LITMIR.BIZ

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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?”

      “I can’t—I daren’t—I forget myself when I mention it.” She spoke loudly and almost fiercely, raised her clenched hand in the air, and shook it passionately; then, on a sudden, controlled herself again, and added, in tones lowered to a whisper “Tell me which of them you know.”

      I could hardly refuse to humour her in such a trifle, and I mentioned three names. Two, the names of fathers of families whose daughters I taught; one, the name of a bachelor who had once taken me a cruise in his yacht, to make sketches for him.

      “Ah! you don’t know him,” she said, with a sigh of relief. “Are you a man of rank and title yourself?”

      “Far from it. I am only a drawing-master.”

      As the reply passed my lips—a little bitterly, perhaps—she took my arm with the abruptness which characterised all her actions.

      “Not a man of rank and title,” she repeated to herself. “Thank God! I may trust him.”

      I had hitherto contrived to master my curiosity out of consideration for my companion; but it got the better of me now.

      “I am afraid you have serious reason to complain of some man of rank and title?” I said. “I am afraid the baronet, whose name you are unwilling to mention to me, has done you some grievous wrong? Is he the cause of your being out here at this strange time of night?”

      “Don’t ask me; don’t make me talk of it,” she answered. “I’m not fit now. I have been cruelly used and cruelly wronged. You will be kinder than ever, if you will walk on fast, and not speak to me. I sadly want to quiet myself, if I can.”

      We moved forward again at a quick pace; and for half an hour, at least, not a word passed on either side. From time to time, being forbidden to make any more inquiries, I stole a look at her face. It was always the same; the lips close shut, the brow frowning, the eyes looking straight forward, eagerly and yet absently. We had reached the first houses, and were close on the new Wesleyan college, before her set features relaxed and she spoke once more.

      “Do you live in London?” she said.

      “Yes.” As I answered, it struck me that she might have formed some intention of appealing to me for assistance or advice, and that I ought to spare her a possible disappointment by warning her of my approaching absence from home. So I added, “But to-morrow I shall be away from London for some time. I am going into the country.”

      “Where?” she asked. “North or south?”

      “North—to Cumberland.”

      “Cumberland!” she repeated the word tenderly. “Ah! 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.

      “Perhaps you were born,” I said, “in the beautiful Lake country.”

      “No,” she answered. “I was born in Hampshire; but I once went to school for a little while in Cumberland. Lakes? I don’t remember any lakes. It’s Limmeridge village, and Limmeridge House, I should like to see again.”

      It was my turn now to stop suddenly. In the excited state of my curiosity, at that moment, the chance reference to Mr. Fairlie’s place of residence, on the lips of my strange companion, staggered me with astonishment.

      “Did you hear anybody calling after us?” she asked, looking up and down the road affrightedly, the instant I stopped.

      “No, no. I was only struck by the name of Limmeridge House. I heard it mentioned by some Cumberland people a few days since.”

      “Ah! not my people. Mrs. Fairlie is dead; and her husband is dead; and their little girl may be married and gone away by this time. I can’t say who lives at Limmeridge now. If any more are left there of that name, I only know I love them for Mrs. Fairlie’s sake.”

      She seemed about to say more; but while she was speaking, we came within view of the turnpike at the top of the Avenue Road. Her hand tightened round my arm, and she looked anxiously at the gate before us.

      “Is the turnpike man looking out?” she asked.

      He was not looking out; no one else was near the place when we passed through the gate. The sight of the gas-lamps and houses seemed to agitate her, and to make her impatient.

      “This is London,” she said. “Do you see any carriage I can get? I am tired and frightened. I want to shut myself in and be driven away.”

      I explained to her that we must walk a little further to get to a cab-stand, unless we were fortunate enough to meet with an empty vehicle; and then tried to resume the subject of Cumberland. It was useless. That idea of shutting herself in, and being driven away, had now got full possession of her mind. She could think and talk of nothing else.

      We had hardly proceeded a third of the way down the Avenue Road when I saw a cab draw up at a house a few doors below us, on the opposite side of the way. A gentleman got out and let himself in at the garden door. I hailed the cab, as the driver mounted the box again. When we crossed the road, my companion’s impatience increased to such an extent that she almost forced me to run.

      “It’s so late,” she said. “I am only in a hurry because it’s so late.”

      “I can’t take you, sir, if you’re not going towards Tottenham Court Road,” said the driver civilly, when I opened the cab door. “My horse is dead beat, and I can’t get him no further than the stable.”

      “Yes, yes. That will do for me. I’m going that way—I’m going that way.” She spoke with breathless eagerness, and pressed by me into the cab.

      I had assured myself that the man was sober as well as civil before I let her enter the vehicle. And now, when she was seated inside, I entreated her to let me see her set down safely at her destination.

      “No, no, no,” she said vehemently. “I’m quite safe, and quite happy now. If you are a gentleman, remember your promise. Let him drive on till I stop him. Thank you—oh! thank you, thank you!”

      My hand was on the cab door. She caught it in hers, kissed it, and pushed it away. The cab drove off at the same moment—I started into the road, with some vague idea of stopping it again, I hardly knew why—hesitated from dread of frightening and distressing her—called, at last, but not loudly enough to attract the driver’s attention. The sound of the wheels grew fainter in the distance—the cab melted into the black shadows on the road—the woman in white was gone.

      Ten minutes or more had passed. I was still on the same side of the way; now mechanically

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