“This paper alone gives me the fortune which I obtained by marrying Noel Vanstone,” she said.  “I will owe nothing to my past life.  I part with it as I part with these torn morsels of paper.”

* * * * *

To Captain Kirke, Magdalen wrote the complete story of all she had done.  She felt it was due to him that he should know all.  She awaited the inevitable result—­the inevitable separation from the man she had grown to love.  When he had read it he came to her.

Near to tears, she waited to hear her fate.

“Tell me what you think of me!  Tell me the truth!” she said.

“With my own lips?” he asked.

“Yes,” she answered.  “Say what you think of me with your own lips.”

She looked up at him for the first time, and then, he stooped and kissed her.

* * * * *

The Woman in White

      Wilkie Collins’ greatest success was achieved on the
     appearance of “The Woman in White” in 1860, a story described
     by Thackeray as “thrilling.”  The book attracted immediate
     attention, Collins’ method of unravelling an intricate plot by
     a succession of narratives being distinctly novel, and
     appealing immensely to the reading public.

I.—­The Woman Appears

The story here presented will be told by several pens.  Let Walter Hartright, teacher of drawing, aged twenty-eight, be heard first.

I had once saved Professor Pesca from drowning, and in his desire to do “a good something for Walter,” the warm-hearted little Italian secured me the position of art-master at Limmeridge House, Cumberland.

It was the night before my departure to take up my duties as teacher to Miss Laura Fairlie and her half-sister, Miss Marian Halcombe, and general assistant to Frederick Fairlie, uncle and guardian to Miss Fairlie.  Having bidden good-bye to my mother and sister at their cottage in Hampstead, I decided to walk home to my chambers the longest possible way round.  In the after-warmth of the hot July day I made my way across the darkened Heath.  Suddenly I was startled by a hand laid lightly on my shoulder.  I turned to see the figure of a solitary woman, with a colourless youthful face, dressed from head to foot in white garments.

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

Her sudden appearance, her extraordinary dress, and the strained tones of her voice so surprised me that I hesitated some moments before replying.  Her agitation at my silence was distressing, and calming her as well as I could, and promising to help her to get a cab, I asked her a few questions.  Her answers showed that she was suffering from some terrible nervous excitement.  She asked me if I knew any baronet—­any from Hampshire—­and seemed almost absurdly relieved when I assured her I did not.  In the course of our conversation, as we walked towards St. John’s Wood, I discovered a curious circumstance.  She knew Limmeridge House and the Fairlies!