‘‘‘I have taken a violent fancy. Philip, to my new 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. Rut he says her careful bringing-up at school is a matter of great importance just now, because her unusual slowness in acquiring ideas implies 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, surprised, 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 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 that I 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 hack 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.
‘All in white?' Miss Halcombe repeated. ‘The most important sentences in the letter, Mr Hartright, are those at the end, which I will read to you immediately. 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 doubtfully up and down the terrace, advanced a step towards the glass doors, and then stopped, facing us.
Meanwhile Miss Halcombe read me the last sentences 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 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 Halcombe 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 circumstances, 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 wanting' 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 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.'