears — 
 " in the name of pity, in the name of everything, dear
 
 THE WOMAN IN ^YHITE. 313 
 
 Marian, that is most affectionate and most domestic 
 and most delightfully and charmingly self-composed, 
 without tears r I was so exasperated by this mise- 
 rable selfish trifling, at such a time, that I should cer- 
 tainly have shocked Mr. Fairlie by some of the hardest 
 and rudest truths he has ever heard in his life, if th(^ 
 arrival of Mr. Arnold from Polesdean had not called 
 me away to new duties down stairs. 
 
 The rest of the day is indescribable. I believe no 
 one in the house really knew how it passed. The 
 confusion of small events, all huddled together one on 
 the other, bewildered every one. There were dresses 
 sent home, that had been forgotten ; there were trunks 
 to be packed and unpacked and packed again ; there 
 were presents from friends far and near, friends high 
 and low. We were all needlessly hurried ; all nervously 
 expectant of the morrow. Sir Percival, especially, was 
 too restless, now, to remain five minutes together in 
 the same place. That short, sharp cough of his 
 troubled him more than ever. He was in and out of 
 the house all day long : and he seemed to grow so 
 inquisitive, on a sudden, that he questioned the very 
 strangers who came on small errands to the house. 
 Add to all this, the one perpetual thought, in Laura's 
 mind and mine, that we were to part the next day, and 
 he haunting dread, unexpressed by either of us, and 
 yet ever present to both, that this deplorable marriage 
 might prove to be the one fetal error of her life and 
 the one hopeless sorrow of mine. For the first time in 
 
 VOL. I. p
 
 314 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 all the years of our close and happy intercourse we 
 almost avoided looking each other in the face ; and we 
 refrained, by common consent, from speaking together 
 in private, through the whole evening. I can dwell on 
 it no longer. Whatever future sorrows may be in 
 store for me, I shall always look back on this twenty- 
 first of December as the most comfortless and most 
 miserable day of my life. 
 
 I am writing these lines in the solitude of my own 
 room, long after midnight ; having just come back 
 from a stolen look at Laura in her pretty little white 
 bed — the bed she has occupied since the days of her 
 girlhood. 
 
 There she lay, unconscious that I was looking at 
 her — quiet, more quiet than I had dared to hope, but 
 not sleeping. The glimmer of the night-light showed 
 me that her eyes were only partially closed : the 
 traces of tears glistened between her eyelids. My 
 little keepsake — only a brooch — lay on the table at 
 her bedside, with her prayer-book, and the miniature 
 portrait of her father which she takes with her wherever 
 she goes. I waited a moment, looking at her from 
 behind her pillow, as she lay beneath me, with one 
 arm and hand resting on the white coverlid, so still, 
 so quietly breathing, that the frill on her night-dress 
 never moved — I waited, looking at her, as I have seen 
 her thousands of times, as I shall never see her again 
 — and then stole back to my room. My own love ! 
 with all your wealth, and all your beauty, how friend-
 
 THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 315 
 
 less you are ! The one man who would give his heart's 
 life to serve you, is far away, tossing, this stormy 
 night, on the awful sea. Who else is left to you? 
 No father, no brother— no living creature but the 
 helpless, useless woman who writes these sad lines, and 
 watches by you for the morning, in sorrow that she 
 cannot compose, in doubt that she cannot conquer. Oh, 
 what a trust is to be placed in that man s hands to- 
 morrow ! If ever he forgets it ; if ever he injures a 
 hair of her head ! 
 
 The Twenty-second of December. Seven dcloch. 
 A wild unsettled morning. She has just risen— better 
 and calmer, now that the time has come, than she was 
 yesterday. 
 
 Ten o'clock. She is dressed. We have kissed each 
 other; we have promised each other not to lose 
 courage. I am away for a moment in my own room. 
 In the whirl and confusion of my thoughts, I can 
 detect that strange fancy of some hindrance happening 
 to stop the marriage, still hanging about my mind. Is 
 it hanging about his mind, too ? I see him from the 
 window, moving hither and thither uneasily among the 
 carriages at the door.— How can I write such folly I 
 The marriage is a certainty. In less than half an hour 
 we start for the church.
 
 ^1^ THE WOMAN IN WHITE. 
 
 Eleven o'clock. It is all over. They are married. 
 
 Three o'clock. They are gone ! I am blind with 
 crying — I can write no more— — 
 
 THE END OF THE FIRST VOLUME. 
 
 LONDON: PRINTED BV WILLIAM CLOWKS AND SONS, i-TAMFOIlD STRl.TT.