In the disturbed state of my mind, it was useless to think of going to bed, when I at last got back to my chambers in Clement’s Inn.  Before many hours elapsed it would be necessary to start on my journey to Cumberland.  I sat down and tried, first to sketch, then to read—­but the woman in white got between me and my pencil, between me and my book.  Had the forlorn creature come to any harm?  That was my first thought, though I shrank selfishly from confronting it.  Other thoughts followed, on which it was less harrowing to dwell.  Where had she stopped the cab?  What had become of her now?  Had she been traced and captured by the men in the chaise?  Or was she still capable of controlling her own actions; and were we two following our widely parted roads towards one point in the mysterious future, at which we were to meet once more?

It was a relief when the hour came to lock my door, to bid farewell to London pursuits, London pupils, and London friends, and to be in movement again towards new interests and a new life.  Even the bustle and confusion at the railway terminus, so wearisome and bewildering at other times, roused me and did me good.

My travelling instructions directed me to go to Carlisle, and then to diverge by a branch railway which ran in the direction of the coast.  As a misfortune to begin with, our engine broke down between Lancaster and Carlisle.  The delay occasioned by this accident caused me to be too late for the branch train, by which I was to have gone on immediately.  I had to wait some hours; and when a later train finally deposited me at the nearest station to Limmeridge House, it was past ten, and the night was so dark that I could hardly see my way to the pony-chaise which Mr. Fairlie had ordered to be in waiting for me.

The driver was evidently discomposed by the lateness of my arrival.  He was in that state of highly respectful sulkiness which is peculiar to English servants.  We drove away slowly through the darkness in perfect silence.  The roads were bad, and the dense obscurity of the night increased the difficulty of getting over the ground quickly.  It was, by my watch, nearly an hour and a half from the time of our leaving the station before I heard the sound of the sea in the distance, and the crunch of our wheels on a smooth gravel drive.  We had passed one gate before entering the drive, and we passed another before we drew up at the house.  I was received by a solemn man-servant out of livery, was informed that the family had retired for the night, and was then led into a large and lofty room where my supper was awaiting me, in a forlorn manner, at one extremity of a lonesome mahogany wilderness of dining-table.

I was too tired and out of spirits to eat or drink much, especially with the solemn servant waiting on me as elaborately as if a small dinner party had arrived at the house instead of a solitary man.  In a quarter of an hour I was ready to be taken up to my bedchamber.  The solemn servant conducted me into a prettily furnished room—­said, “Breakfast at nine o’clock, sir”—­looked all round him to see that everything was in its proper place, and noiselessly withdrew.