‘If it troubles you to explain your strange situation to me, don’t think of returning to the subject again. I have no right to ask you for any explanations. Tell me how I can help you; and if I can, I will.’

‘You are very kind, and I am very, very thankful to have met you.’ The first touch of womanly tenderness that I had heard from her, trembled in her voice as she said the words; but no tears glistened in those large, wistfully-attentive eyes of hers, which were still fixed on me. ‘I have only been in London once before,’ she went on, more and more rapidly; ‘and I know nothing about that side of it, yonder. Can I get a fly,p or a carriage of any kind? Is it too late? I don’t know. If you could show me where to get a fly—and if you will only promise not to interfere with me, and to let me leave you, when and how I please—I have a friend in London who will be glad to receive me—I want nothing else—will you promise?’

She looked anxiously up and down the road; shifted her bag again from one hand to the other; repeated the words, ‘Will you promise?’ and looked hard in my face, with a pleading fear and confusion that it troubled me to see.

What could I do? Here was a stranger utterly and helplessly at my mercy—and that stranger a forlorn woman. No house was near; no one was passing whom I could consult; and no earthly right existed on my part to give me a power of control over her, even if I had known how to exercise it. I trace these lines, self-distrustfully, with the shadows of after-events darkening the very paper I write on; and still I say, what could I do?

What I did do, was to try and gain time by questioning her.

‘Are you sure that your friend in London will receive you at such a late hour as this?’ I said.

‘Quite sure. Only say you will let me leave you when and how I please—only say you won’t interfere with me. Will you promise?’

As she repeated the words for the third time, she came close to me, and laid her hand, with a sudden gentle stealthiness, on my bosom—a thin hand; a cold hand (when I removed it with mine) even on that sultry night. Remember that I was young; remember that the hand which touched me was a woman’s. ‘Will you promise?’

‘Yes.’

One word! The little familiar word that is on everybody’s lips, every hour in the day. Oh me! and I tremble, now, when I write it.

We set our faces towards London, and walked on together in the first still hour of the new day—I, and this woman, whose name, whose character, whose story, whose objects in life, whose very presence by my side, at that moment, were fathomless mysteries to me. It was like a dream. Was I Walter Hartright? Was this the well-known, uneventful road, where holiday people strolled on Sundays? Had I really left, little more than an hour since, the quiet, decent, conventionally-domestic atmosphere of my mother’s cottage? I was too 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?’q

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,r 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.