IV

by Wilkie Collins

The heat had been stifling all day, and now the night was thick and humid.

My mother and sister had exchanged so many last words and had pleaded with me to wait just five more minutes so many times that it was nearly midnight when the servant finally locked the garden gate behind me. I took a few steps along the shortest path back to London, then paused, unsure.

The moon hung full and bright in the dark blue sky, which was devoid of stars. The uneven terrain of the heath looked wild and distant, as if it were miles away from the bustling city below. The thought of descending into the heat and darkness of London filled me with dread. The idea of going to bed in my stuffy room, slowly suffocating in the stagnant air, felt like a fate I wanted to avoid. I decided to take the long way home, enjoying the cooler air by following the winding paths across the lonely heath. I would approach London through its open suburbs, making my way along Finchley Road, and return to the western side of Regent’s Park in the fresh light of morning.

As I made my way down the heath, I relished the serene stillness of the scene, admiring the gentle play of light and shadow that danced over the uneven ground around me. While I was in this beautiful part of my night walk, my mind was open to the impressions around me, and I hardly thought about anything—indeed, I can hardly say I thought at all.

But once I left the heath and turned onto the quieter by-road, the thoughts about my upcoming changes in life began to take over. By the time I reached the end of the road, I was completely absorbed in my daydreams of Limmeridge House, Mr. Fairlie, and the two ladies whose watercolour painting skills I was soon to oversee.

I arrived at a junction where four roads met—the road to Hampstead, the road to Finchley, the road to West End, and the road back to London. I had unconsciously turned onto the latter and was strolling along the empty high-road, idly wondering what the young ladies from Cumberland would look like when suddenly, every drop of blood in my body froze at the light touch of a hand on my shoulder from behind.

I turned quickly, gripping my walking stick tightly.

There, in the middle of the wide, bright road—there, as if she had just emerged from the earth or fallen from the sky—stood a solitary woman dressed entirely in white. Her face was serious as she looked at me, her hand pointing toward the dark cloud looming over London.

I was too startled by the sudden appearance of this extraordinary figure in the dead of night and in such a desolate place to ask what she wanted. The strange woman spoke first.

“Is that the road to London?” she asked.

I studied her as she posed that unusual question. It was nearly one o’clock. In the moonlight, I could make out a pale, youthful face, thin and sharp around the cheeks and chin; large, serious eyes that seemed to gaze at me with a mix of curiosity and concern; nervous, uncertain lips; and light hair that was a faded brownish-yellow. There was nothing wild or inappropriate about her demeanor; it was calm and controlled, tinged with a hint of melancholy and suspicion. It was not quite the manner of a lady, yet not that of a woman from the lowest social class either. Her voice, though I had only heard a little of it, had a strangely still and mechanical quality, and she spoke quickly. She held a small bag in her hand, and her white dress—comprising a bonnet, shawl, and gown—appeared to be made of simple, inexpensive materials. She was slight and slightly taller than average, moving with a grace that showed no hint of extravagance.

This was all I could discern about her in the dim light and under the bewildering circumstances of our meeting. I couldn’t understand what kind of woman she was or why she was out alone on the high-road at such an hour. The one thing I was certain of was that no one could misinterpret her reason for speaking, even in such a suspiciously late hour and lonely place.

“Did you hear me?” she asked, her voice low and quick, yet calm, without a hint of irritation. “I wanted to know if this road leads to London.”

“Yes,” I answered. “It does. It takes you to St. John’s Wood and Regent’s Park. I apologize for not responding sooner. I was a bit taken aback by your sudden appearance on the road, and I still can’t quite figure out how you got here.”

“You don’t think I’m up to something bad, do you? I haven’t done anything wrong. I had an accident—I’m just really unfortunate to be out here alone at this hour. Why would you suspect me?”

Her words were filled with an intensity that seemed unnecessary, and she took a few steps back from me. I tried to reassure her.

“Please don’t think that I suspect you of anything,” I said. “I only found it surprising to see you here because the road seemed empty just before you appeared.”

She turned and pointed to a spot where the road to London met the one to Hampstead, where there was a break in the hedge.

“I heard you coming,” she explained, “and I hid there to see what kind of man you were before I took the risk of speaking. I hesitated until you passed, and then I felt I had to follow you and touch you.”

Follow me and touch me? Why not just call out? It was all quite strange.

“Can I trust you?” she asked. “You don’t think less of me because of my accident, do you?” She paused, shifting her bag from one hand to the other, and let out a heavy sigh.

The sight of her loneliness and vulnerability stirred something in me. The instinct to help her overrode any judgment, caution, or worldly wisdom that a more experienced man might have summoned in such an unusual situation.

“You can trust me for anything harmless,” I said. “If it’s too difficult for you to explain your situation, don’t feel you have to. I have no right to ask for details. Just tell me how I can help, and I’ll do my best.”

“You’re very kind, and I’m so grateful to have met you.” There was a hint of warmth in her voice, a touch of womanly tenderness that made her words tremble, yet her large, hopeful eyes remained dry. “I’ve only been to London once before,” she continued, speaking faster now, “and I don’t know anything about that area over there. Can I get a cab or a carriage? Is it too late? I’m not sure. If you could show me where to find a cab—and if you promise not to interfere and let me leave when I want—I have a friend in London who will be glad to see me. That’s all I need—will you promise?”

She glanced anxiously up and down the road, shifted her bag again, repeated, “Will you promise?” and looked deeply into my eyes, her expression filled with a mix of fear and confusion that was hard to bear.

What could I do? Here was a stranger completely at my mercy—and that stranger was a distressed woman. There was no house nearby, no one passing by whom I could consult, and no reason for me to feel I had any control over her, even if I knew how to handle it. I write these words with a sense of doubt, knowing how events would unfold later; yet I still ask, what could I do?

What I did was try to buy some time by asking her questions. “Are you sure your friend in London will take you in at this late hour?” I inquired.

“Absolutely. Just promise you’ll let me leave when I want—promise you won’t interfere. Will you promise?”

As she repeated the question for the third time, she stepped closer and gently placed her hand on my chest—a delicate, cold hand (which I removed with mine) even on that warm night. Keep in mind that I was young, and remember that the hand that touched me was a woman’s.

“Will you promise?”

“Yes.”

Just one word! That simple, familiar word that everyone uses every day. Oh, how it makes me tremble now as I write it.

We turned towards London and walked together into the stillness of the early morning—I, alongside this woman whose name, character, story, and very presence were complete mysteries to me. It felt surreal. Was I really Walter Hartright? Was this the familiar, uneventful road where families strolled on Sundays? Had I truly left the quiet, respectable atmosphere of my mother’s cottage just over an hour ago? I was too bewildered, too aware of a vague sense of self-reproach, to speak to my unusual companion for several moments. It was her voice that finally broke the silence between us.

“I need to ask you something,” she said suddenly. “Do you know a lot of people in London?”

“Yes, quite a few.”

“Do you know many men of rank and title?” There was a hint of suspicion in her voice that made me hesitate.

“Some,” I replied after a moment.

“Some?” She stopped and looked at me intently. “Do you know any Baronet?”

I was too surprised to answer right away, so I turned the question back to her.

“Why do you want to know?”

“Because I hope, for my own sake, there’s one Baronet you don’t know.”

“Can you tell me his name?”

“I can’t—I won’t. I lose myself when I say it.” Her voice rose, almost fierce, as she clenched her fist and shook it in the air. Then, suddenly calming down, she whispered, “Just tell me which ones you do know.”

I felt I couldn’t refuse her such a small request, so I named three men. Two were fathers of girls I taught, and one was a bachelor who had once taken me on a yacht trip to make sketches for him.

“Ah! You DON’T know him,” she said, letting out a sigh of relief. “Are you a man of rank and title yourself?”

“Not at all. I’m just a drawing teacher.”

As the words left my mouth—perhaps a bit bitterly—she took my arm with her usual abruptness.

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

I had been trying to hold back my curiosity out of respect for her, but it finally got the better of me.

“I’m afraid you have a serious reason to be upset with some man of rank and title?” I asked. “Is the Baronet you’re reluctant to name the reason you’re out here at this strange hour?”

“Please don’t ask me. Don’t make me talk about it,” she replied. “I’m not ready. I’ve been treated cruelly and wronged. You’ll be kinder than ever if you just walk quickly and don’t speak to me. I really need to calm down.”

We picked up the pace again, and for at least half an hour, we walked in silence. I stole glances at her face, forbidden to ask more questions. Her expression remained the same: lips pressed tightly together, brow furrowed, eyes focused straight ahead, both eager and distant. It wasn’t until we reached the first houses near the new Wesleyan college that her features finally softened and she spoke again.

“Do you live in London?” she asked.

“Yes.” As I answered, I realized she might be considering asking me for help or advice, so I decided to spare her any disappointment by letting her know I would be away soon. “But I’ll be out of London tomorrow for a while. I’m going to the countryside.”

“Where?” she asked. “North or south?”

“North—to Cumberland.”

“Cumberland!” she repeated, her voice filled with longing. “Oh, I wish I could go there too. I was once happy in Cumberland.”

I tried to peel back the layers between us. “Maybe you were born in the beautiful Lake District?”

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

I stopped short, my curiosity piqued by her mention of Mr. Fairlie’s residence.

“Did you hear anyone calling after us?” she asked, glancing nervously up and down the road as I halted.

“No, no. I was just surprised by the name Limmeridge House. I heard it mentioned by some people from Cumberland a few days ago.”

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

She seemed ready to say more, but as we approached the turnpike at the top of Avenue Road, her grip on my arm tightened, and she looked anxiously at the gate ahead.

“Is the turnpike man watching?” she asked.

He wasn’t looking out; no one else was around when we passed through the gate. The sight of the gas lamps and houses seemed to unsettle her, making her restless.

“This is London,” she said. “Do you see a carriage I can take? I’m tired and scared. I want to shut myself in and be driven away.”

I explained to her that we needed to walk a bit further to reach a cab stand, unless we were lucky enough to find an empty cab. I tried to steer the conversation back to Cumberland, but it was pointless. The thought of shutting herself away and being driven off had taken complete hold of her mind. She couldn’t think or talk about anything else.

We had barely made it a third of the way down Avenue Road when I spotted a cab pulling up to a house a few doors down on the opposite side. A man got out and let himself in through the garden gate. I called out to the cab as the driver climbed back onto his seat. As we crossed the street, my companion’s impatience grew so intense that she nearly made me run.

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

“I can’t take you, sir, if you’re not heading towards Tottenham Court Road,” the driver said politely when I opened the cab door. “My horse is exhausted, and I can’t take him any further than the stable.”

“Yes, yes, that’s fine for me. I’m going that way—I’m going that way.” She spoke with such breathless eagerness that she pushed past me into the cab.

I had made sure the driver was sober and polite before letting her get in. Once she was seated, I urged her to let me see her safely to her destination.

“No, no, no,” she insisted vehemently. “I’m perfectly safe and happy now. If you’re a gentleman, remember your promise. Let him drive on until I tell him to stop. Thank you—oh! thank you, thank you!”

My hand was on the cab door when she grabbed it, kissed it, and pushed it away. The cab drove off just as I stepped into the street, with a vague impulse to stop it again, though I wasn’t sure why. I hesitated, afraid of frightening her, and finally called out, but not loudly enough for the driver to hear. The sound of the wheels faded into the distance—the cab disappeared into the dark shadows of the road—and the woman in white was gone.

Ten minutes passed. I remained on the same side of the street, mechanically walking a few steps forward, then stopping again, lost in thought. At one moment, I questioned whether my encounter had even been real; at another, I felt a nagging sense of having done something wrong, though I couldn’t understand how I could have acted differently. I hardly knew where I was headed or what I intended to do next; I was consumed by the chaos of my thoughts when I was suddenly jolted back to reality by the sound of wheels approaching quickly behind me.

I was standing in the shadows of some garden trees when I turned to look. On the lighter side of the street, a short distance away, a policeman was strolling toward Regent’s Park.

The carriage passed me—an open chaise driven by two men.

“Stop!” one of them shouted. “There’s a policeman. Let’s ask him.”

The horse was pulled up just a few yards beyond the dark spot where I stood.

“Policeman!” the first man called out. “Have you seen a woman pass this way?”

“What kind of woman, sir?” the officer replied.

“A woman in a lavender-colored gown—”

“No, no,” interrupted the second man. “The clothes we gave her were found on her bed. She must have left in what she was wearing when she arrived. In white, policeman. A woman in white.”

“I haven’t seen her, sir.”

“If you or any of your men come across her, stop her and send her safely to that address. I’ll cover all expenses, and there’ll be a fair reward.”

The policeman glanced at the card handed down to him.

“Why are we to stop her, sir? What has she done?”

“Done! She escaped from my asylum. Don’t forget; a woman in white. Drive on.”