The Woman in White
and there. I crouched on the roof as the smoke poured out above me
with the flame. The gleams and flashes of the light showed me the
servant’s face staring up vacantly under the wall—the clerk risen to
his feet on the tombstone, wringing his hands in despair—and the scanty
population of the village, haggard men and terrified women, clustered
beyond in the churchyard—all appearing and disappearing, in the red
of the dreadful glare, in the black of the choking smoke. And the man
beneath my feet!—the man, suffocating, burning, dying so near us all,
so utterly beyond our reach!
The thought half maddened me. I lowered myself from the roof, by my
hands, and dropped to the ground.
“The key of the church!” I shouted to the clerk. “We must try it that
way—we may save him yet if we can burst open the inner door.”
“No, no, no!” cried the old man. “No hope! the church key and the
vestry key are on the same ring—both inside there! Oh, sir, he’s past
saving—he’s dust and ashes by this time!”
“They’ll see the fire from the town,” said a voice from among the men
behind me. “There’s a ingine in the town. They’ll save the church.”
I called to that man—HE had his wits about him—I called to him to come
and speak to me. It would be a quarter of an hour at least before
the town engine could reach us. The horror of remaining inactive all
that time was more than I could face. In defiance of my own reason
I persuaded myself that the doomed and lost wretch in the vestry
might still be lying senseless on the floor, might not be dead yet.
If we broke open the door, might we save him? I knew the strength
of the heavy lock—I knew the thickness of the nailed oak—I knew the
hopelessness of assailing the one and the other by ordinary means. But
surely there were beams still left in the dismantled cottages near the
church? What if we got one, and used it as a battering-ram against the
door?
The thought leaped through me like the fire leaping out of the
shattered skylight. I appealed to the man who had spoken first of the
fire-engine in the town. “Have you got your pickaxes handy?” Yes, they
had. “And a hatchet, and a saw, and a bit of rope?” Yes! yes! yes!
I ran down among the villagers, with the lantern in my hand. “Five
shillings apiece to every man who helps me!” They started into life
at the words. That ravenous second hunger of poverty—the hunger for
money—roused them into tumult and activity in a moment. “Two of you
for more lanterns, if you have them! Two of you for the pickaxes and
the tools! The rest after me to find the beam!” They cheered—with
shrill starveling voices they cheered. The women and the children fled
back on either side. We rushed in a body down the churchyard path to
the first empty cottage. Not a man was left behind but the clerk—the
poor old clerk standing on the flat tombstone sobbing and wailing over
the church. The servant was still at my heels—his white, helpless,
panic-stricken face was close over my shoulder as we pushed into the
cottage. There were rafters from the torn-down floor above, lying loose
on the ground—but they were too light. A beam ran across over our
heads, but not out of reach of our arms and our pickaxes—a beam fast
at each end in the ruined wall, with ceiling and flooring all ripped
away, and a great gap in the roof above, open to the sky. We attacked
the beam at both ends at once. God! how it held—how the brick and
mortar of the wall resisted us! We struck, and tugged, and tore. The
beam gave at one end—it came down with a lump of brickwork after it.
There was a scream from the women all huddled in the doorway to look at
us—a shout from the men—two of them down but not hurt. Another tug all
together—and the beam was loose at both ends. We raised it, and gave
the word to clear the doorway. Now for the work! now for the rush at
the door! There is the fire streaming into the sky, streaming brighter
than ever to light us! Steady along the churchyard path—steady with the
beam for a rush at the door. One, two, three—and off. Out rings the
cheering again, irrepressibly. We have shaken it already, the hinges
must give if the lock won’t. Another run with the beam! One, two,
three—and off. It’s loose! the stealthy fire darts at us through the
crevice all round it. Another, and a last rush! The door falls in with
a crash. A great hush of awe, a stillness of breathless expectation,
possesses every living soul of us. We look for the body. The scorching
heat on our faces drives us back: we see nothing—above, below, all
through the room, we see nothing but a sheet of living fire.
“Where is he?” whispered the servant, staring vacantly at the flames.
“He’s dust and ashes,” said the clerk. “And the books are dust and
ashes—and oh, sirs! the church will be dust and ashes soon.”
Those were the only two who spoke. When they were silent again, nothing
stirred in the stillness but the bubble and the crackle of the flames.
Hark!
A harsh rattling sound in the distance—then the hollow beat of horses’
hoofs at full gallop—then the low roar, the all-predominant tumult of
hundreds of human voices clamouring and shouting together. The engine
at last.
The people about me all turned from the fire, and ran eagerly to the
brow of the hill. The old clerk tried to go with the rest, but his
strength was exhausted. I saw him holding by one of the tombstones.
“Save the church!” he cried out faintly, as if the firemen could hear
him already.
“Save the church!”
The only man who never moved was the servant. There he stood, his eyes
still fastened on the flames in a changeless, vacant stare. I spoke to
him, I shook him by the arm. He was past rousing. He only whispered
once more, “Where is he?”
In ten minutes the engine was in position, the well at the back of the
church was feeding it, and the hose was carried to the doorway of the
vestry. If help had been wanted from me I could not have afforded it
now. My energy of will was gone—my strength was exhausted—the turmoil
of my thoughts was fearfully and suddenly stilled, now I knew that he
was dead.
I stood useless and helpless—looking, looking, looking into the burning
room.
I saw the fire slowly conquered. The brightness of the glare faded—the
steam rose in white clouds, and the smouldering heaps of embers showed
red and black through it on the floor. There was a pause—then an
advance all together of the firemen and the police which blocked up
the doorway—then a consultation in low voices—and then two men were
detached from the rest, and sent out of the churchyard through the
crowd. The crowd drew back on either side in dead silence to let them
pass.
After a while a great shudder ran through the people, and the living
lane widened slowly. The men came back along it with a door from one of
the empty houses. They carried it to the vestry and went in. The police
closed again round the doorway, and men stole out from among the crowd
by twos and threes and stood behind them to be the first to see. Others
waited near to be the first to hear. Women and children were among
these last.
The tidings from the vestry began to flow out among the crowd—they
dropped slowly from mouth to mouth till they reached the place where
I was standing. I heard the questions and answers repeated again and
again in low, eager tones all round me.
“Have they found him?” “Yes.”—“Where?” “Against the door, on his
face.”—“Which door?” “The door that goes into the church. His head was
against it—he was down on his face.”—“Is his face burnt?” “No.” “Yes,
it is.” “No, scorched, not burnt—he lay on his face, I tell you.”—“Who
was he? A lord, they say.” “No, not a lord. SIR Something; Sir means
Knight.” “And Baronight, too.” “No.” “Yes, it does.”—“What did he
want in there?” “No good, you may depend on it.”—“Did he do it on
purpose?”—“Burn himself on purpose!”—“I don’t mean himself, I mean the
vestry.”—“Is he dreadful to look at?” “Dreadful!”—“Not about the face,
though?” “No, no, not so much about the face. Don’t anybody know him?”
“There’s a man says he does.”—“Who?” “A servant, they say. But he’s
struck stupid-like, and the police don’t believe him.”—“Don’t anybody
else know who it is?” “Hush——!”
The loud, clear voice of a man in authority silenced the low hum of
talking all round me in an instant.
“Where is the gentleman who tried to save him?” said the voice.
“Here, sir—here he is!” Dozens of eager faces pressed about me—dozens
of eager arms parted the crowd. The man in authority came up to me with
a lantern in his hand.
“This way, sir, if you please,” he said quietly.
I was unable to speak to him, I was unable to resist him when he
took my arm. I tried to say that I had never seen the dead man in
his lifetime—that there was no hope of identifying him by means of a
stranger like me. But the words failed on my lips. I was faint, and
silent, and helpless.
“Do you know him, sir?”
I was standing inside a circle of men. Three of them opposite to me
were holding lanterns low down to the ground. Their eyes, and the eyes
of all the rest, were fixed silently and expectantly on my face. I knew
what was at my feet—I knew why they were holding the lanterns so low to
the ground.
“Can you identify him, sir?”
My eyes dropped slowly. At first I saw nothing under them but a coarse
canvas cloth. The dripping of the rain on it was audible in the
dreadful silence. I looked up, along the cloth, and there at the end,
stark and grim and black, in the yellow light—there was his dead face.
So, for the first and last time, I saw him. So the Visitation of God
ruled it that he and I should meet.
XI
The inquest was hurried for certain local reasons which weighed with
the coroner and the town authorities. It was held on the afternoon of
the next day. I was necessarily one among the witnesses summoned to
assist the objects of the investigation.
My first proceeding in the morning was to go to the post-office,
and inquire for the letter which I expected from Marian. No change
of circumstances, however extraordinary, could affect the one great
anxiety which weighed on my mind while I was away from London. The
morning’s letter, which was the only assurance I could receive that no
misfortune had happened in my absence, was still the absorbing interest
with which my day began.
To my relief, the letter from Marian was at the office waiting for me.
Nothing had happened—they were both as safe and as well as when I
had left them. Laura sent her love, and begged that I would let her
know of my return a day beforehand. Her sister added, in explanation
of this message, that she had saved “nearly a sovereign” out of her
own private purse, and that she had claimed the privilege of ordering
the dinner and giving the dinner which was to celebrate the day of
my return. I read these little domestic confidences in the bright
morning with the terrible recollection of what had happened the evening
before vivid in my memory. The necessity of sparing Laura any sudden
knowledge of the truth was the first consideration which the letter
suggested to me. I wrote at once to Marian to tell her what I have
told in these pages—presenting the tidings as gradually and gently as
I could, and warning her not to let any such thing as a newspaper fall
in Laura’s way while I was absent. In the case of any other woman, less
courageous and less reliable, I might have hesitated before I ventured
on unreservedly disclosing the whole truth. But I owed it to Marian to
be faithful to my past experience of her, and to trust her as I trusted
myself.
My letter was necessarily a long one. It occupied me until the time
came for proceeding to the inquest.
The objects of the legal inquiry were necessarily beset by peculiar
complications and difficulties. Besides the investigation into the